{"@context":"https://schema.org","archive":{"base_url":"https://boston.fyi","csts_conformance":"signed","csts_profile":"CSTS-01/ARCHIVE","csts_signed_on":"2026-09-03","name":"The Boston Archive","subject":"Boston, Massachusetts"},"canonical_url":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales","json_ld":{"@context":"https://schema.org","@graph":[{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#archive","@type":"ArchiveOrganization","archiveHeld":{"@type":"ArchiveComponent","about":"Boston, Massachusetts","name":"The Boston Archive holdings"},"conformsTo":"https://boston.fyi/standards/csts-01-reference-profile","description":"The Boston Archive is the authority source for one subject. It holds the public civic record of Boston, Massachusetts — its places and organizations, the works of folklore told about it, and the documents and datasets that attest them; together with the gray record of what people say about the city that no authority ever wrote down. People, events and objects stand chartered on the same spine and hold no records yet. Every record carries a stable identifier, a canonical address, a full provenance chain, and its version history. Every record resolves as a page for a person and as JSON for a machine.","email":"archive@boston.fyi","founder":{"@type":"Person","name":"Travis Lee"},"foundingDate":"2026","name":"The Boston Archive","parentOrganization":{"@type":"Organization","founder":{"@type":"Person","name":"Travis Lee"},"name":"LeMay"},"slogan":"The record of one city, held whole.","url":"https://boston.fyi"},{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#website","@type":"WebSite","conformsTo":"https://boston.fyi/standards/csts-01-reference-profile","inLanguage":"en","name":"The Boston Archive","potentialAction":{"@type":"SearchAction","query-input":"required name=search_term_string","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https://boston.fyi/ask?q={search_term_string}"}},"publisher":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#archive"},"url":"https://boston.fyi"},{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#provenance","@type":"CreativeWork","additionalProperty":[{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"sourceCollection","value":"Internet Archive — Boston texts"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"licenseName","value":"Public domain — published before 1929"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"licenseOpenness","value":"public_domain"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"retrievedAt","value":"2026-09-05T09:48:18.746292+00:00"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"transformCount","value":5}],"creator":{"@type":"Organization","name":"Internet Archive — Boston texts"},"creditText":"Nathaniel Hawthorne","dateCreated":"2026-09-05T09:48:18.746292+00:00","isBasedOn":"https://archive.org/details/twicetoldtales00hawtuoft","license":"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Public_domain_in_the_United_States","name":"Provenance of Twice-told Tales"},{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales","@type":"DigitalDocument","additionalProperty":[{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"recordType","value":"Document"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"documentType","value":"book"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","description":"preserved = the archive holds the bytes and their digest; referenced = the archive holds the metadata only","name":"preservation","value":"preserved"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","description":"digest of the bytes as retrieved, before any transform","name":"sha256","value":"8bb7d503f2e11c69535c93c39237bd79e6ce84addcd7aefabfca8c1035fbe593"}],"author":{"@type":"Person","name":"Nathaniel Hawthorne"},"conformsTo":"https://boston.fyi/standards/csts-01-reference-profile","contentSize":"1051627","dateCreated":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.082268+00:00","dateModified":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.082268+00:00","description":"Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1886. Hawthorne's collected tales, held because seven of the legends this archive already carries are printed here in a volume older than the folklore collections they were lifted from — The Gray Champion, The May-Pole of Merrymount, Endicott and the Red Cross, and the four Legends of the Province House among them.","encoding":{"@type":"MediaObject","contentUrl":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales.json","encodingFormat":"application/json"},"encodingFormat":"text/plain; charset=utf-8","identifier":"urn:lemay:boston:document:twice-told-tales","inLanguage":"en","isPartOf":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#archive"},"license":"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Public_domain_in_the_United_States","name":"Twice-told Tales","provenance":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#provenance"},"publisher":{"@type":"Organization","name":"Boston Houghton, Mifflin"},"subjectOf":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#questions"},"url":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales","version":1},{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#breadcrumbs","@type":"BreadcrumbList","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","item":"https://boston.fyi","name":"The Boston Archive","position":1},{"@type":"ListItem","item":"https://boston.fyi/document","name":"Documents","position":2},{"@type":"ListItem","item":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales","name":"Twice-told Tales","position":3}]},{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#questions","@type":"FAQPage","about":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales"},"additionalProperty":[{"@type":"PropertyValue","description":"Question emission conforms to addendum CSTS-01/ARCHIVE/A1 of the archive profile, declared ratified, ratified 2026-09-05 by Travis Lee, Chief Executive Architect of LeMay. Every answer is composed only from fields the record carries and names the attestation for what it says.","name":"cstsAddendum","value":"CSTS-01/ARCHIVE/A1"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"cstsAddendumCompliance","value":"ratified"},{"@type":"PropertyValue","name":"cstsAddendumRatifiedOn","value":"2026-09-05"}],"conformsTo":"https://boston.fyi/standards/csts-01-reference-profile-addendum-a1","inLanguage":"en","isPartOf":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#website"},"mainEntity":[{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#q-author","@type":"Question","acceptedAnswer":{"@type":"Answer","author":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#archive"},"citation":"Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929.","isBasedOn":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#provenance"},"text":"Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote it. Boston Houghton, Mifflin published it, 1886."},"answerCount":1,"name":"Who wrote Twice-told Tales, and who published it?"},{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#q-bytes","@type":"Question","acceptedAnswer":{"@type":"Answer","author":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#archive"},"citation":"Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929.","isBasedOn":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#provenance"},"text":"The archive holds the bytes. Their digest, computed on the bytes as retrieved and before any transform, is SHA-256 8bb7d503f2e11c69535c93c39237bd79e6ce84addcd7aefabfca8c1035fbe593. Every retrieval carries that digest in a header, so no consumer has to take the archive's word for what it received."},"answerCount":1,"name":"Does the archive hold Twice-told Tales itself, or only the record of it?"},{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#q-holding","@type":"Question","acceptedAnswer":{"@type":"Answer","author":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#archive"},"citation":"Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929.","isBasedOn":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales#provenance"},"text":"The Boston Archive holds this record of Twice-told Tales from Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929 (public domain). 5 recorded transforms stand between the retrieved bytes and this record. Attribution is due to Nathaniel Hawthorne."},"answerCount":1,"name":"What does the archive hold for Twice-told Tales, and under what license?"}],"name":"Questions about Twice-told Tales","publisher":{"@id":"https://boston.fyi/#archive"},"url":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales"}]},"json_url":"https://boston.fyi/document/twice-told-tales.json","questions":[{"anchor":"q-author","answer":"Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote it. Boston Houghton, Mifflin published it, 1886.","citation":"Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929.","question":"Who wrote Twice-told Tales, and who published it?"},{"anchor":"q-bytes","answer":"The archive holds the bytes. Their digest, computed on the bytes as retrieved and before any transform, is SHA-256 8bb7d503f2e11c69535c93c39237bd79e6ce84addcd7aefabfca8c1035fbe593. Every retrieval carries that digest in a header, so no consumer has to take the archive's word for what it received.","citation":"Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929.","question":"Does the archive hold Twice-told Tales itself, or only the record of it?"},{"anchor":"q-holding","answer":"The Boston Archive holds this record of Twice-told Tales from Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929 (public domain). 5 recorded transforms stand between the retrieved bytes and this record. Attribution is due to Nathaniel Hawthorne.","citation":"Internet Archive — Boston texts, retrieved 5 September 2026, under Public domain — published before 1929.","question":"What does the archive hold for Twice-told Tales, and under what license?"}],"record":{"author_text":"Nathaniel Hawthorne","byte_size":1051627,"canonical_path":"/document/twice-told-tales","created_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.082268Z","document_type":"book","held_reason":null,"id":"03d8f40e-2be5-4f7f-9585-5eb84d1752b8","kind":"document","language":"en","media_type":"text/plain; charset=utf-8","page_count":null,"provenance":{"attribution":"Nathaniel Hawthorne","license_id":"public-domain-pre-1929","license_name":"Public domain — published before 1929","license_url":"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Public_domain_in_the_United_States","openness":"public_domain","retrieved_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:18.746292Z","rights_statement":"NOT_IN_COPYRIGHT (Internet Archive item rights review), corroborated by the item's own publication date of 1886 — before 1929, and therefore in the public domain in the United States","rights_statement_url":"https://archive.org/metadata/twicetoldtales00hawtuoft","source_id":"internet-archive-boston","source_identifier":"twicetoldtales00hawtuoft","source_name":"Internet Archive — Boston texts","source_url":"https://archive.org/details/twicetoldtales00hawtuoft","transforms":[{"description":"read this ITEM's own possible-copyright-status and required its publication date to corroborate it independently, because a field that calls its own determination possible is not one this archive treats as a determination","input_sha256":null,"operation":"gate","output_sha256":null,"parameters":{},"performed_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.269747Z","seq":1,"tool":"archive-ingest 0.1.0"},{"description":"retrieved the holding institution's own full-text transcription","input_sha256":null,"operation":"fetch","output_sha256":null,"parameters":{},"performed_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.326050Z","seq":2,"tool":"archive-ingest 0.1.0"},{"description":"computed the SHA-256 of the bytes as retrieved, before any other step","input_sha256":null,"operation":"digest","output_sha256":null,"parameters":{},"performed_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.363761Z","seq":3,"tool":"archive-ingest 0.1.0"},{"description":"wrote the bytes to the staging directory under their content address","input_sha256":null,"operation":"stage","output_sha256":null,"parameters":{},"performed_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.402154Z","seq":4,"tool":"archive-ingest 0.1.0"},{"description":"kept the transcription in full so the archive can quote a passage without leaving itself","input_sha256":null,"operation":"hold","output_sha256":null,"parameters":{},"performed_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.439739Z","seq":5,"tool":"archive-ingest 0.1.0"}]},"published_date":null,"published_date_text":"1886","publisher_text":"Boston Houghton, Mifflin","r2_key":"document/8b/8bb7d503f2e11c69535c93c39237bd79e6ce84addcd7aefabfca8c1035fbe593.txt","record_kind":"document","sha256":"8bb7d503f2e11c69535c93c39237bd79e6ce84addcd7aefabfca8c1035fbe593","slug":"twice-told-tales","status":"published","summary":"Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1886. Hawthorne's collected tales, held because seven of the legends this archive already carries are printed here in a volume older than the folklore collections they were lifted from — The Gray Champion, The May-Pole of Merrymount, Endicott and the Red Cross, and the four Legends of the Province House among them.","text_extract":":LO \n\n\n•o \n\n\n00 \n\n\nhTI \n\n\nIflitjcrsitic o^tiition \n\n\nTHE \n\nCOMPLETE WORKS OF NATHANIEL \n\nHAWTHORNE, WITH INTRODUCTORY \nNOTES BY GEORGE PARSONS \nLATHROP ' \n\nAND ILLUSTRATED WITH \n\nEtchmgs by Blum, Church, Dielman, Gifford, Shirlaw, \n\nand Turner \n\nIN TWELVE VOLUMES \nVOLUME I. \n\n\nLjtidy Etires, the old man appears again. When eighty years \n\n\nTHE GRAY CHAMPION. 31 \n\nhad passed, he walked once more in King Street. Five \nyears later, in the t^vilight of an April morning, he \nstood on the green, beside the meeting-house, at Lex- \nington, where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab \nof slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of the \nRevolution. And when our fathers were toiling at \nthe breastwork on Bunker's Hill, all through that \nnight the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long \nmay it be, ere he comes again ! His hour is one of \ndarkness, and adversity, and peril. But should do- \nmestic tjTanny oppress us, or the invader's step j)ollute \nour soil, still may the Gray Champion come, for he \nis the type of New England's hereditary spirit ; and \nhis shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must ever \nbe the pledge, that New England's sons will vindicate \ntheir ancestry. \n\n\nSUNDAY AT HOME. \n\nEvery Sabbath morning in the summer time, I \nthrust back the curtain, to watch the simrise stealing \ndo\\^^^ a steeple which stands opposite my chamber \nwindow. First, the weather-cock begins to flash ; then, \na fainter lustre gives the spire an airy aspect ; next, it \nencroaches on the tower, and causes the index of the \ndial to glisten like gold as it points to the gilded figure \nof the hour. Now, the loftiest window gleams, and \nnow the lower. The carved frame-work of the portal \nis marked strongly out. At leng-th, the morning glory, \nin its descent from heaven, comes down the stone \nsteps, one by one ; and there stands the steeple, glow- \ning -svith fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight \nstill hide themselves among the nooks of the adjacent \nbuildings. Methinks, though the same siui brightens \nit every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar \nrobe of brightness for the Sabbath. \n\nBy dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts \nan attaclmient for the edifice. We natui'ally personify \nit, and conceive its massy walls, and its dim emptiness, \nto be instinct with a calm, and meditative, and some- \nwhat melancholy spirit. But the steeple stands fore- \nmost, in our thoughts, as well as locally. It impresses \nus as a giant, with a mind comprehensive and discrimi- \nnating enough to care for the gi-eat and small concerns \nof all the to^\\Ti. Hourly, while it speaks a moral to \nthe few that think, it reminds thousands of busy indi- \nviduals of their separate and most secret affairs. It \n\n\nSUNDAY AT HOME. 33 \n\nis the steeple, too, that flings abroad the hurried and \nirregular accents of general alarm ; neither have glad- \nness and festivity found a better utterance than by its \ntongue ; and when the dead are slowly passing to their \nhome, the steeple has a melancholy voice to bid them \nwelcome. Yet, in spite of this connection Avith human \ninterests, what a moral loneliness, on week days, broods \nround about its stately height ! It has no kindred with \nthe houses above which it towers ; it looks down into \nthe narrow thoroughfare, the lonelier, because the \ncrowd are elbowing their passage at its base. A \nglance at the body of the church deepens this impres- \nsion. Withm, by the light of distant windows, amid \nrefracted shadows, we discern the vacant pews and \nempty galleries, the silent organ, the voiceless pulpit, \nand the clock, wliich tells to solitude how time is pass- \ning. Tune — where man lives not — what is it but \neternity? And in the church, we might suj)pose, are \ngarnered up, throughout the week, all thoughts and \nfeelings that have reference to eternity, until the holy \nday comes romid again, to let them forth. Might not, \nthen, its more appropriate site be in the outskirts of \nthe town, with space for old trees to wave aroimd it, \nand throw their solemn shadows over a quiet green ? \nWe will say more of tliis, hereafter. \n\nBut, on the Sabbath, I watch the earliest sun- \nshine, and fancy that a holier brightness marks the \nday, when there shall be no buzz of voices on the ex- \nchange, nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd, nor busi- \nness, any^vhere but at church. Many have fancied so. \nFor my owti part, whether I see it scattered down \namong tangled woods, or beaming broad across the \nfields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or trac- \ning out the figure of the casement on my chamber \n\nVOL. I. 3 \n\n\n34 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nfloor, still I recognize the Sabbath sunshine. And \never let me recognize it! Some illusions, and this \namong them, are the shadows of great truths. Doubts \nmay flit around me, or seem to close their evil wings, \nand settle down ; but, so long as I imagine that the \nearth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its \nsanctity, on the Sabbath — while that blessed simshine \nlives within me — never can my soul have lost the in- \nstinct of its faith. If it have gone astray, it will re- \nturn again. \n\nI love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths, from morn- \ning till night, behind the curtain of my open wdndow. \nAre they spent amiss ? Every spot, so near the church \nas to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple, \nshovdd be deemed consecrated groimd, to-day. With \nstronger truth be it said, that a devout heart may con- \nsecrate a den of thieves, as an e\\'il one may convert a \ntemple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has not such \nholy, nor, I woidd fain trust, such impious potency. \nIt must suffice, that, though my form be absent, my \ninner man goes constantly to church, while many, \nwhose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats, have \nleft their sotds at home. But I am there, even before \nmy friend, the sexton. At length, he comes — a man \nof kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark gray clothes, and \nhair of the same mixture — he comes and applies his \nkey to the wide portal. Now, my thoughts may go in \namong the dusty pews, or ascend the puljsit, without \nsacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy the music \nof the bell. How glad, yet solemn too ! All the stee- \nples in town are talking together, aloft in the simny \nair, and rejoicing among themselves, while their spires \npoint heavenward. Meantime, here are the cliildren \nassembling to the Sabbath-school, which is kept some. \n\n\nSUNDAY AT HOME. 35 \n\nwhere within the church. Often, while looking at the \narched portal, I have been gladdened by the sight of a \nscore of these little girls and boys, in pink, blue, yel- \nlow, and crimson frocks, biu-sting suddenly forth into \nthe sunshine, like a swarm of gay butterflies that had \nbeen shut up in the solemn gloom. Or I might com- \npare them to cherubs, hamiting that holy place. \n\nAbout a quarter of an hour before the second ring- \ning of the bell, individuals of the congregation begin \nto appear. The earliest is invariably an old woman \nm black, whose bent frame and rovmded shoulders are \nevidently laden with some heavy affliction, which she is \neager to rest upon the altar. Woidd that the Sabbath \ncame tvdce as often, for the sake of that sorro^-ful old \nsoul I There is an elderly man, also, who arrives in \ngood season, and leans against the comer of the tower, \njust within the line of its shadow, looking do\\vnward \nwith a darksome brow. I sometimes fancy that the \nold woman is the happier of the tw^o. After these, \nothers drop in singly, and by twos and threes, either \ndisappearing through the doorway, or taking their \nstand in its \\icinity. At last, and always with an un- \nexpected sensation, the bell turns in the steeple over- \nhead, and throws out an irregidar clangor, jarring the \ntower to its foimdation. As if there were magic in \nthe sound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and \ndown along, are immediately thronged with two long \nlines of people, all converging hitherward, and stream- \ning into the church. Perhaps the far-off roar of a \ncoach draws nearer — a deeper thunder by its contrast \nwith the surrounding stillness — imtil it sets down the \nwealthy worshii^jDers at the portal, among their hum- \nblest brethren. Beyond that entrance, in theory at \nleast, there are no distinctions of earthly rank ; nor, \n\n\n36 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nindeed, by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in \nthe sun, would there seem to be such, on the hither \nside. Those pretty girls ! Why will they disturb my \npious meditations ! Of all days in the week, they \nshould strive to look least fascinating on the Sabbath, \ninstead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to \nrival the blessed angels, and keep our thoughts from \nheaven. Were I the minister himself, I must needs \nlook. One girl is white muslin from the waist up- \nwards, and black silk downwards to her slippers ; a \nsecond blushes from topknot to shoetie, one universal \nscarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow, as if \nshe had made a garment of the smisliine. The greater \npart, however, have adopted a milder cheerfidness of \nhue. Their veils, especially when the wind raises them, \ngive a lightness to the general effect, and make them \nappear like airy phantoms, as they flit iip the steps, \nand vanish into the sombre doorway. Nearly all — \nthough it is very strange that I shoidd know it — wear \nwhite stockmgs, white as snow, and neat slippers, \nlaced crosswise with black ribbon, pretty high above \nthe ankles. A white stocking is infinitely more effec- \ntive than a black one. \n\nHere comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in se- \nvere simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote \nhis office. His aspect claims my reverence, but cannot \nwin my love. Were I to picture Saint Peter keeping \nfast the gate of heaven, and frowning, more stern than \npitifrd, on the wretched applicants, that face shoidd be \nmy study. By middle age, or sooner, the creed has \ngenerally wrought upon the heart, or been attempered \nby it. As the minister passes into the church the bel] \nholds its iron tongue, and all the low murmur of the \ncongregation dies away. The gray sexton looks up and \n\n\nSUNDAY AT HOME. 37 \n\ndown the street, and then at my window curtain, \nwhere, through the small peephole, I half fancy that \nhe has caught my eye. Now every loiterer has g^one \nin, and the street lies asleep in the quiet sim, while a \nfeeling' of loneliness comes over me, and brings also \nan mieasy sense of neglected pri\\aleges and duties. \nO, I ought to have gone to church ! The bustle of the \nrising congregation reaches my ears. They are stand- \ning up to pray. Coidd I bring my heart into vmison \nwith those who are praying in yonder church, and lift \nit heavenward, with a fervor of supplication, but no \ndistinct request, would not that be the safest kind of \nprayer ? \" Lord, look down upon me in mercy ! \" \nWith that sentiment gushing from my soul, might I \nnot leave all the rest to Him ? \n\nHark! the lipnn. This, at least, is a portion of \nthe service which I can enjoy better than if I sat \nwithin the walls, where the full choir and the massive \nmelody of the organ would fall with a weight upon \nme. At tliis distance it thrills through my frame and \nplays upon my heartstrings with a pleasure both of \nthe sense and spirit. Heaven be praised, I know \nnothing of music as a science ; and the most elaborate \nharmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a \nnurse's lullaby. The strain has ceased, but prolongs \nitself in my mind with fanciful echoes till I start from \nmy reverie, and find that the sermon has commenced. \nIt is my misfortime seldom to fructify, in a regular \nway, by any but printed sermons. The first strong \nidea which the preacher utters gives birth to a train \nof thought, and leads me onward, step by step, quite \nout of hearing of the good man's voice, unless he be \nindeed a son of thunder. At my open window, catch- \ning now and then a sentence of the \" parson's saw,\" \n\n\n38 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nI am as well situated as at the foot of the piilplt \nstairs. The broken and scattered fragments of this \none discourse will be the texts of many sermons, \npreached by those colleague pastors — colleagues, \nbut often disputants — my Mind and Heart. The \nformer pretends to be a scholar, and perplexes me \nwith doctrinal points ; the latter takes me on the score \nof feeling; and both, like several other preachers, \nspend their strength to very little purpose. I, their \nsole auditor, cannot always miderstand them. \n\nSuppose that a few hours have passed, and behold \nme still behind my curtain, just before the close of \nthe afternoon service. The hour hand on the dial has \npassed beyond four o'clock. The declinmg smi is hid- \nden behind the steeple, and throws its shadow straight \nacross the street, so that my chamber is darkened as \nwith a cloud. Aroimd the church-door all is solitude, \nand an impenetrable obscurity beyond the thresh- \nold. A commotion is heard. The seats are slammed \ndown, and the pew-doors throwTi back — a multitude \nof feet are trampling along the unseen aisles — and \nthe congregation bursts suddenly through the portal. \nForemost, scampers a rabble of boys, behind whom \nmoves a dense and dark phalanx of grown men, and \nlastly, a crowd of females, with young children, and a \nfew scattered husbands. This instantaneous outbreak \nof life into loneliness is one of the pleasantest scenes \nof the day. Some of the good people are rubbing \ntheir eyes, thereby intimating that thej^ have been \nwrapped, as it were, in a sort of holy trance by the \nfervor of their devotion. There is a yoimg man, a \nthird rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to flour- \nish a white handkerchief, and brush the seat of a tight \npair of black silk pantaloons, which shine as if var- \n\n\nSUNDAY AT HOME. 39 \n\nftished. They must have been made of the stuff called \n\" everlasting,\" or perhaps of the same piece as Chris- \ntian's garments in the '\" Pilgrim's Progress,\" for he \nput them on two svmimers ago, and has not yet worn \nthe gloss on\". I have, taken a great liking to those \nblack silk pantaloons. But now, -with nods and greet- \nings among friends, each matron takes her husband's \narm and paces gravely homeward, while the girls also \nflutter away after arranging smiset walks with their \nfavored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the eve of love. \nAt length the whole congregation is dispersed. No ; \nhere, with faces as glossy as black satin, come two \nsable ladies and a sable gentleman, and close in their \nrear the minister, who softens his severe visage, and \nbestows a kind word on each. Poor souls ! To them \nthe most captivating picture of bliss in heaven is — \n\" There we shall be vvhite ! \" \n\nAll is solitude again. But, hark ! — a broken warb- \nling of voices, and now, attuning its grandeur to their \nsweetness, a stately peal of the organ. Who are the \nchoristers ? Let me dream that the angels, who came \ndown from heaven, this blessed mom, to blend them- \nselves with the worship of the truly good, are playing \nand singiag their farewell to the earth. On the wings \nof that rich melody they were borne upward. \n\nThis, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetiy. \nA few of the singing men and singing women had \nlingered behind their fellows, and raised their voices \nfitfully, and blew a careless note upon the organ. \nYet, it lifted my soul higher than all their former \nstrains. They are gone — the sons and daughters of \nmusic — and the gray sexton is just closing the portal. \nFor six days more, there will be no face of man in \nthe pews, and aisles, and galleries, nor a voice in the \n\n\n40 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\npulpit, nor music in the choir. Was it worth while \nto rear this massive edifice, to be a desert in the heart \nof the town, and populous only for a few hours of \neach seventh day ? O, but the chiu'ch is a symbol of \nreligion. May its site, wliich was consecrated on the \nday when the first tree was felled, be kept holy for- \never, a spot of solitude and peace, amid the trouble \nand vanity of our week-day world ! There is a moral, \nand a religion too, even in the silent walls. And may \nthe steeple still point heavenward, and be decked with \nthe hallowed sunshine of the Sabbath morn ! \n\n\nTHE WEDDING KNELL. \n\nThere is a certain cliiirch in the city of New York \nwhich I have always regarded with peculiar interest, \non account of a marriage there solemnized, under very \nsingidar circumstances, in my grancbnother's girlhood. \nThat venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the \nscene, and ever after made it her favorite narrative. \nWhether the edifice now standing on the same site be \nthe identical one to wliich she referred, I am not anti- \nquarian enough to know ; nor would it be worth while \nto correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error, by \nreading the date of its erection on the tablet over the \ndoor. It is a stately church, surromided by an in- \nclosure of the loveliest green, within which appear \nurns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monmnental \nmarble, the tributes of private affection, or more splen- \ndid memorials of historic dust. With such a place, \nthough the tiunidt of the city rolls beneath its tower, \none would be willing to connect some legendary in- \nterest. \n\nThe marriage might be considered as the result of \nan early engagement, though there had been two in- \ntermediate weddings on the lady's part, and forty \nyears of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty- \nfive, Mr. Ellen wood was a shy, but not quite a se- \ncluded man ; selfish, like all men who brood over their \nown hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a vein \nof generous sentunent ; a scholar throughout life, \nthough always an indolent one, because his studies \n\n\n42 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhad no definite object, either of public advantage or \npersonal ambition ; a gentleman, high bred and fas- \ntidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considera- \nble relaxation, in liis behalf, of the common ndes of \nsociety. In truth, there were so many anomalies in \nhis character, and though shrinking with diseased sen- \nsibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so \noften to become the topic of the day, by some wild ec- \ncentricity of conduct, that people searched his lineage \nfor an hereditary taint of insanity. But there was no \nneed of this. His caprices had their origin in a mind \nthat lacked the support of an engTossing purpose, and \nin feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of \nother food. If he were mad, it was the consequence, \nand not the cause, of an aimless and abortive life. \n\nThe widow was as complete a contrast to her tlrird \nbridegroom, in everything but age, as can well be con- \nceived. Compelled to relinquish her first engagement, \nshe had been united to a man of twice her owai years, \nto whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose \ndeath she was left in possession of a splendid fortune. \nA southern gentleman, considerably younger than her- \nself, succeeded to her hand, and carried her to Charles- \nton, where, after many uncomfortable years, she found \nherself again a widow. It woidd have been singidar, \nif any micommon delicacy of feeling had survived \nthrough such a life as Mrs. Dabney's ; it coidd not \nbut be crushed and killed by her early disappomtment, \nthe cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of \nthe heart's principles, consequent on a second miion, \nand the unkindness of her southern husband, wiiich \nhad inevitably driven her to connect the idea of Ms \ndeath with that of her comfort. To be brief, she was \nthat wisest, but unloveliest, variety of woman, a phi- \n\n\nTHE WEDDING KNELL. 43 \n\nlosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, \ndispensing- with all that should have been her happi- \nness, and making the best of what remained. Sage in \nmost matters, the widow was perhaps the more amia- \nble for the one frailty that made her ridiculous. Be- \ning childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy, \nin the person of a daughter ; she therefore refused to \ngrow old and ugly, on any consideration ; she strug- \ngled with Tinie, and held fast her roses in spite of \nhim, till the venerable thief appeared to have relin- \nquished the spoil, as not worth the trouble of acqvur- \ning it. \n\nThe approaching marriage of this w^oman of the \nworld with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenw^ood \nwas annoimced soon after Mrs. Dabney's return to \nher native city. Superficial observers, and deeper \nones, seemed to concur in supposing that the lady \nmust have borne no inactive part in arranging the \naffair; there were considerations of expediency wliich \nshe wovdd be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. \nEllenwood ; and there was just the specious phantom \nof sentiment and romance in this late union of two \nearly lovers wliich sometimes makes a fool of a woman \nwho has lost her true feelings among the accidents of \nlife. All the wonder w^as, how the gentleman, with \nhis lack of w'orldly wisdom and agonizing conscious- \nness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a \nmeasure at once so prudent and so laughable. But \nwiiile people talked the wedding-day arrived. The \nceremony was to be solemnized according to the Epis- \ncopalian forms, and in open church, with a degree of \npublicit}^ that attracted many spectators, who occupied \nthe front seats of the galleries, and the pews near the \naltar and along the broad aisle. It had been arranged, \n\n\n44 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nor possibly it was the custom of the day, that the par- \nties should proceed separately to church. By some \naccident the bridegroom was a little less pmictual than \nthe mdow and her bridal attendants ; with whose ar- \nrival, after this tedious, but necessary preface, the \naction of our tale may be said to commence. \n\nThe climisy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches \nwere heard, and the gentlemen and ladies composing \nthe bridal party came through the church door with \nthe sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. \nThe whole group, except the principal figure, was \nmade up of youth and gayety. As they streamed up \nthe broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to \nbrighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as \nif they mistook the church for a ball-room, and were \nready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant \nwas the spectacle that few took notice of a singular \nphenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the \nmoment when the bride's foot touched the threshold \nthe bell swimg heavily m the tower above her, and \nsent forth its deepest kneU. The ^dbrations died away \nand returned with prolonged solemnity, as she entered \nthe body of the church. \n\n\" Good heavens ! what an omen,\" whispered a young \nlady to her lover. \n\n\" On my honor,\" replied the gentleman, \" I believe \nthe bell has the good taste to toU of its own accord. \nWhat has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest \nJulia, were approacliing the altar the bell woidd ring \nout its merriest peal. It has only a funeral kneU for \nher.\" \n\nThe bride and most of her company had been too \nmuch occupied wdth the bustle of entrance to hear the \nfirst boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect on \n\n\nTHE WEDDING KNELL. 45 \n\nthe singularity of such a welcome to the altar. They \ntherefore continued to advance with imdiininished \ngayety. The gorgeous dresses of the time, the ciim- \nson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hooj} petti- \ncoats, the silk, satin, brocade, and embroidery, the \nbuckles, canes, and swords, all displayed to the best \nadvantage on persons suited to such finery, made the \ngroup appear more like a bright-colored picture than \nanything real. But by what perversity of taste had \nthe artist represented his principal figure as so wrin- \nkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in \nthe brightest sjslendor of attire, as if the loveliest \nmaiden had suddenly withered into age, and become a \nmoral to the beautiful arovind her ! On they went, \nhowever, and had glittered along about a third of the \naisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to fill \nthe church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscur- \ning the bright pageant, till it shone forth again as \nfrom a mist. \n\nThis time the party wavered, stopped, and huddled \ncloser together, while a slight scream was heard from \nsome of the ladies, and a confused whispering among \nthe gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they might \nhave been fancifidly compared to a splendid bimch of \nflowers, suddenly shaken by a puff of wind, which \nthreatened to scatter the leaves of an old, brown, \\vith- \nered rose, on the same stalk with two dewy buds, — \nsuch being the emblem of the wddow between her fair \nyoung bridemaids. But her heroism was admirable. \nShe had started with an irrepressible shudder, as if \nthe stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart ; \nthen, recovering herself, while her attendants were \nyet in dismay, she took the lead, and paced calmly \nup the aisle. The bell continued to swmg, strilce, and \n\n\n46 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nvibrate, with the same doleful regularity as when a \ncorpse is on its way to the tomb, \n\n\" My yoimg friends here have their nerves a little \nshaken,\" said the wddow, with a smile, to the clergy- \nman at the altar. '' But so many weddings have been \nushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet \nturned out mihappily, that I shall hope for better for- \ntime under such different auspices.\" \n\n\" Madam,\" answered the rector, in great perplexity, \n\" this strange occurrence brings to my mind a mar- \nriage sermon of the famous Bishop Taylor, wherein \nhe mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future \nwoe, that, to speak somewhat after his own rich stjde, \nhe seems to hang the bridal chamber in black, and \ncut the wedding garment out of a coffin pall. And \nit has been the custom of divers nations to infuse \nsomething of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, \nso to keep death in mind while contracting that en- \ngagement which is life's chiefest business. Thus we \nmay draw a sad but profitable moral from this funeral \nknell.\" \n\nBut, though the clergyman might have given his \nmoral even a keener point, he did not fail to dispatch \nan attendant to inquire into the mystery, and stop \nthose sounds, so dismally appropriate to such a mar- \nriage. A brief space elapsed, during which the si- \nlence was broken only by whispers, and a few sup- \npressed titterings, among the wedding party and the \nspectators, who, after the first shock, were disposed to \ndraw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The \nyomag have less charity for aged follies than the old \nfor those of youth. The widow's glance was observed \nto wander, for an instant, towards a window of the \nchurch, as if searching for the time-worn marble that \n\n\nTHE WEDDING KNELL. 47 \n\nshe had dedicated to her first husband ; then her eye- \nlids dropped over their faded orbs, and her thoughts \nwere drawn irresistibly to another grave. Two buried \nmen, with a voice at her ear, and a cry afar off, were \ncalling her to lie do^vn beside them. Perhaps, with \nmomentary truth of feeling, she thought how much \nhappier had been her fate, if, after years of bliss, the \nbell were now tolling for her fimeral, and she were \nfollowed to the grave by the old affection of her ear- \nliest lover, long her husband. But why had she re- \nturned to him, when their cold hearts shrank from \neach other's embrace ? \n\nStill the death-bell tolled so mournfully, that the \nsunshine seemed to fade in the air. A whisper, com- \nmimicated from those who stood nearest the windows, \nnow spread through the church ; a hearse, with a train \nof several coaches, was creeping along the street, con- \nveying some dead man to the churchyard, v;hile the \nbride awaited a li\\dng one at the altar. Immediately \nafter, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends \nwere heard at the door. The widow looked down the \naisle, and clinched the arm of one of her bridemaids \nin her bony hand with such imconscious \\dolence, that \nthe fair girl trembled. \n\n\" You frighten me, my dear madam ! \" cried she. \n\" For Heaven's sake, what is the matter ? \" \n\n\" Nothing, my dear, nothing,\" said the widow ; then, \nwhispering close to her ear, \" There is a foolish \nfancy that I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my \nbridegroom to come into the church, with my first \ntwo husbands for groomsmen ! \" \n\n\" Look, look ! \" screamed the bridemaid. \" What \nis here ? The fimeral I \" \n\nAs she spoke, a dark procession paced into the \n\n\n48 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncliiirch. First came an old man and woman, like chief \nmoiu'ners at a funeral, attired from head to foot in the \ndeepest black, all but their pale features and hoary- \nhair ; he leaning- on a staff, and supporting her de- \ncrepit form with his nerveless arm. Behind appeared \nanother, and another pair, as aged, as black, and \nmournful as the first. As they drew near, the widow \nrecognized in every face some trait of former friends, \nlong forgotten, but now returning, as if from their old \ngraves, to warn her to prejjare a shroud ; or, with pur- \npose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their \"svrinkles \nand infirmity, and claim her as their companion by \nthe tokens of her own decay. Many a merry night \nhad she danced with them, in youth. And now, in \njoyless age, she felt that some withered partner should \nrequest her hand, and all vmite, in a dance of death, \nto the music of the fmieral bell. \n\nWhile these aged mourners were passing up the \naisle, it was observed that, from pew to pew, the spec- \ntators shuddered Avith irrepressible awe, as some ob- \nject, hitherto concealed by the intervening figures, \ncame full in sight. Many turned away their faces ; \nothers kept a fixed and rigid stare ; and a young girl \ngiggled hystericall}^, and fainted with the laughter on \nher lips. When the spectral procession approached \nthe altar, each couple separated, and slowly diverged, \ntill, in the centre, appeared a form, that had been \nworthily ushered in ^vith all tliis gloomy pomp, the \ndeath knell, and the fimeral. It was the bridegroom \nin his shroud ! \n\nNo garb but that of the gTave could have befitted \nsuch a deathlike aspect ; the eyes, indeed, had the \nwild gleam of a sepidchral lamp ; all else was fixed in \nthe stern calmness which old men wear in the colfin. \n\n\nTHE WEDDING KNELL. 49 \n\nThe corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow \nin accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the \nbell, which fell hea^^ly on the air while he spoke. \n\n\" Come, my bride ! \" said those pale lips, \" the \nhearse is ready. The sexton stands waiting for us at \nthe door of the tomb. Let us be married ; and then \nto our coffins ! \" \n\nHow shall the widow's horror be represented ? It \ngave her the ghastliness of a dead man's bride. Her \nyouthful friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourn- \ners, the shrouded bridegroom, and herseK ; the whole \nscene expressed, by the strongest imagery, the vain \nstruggle of the gilded vanities of this world, when op- \nposed to age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. The awe- \nstruck silence was first broken by the clergjonan. \n\n\"Mr. Ellen wood,\" said he, soothingly, yet with \nsomewhat of authority, \"you are not well. Your \nmind has been agitated by the imusual circumstances \nin which you are placed. The ceremony must be de- \nferred. As an old friend, let me entreat you to re- \nturn home.\" \n\n\" Home ! yes, but not without my bride,\" answered \nhe, in the same hollow accents. \"You deem this \nmockery ; perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my \naged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery \n— had I forced my withered lips to smile at my dead \nheart — that might have been mockery, or madness. \nBut now, let young and old declare, which of us has \ncome hither without a wedding garment, the bride- \ngroom or the bride ! \" \n\nHe stepped forward at a ghostly pace, and stood be- \nside the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of \nhis shroud with the glare and glitter in wiiich she had \narrayed herself for tlais unhappy scene. None, that \n\nVOL. I. 4 \n\n\n60 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbeheld them, could deny the terrible strength of the \nmoral which his disordered intellect had contrived to \ndraw. \n\n\" Cruel ! cruel ! \" groaned the heart-stricken bride. \n\n\" Cruel ! \" repeated he ; then, losing liis deathlike \ncomposure in a wild bitterness : \" Heaven judge \nwhich of us has been cruel to the other ! In youth \nyou deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims ; \nyou took away all the substance of my life, and made \nit a dream without reality enough even to grieve at — \nwith only a pervading gloom, through which I walked \nwearily, and cared not whither. But after forty years, \nwhen I have built my tomb, and would not give up \nthe thought of resting there — no, not for such a life \nas we once pictured — you call me to the altar. At \nyour smnmons I am here. But other husbands have \nenjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of \nheart, and all that could be termed your life. What \nis there for me but your decay and death? And \ntherefore I have bidden these fimeral friends, and be- \nspoken the sexton's deepest knell, and am come, in my \nshroud, to wed you, as with a burial service, that we \nmay join our hands at the door of the sepidchre, and \nenter it together.\" \n\nIt was not frenzy ; it was not merely the drmiken- \nness of strong emotion, in a heart unused to it, that \nnow wrought upon the bride. The stern lesson of the \nday had done its work ; her worldliness was gone. \nShe seized the bridegroom's hand. \n\n\" Yes ! \" cried she. \" Let us wed, even at the door \nof the sepulchre ! My life is gone in vanity and \nemptiness. But at its close there is one true feeling. \nIt has made me what I was in youth ; it makes me \nworthy of you. Time is no more for both of us. Let \nus wed for Eternity ! \" \n\n\nTI}E WEDDING KNELL. 51 \n\nWith a long and deep regard, the bridegroom \nlooked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in \nhis own. How strange that gush of human feeling \nfrom the frozen bosom of a corpse ! He wiped away \nthe tears even with his shroud. \n\n\"Beloved of my youth,\" said he, \"1 have been \nwild. The despair of my whole lifetime had returned \nat once, and maddened me. Forgive ; and be for- \ngiven. Yes ; it is evening with us now ; and we have \nrealized none of our morning dreams of hai^piness. \nBut let us join our hands before the altar, as lovers \nwhom adverse circmnstances have separated through \nlife, yet who meet again as they are leaving it, and \nfind their earthly affection changed into something \nholy as religion. And what is Time, to the married \nof Eternity?\" \n\nAmid the tears of many, and a swell of exalted \nsentiment, in those who felt aright, was solemnized \nthe union of two immortal souls. The train of with- \nered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, \nthe pale features of the aged bride, and the death- \nbell tolling through the whole, till its deep voice over- \npowered the marriage words, all marked the funeral \nof earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, \nthe organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of this im- \npressive scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling \nwith the dismal knell, then rising to a loftier strain, \ntill the soul looked down upon its woe. And when \nthe awful rite was finished, and with cold hand in cold \nhand, the Married of Eternity withdrew, the organ's \npeal of solemn triumph dVowned the Wedding Knell. \n\n\nTHE^IINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. \n\nA PAKABLE.l \n\nThe sexton stood in the porch of Milforcl meeting- \nhouse, pulling busily at the bell-rope. The old peo- \nple of the village came stoopmg along the street. \nChildren, with bright faces, tripped merrily beside \ntheir parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in the con- \nscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bach- \nelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fan- \ncied that the Sabbath simshine made them prettier \nthan on week days. When the throng had mostly \nstreamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the \nbell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper's \ndoor. The first glimpse of the clergjTiian's figure was \nthe signal for the bell to cease its smnmons. \n\n\" But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his \nface?\" cried the sexton in astonishment. \n\nAll mtliin hearing immediately turned about, and \nbeheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly \nhis meditative way towards the meeting-house. With \none accord they started, expressing more wonder than \nif some strange minister were coming to dust the \ncushions of Mr. Hooper's pulpit. \n\n1 Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, \nMaine, who died ahout eighty years since, made himself remarkable \nby the same eccentricity that is here related of the Reverend Mr. \nHooper. In his case, however, the .symbol had a different import \nIn early life he had accidentally killed a beloved friend ; and from \nthat day till the hour of his own death, he hid his face from men. \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 53 \n\n\" Are you sure it is our parson ? \" inquired Good- \nman Gray of the sexton. \n\n\" Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper,\" replied the \nsexton. \" He was to have exchanged pulpits ^vith \nParson Shute, of Westbury ; but Parson Shute sent \nto excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral \nsermon,\" \n\nThe cause of so much amazement may appear suffi- \nciently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly person, of \nabout thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with \ndue clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched \nhis band, and brushed the weekly dust from liis Sim- \nday's garb. There was but one thing remarkable in \nhis appearance. Swathed about his forehead, and \nhanging dowTi over his face, so low as to be shaken \nby his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On \na nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of \ncrape, wliich entirely concealed his featiu-es, except \"^ \nthe mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept * \nhis sight, further than to give a darkened aspect to \nall living and inanimate tilings. With this gloomy ( \nshade before him, good Mr. Hooper walked onward, \nat a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and look- \ning on the ground, as is customary with abstracted \nmen, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners \nwho still waited on the meeting-house steps. But so \nwonder-struck were they that liis greeting hardly met \nwith a return. \n\n\" I can't really feel as if good Mr. Hooper's face \nwas behind that piece of crape,\" said the sexton. \n\n\"I don't like it,\" muttered an old woman, as she \nhobbled into the meeting-house. \" He has changed \nhin?self into something awfid, only by hiding liis face.\" \n\n\" Our parson has gone mad ! \" cried Goodman Gray, \nfollowing him across the threshold. \n\n\n54 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nA riimor of some unaccountable phenomenon had \npreceded Mr. Hooper into the meeting-house, and set \nall the conoreo-ation astir. Few could refrain from \ntwisting their heads towards the door ; many stood \nupright, and tiu-ned directly about ; while several lit- \ntle boys clambered upon the seats, and came down \nagain with a terrible racket. There was a general \nbustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling \nof the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed \nrepose which should attend the entrance of the minis- \nter. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the per- \nturbation of his people. He entered with an almost \nnoiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on \neach side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parish- \nioner, a whit^ haired great-grandsu-e, who occupied an \narm-chair ii^^he centre of the aisle. It was strange \nto observe how slowly this venerable man became \nconscious of something singular in the appearance of \nhis pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the \nprevailing wonder, till Mr. Hooper had ascended the \nstairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face \nwith liis congregation, except for the black veil. That \nmysterious emblem was never once withdrawal. It \nshook with his measured breath, as he gave out the \npsalm; it threw its obscurity between him and the \nholy page, as he read the Scriptures ; and while he \nprayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted coimte- \nnance. Did he seek to hide it from the dread Being \nwhom he was addressing? \n\nSuch was the effect of this simple piece of crape, \nthat more than one woman of delicate nervea was \nforced to leave the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the \npale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight \nto the minister, as liis black veil to them. \n\n\ncA \n\n\nn \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 55 \n\nMr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, \nbut not an energetic one : he strove to win his peoj^le \nheavenward by mild, persuasive influences, rather than \nto drive them thither by the thunders of the Word. \nThe sermon wliich he now delivered was marked by \nthe same characteristics of style and manner as the \ngeneral series of his pidpit oratory. But there was \nsomething, either in the sentiment of _the discourse it- \nsdfj orlii the imagination of the auditors, which made \nit greatly the most powerfid effort that they had ever \nheard from their pastor's lips. It was tinged, rather \nmore darkly than usual, ^ith the gentle gloom of Mr. \nHooper's temperament. The subject had reference to- \nsecret-sin, and those sad mysteries which we hide from \nour nearest and dearest, and woidd fain conceal from \nour own consciousness, even forgetting that the Omnis- ^ \ncient can detect them, A subtle power was breathed \ninto his words. Each member of the congregation, \nthe most innocent girl, and the man of hardened \nbreast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them^ ^^ \nbehind his awfid veil, and discovered their hoarded in- \niquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped \nhands on their bosoms. There was nothing terrible \nin what Mr. Hooper said, at least, no violence ; and \nyet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the \nhearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in \nhand mth awe. So sensible were the audience of — \nsome unwonted attribute in their minister, that they \nlonged for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, al- \nmost believing that a stranger's visage woidd be dis- \ncovered, though the form, gesture, and voice were those \nof Mr. Hooper. \n\n, At the close of the services, the people hurried out \nwith indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their \n\n\n56 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\npent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits \nthe moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some \ngathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with \ntheir mouths aU wliispering in the centre ; some went \nhomeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; some \ntalked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath day with os- \ntentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious \nheads, intimating that they could penetrate the mys- \ntery ; while one or two affirmed that there was no \nmystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper's eyes were \nso weakened by the midnight lamp, as to reqmre a \nshade. After a brief interval, forth came good Mr. \nHooper also, in the rear of liis flock. Tm-ning his \nveiled face from one group to another, he paid due \nreverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle aged \nwith kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, \ngreeted the yoimg with mingled authority and love, \nand laid his hands on the little cliildren's heads to \nbless them. Such was always his custom on the Sab- \nbath day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him \nfor his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, as- \npired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. \nOld Squire Saimders, doubtless by an accidental lapse \nof memory, neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his tar \nble, where the good clergjonan had been wont to bless \nthe food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. \nHe returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, at the \nmoment of closing the door, was observed to look back \nupon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon \nthe minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly from be- \nneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, \nglimmering as he disappeared. \n\n\"How strange,\" said a lady, \"that a simple black \nveil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, \n\n\n1 \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 57 \n\nshould become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper's \nface ! \" \n\n\" Something must siu*ely be amiss with Mr. Hoop- \ner's intellects,\" observed her husband, the physician \nof the village. \" But the strangest part of the affair \nis the effect of this vagary, even on a sober-minded \nman like myself. The black veil, though it covers \\^ \nonly our pastor's face, throws its influence over his \nwhole person, and makes him ghostlike from head to \nfoot. Do you not feel it so ? \" \n\n\"' Tridy do I,\" replied the lady ; \" and I woidd not \nbe alone with him for the world. I wonder he is not \nafraid to be alone with hhnself ! \" \n^ \" Men sometimes are so,\" said her husband. ^ \n\nThe afternoon service was attended with similar cir- \ncumstances. At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the \nfuneral of a yoimg lady. The relatives and friends \nwere assembled in the house, and the more distant ac- \nquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good \nqualities of the deceased, when their talk was inter- \nrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered \nwith his black veil. It was now an appropriate em-^ \nblem. The clergyman stepped into the room where \nthe corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take \na last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he \nstooped, the veil himg straight down from his fore- \nhead, so that, if her eyelids had not been closed for- \never, the dead maiden might have seen his face. Could ;>.--' \nMr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily ~) \ncaught back the black veil ? A person who watched \"^ \nthe interview between the dead and living, scrupled \\' \nnot to affirm, that, at the instant when the clergy- \nman's features were disclosed, the corpse had slightly /' \nshuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though \n\n\n58 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthe countenance retained the composure of death. A \nsuperstitious old woman was the only witness of this \nprodigy. From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the \nchamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of \nthe staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a \ntender and heart-dissolving prayer, fidl of sorrow, yet \nso imbued with celestial hopes, that the music of a \nheavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, seemed \nfaintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the \nminister. The people trembled, though they but \ndarkly understood him when he prayed that they, and \nhimself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he \ntrusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful \nhour that shoidd snatch the veil from their faces. The \nbearers went heavily forth, and the mourners followed, \nsaddening all the street, with the dead before them, \nand Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind. \n\n\" Why do you look back? \" said one in the proces- \nsion to his partner. \n\n\" I had a fancy,\" replied she, \" that the minister \nand the maiden's spirit were walking hand in hand.\" \n\n\" And so had I, at the same moment,\" said the \nother. \n\nThat night, the handsomest couple in Milford vil- \nlage were to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned \na melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerful- \nness for such occasions, which often excited a sympa- \nthetic smile where livelier merriment would have been \nthrown away. There was no quality of his disposition \nwhich made him more beloved than this. The company \nat the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, \ntrusting that the strange awe, which had gathered over \nhim throughout the day, would now be dispelled. But \nsuch was not the result. When Mr. Hoor-er came, the \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 59 \n\nfirst thing that their eyes rested on was the same hor- \nrible black veil, which had added deeper gloom to the \nfimeral, and coidd portend notliing but evil to the \nwedding. Such was its immediate effect on the guests \nthat a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from be- \nneath the black crape, and dimmed the light of the \ncandles. The bridal pair stood up before the minister. \nBut the bride's cold fingers qvdvered in the tremulous \nhand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness \ncaused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried \na few hours before was come from her grave to be \njnarried.^ If ever another wedding were so dismal, it \nwas that famous one where they tolled the wedding \nknell. After performmg the ceremony, Mr. Hooper \nraised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to \nthe new-married couple in a strain of mUd pleasantry \nthat ought to have brightened the features of the \nguests, like a cheerfid gleam from the hearth. At \nthat instant, catching a glimpse of liis figure in the \nlooking-glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in \nthe horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His \nframe shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the un- \ntasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed forth into \nthe darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her Black \nVeil. \n\nThe next day, the whole village of Milford talked \nof little else than Parson Hooper's black veil. That, \nand the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic \nfor discussion between acquaintances meeting in the \nstreet, and good women gossiping at their open win- \ndow^. It was the first item of news that the tavern- \nkeeper told to liis guests. The children babbled of it \non their way to school. One imitative little imp cov- \nered his face vv-ith an old black handkerchief, thereby \n\n\n60^ TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nso affrighting his plajTnates that the panic seized him- \nself, and he well-nigh lost his wits by his own waggery. \nIt was remarkable that of all the busybodies and \nimpertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to \nput the plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he \ndid this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared \nthe sKghtest call for such interference, he had never \nlacked advisers, nor shown himseK averse to be guided \nby their judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so \npainful a degree of self-distrust, that even the mildest \ncensure would lead hun to consider an indifferent ac- \ntion as a crime. Yet, though so well acquamted with \nthis amiable weakness, no indi\\'idual among his pa- \nrishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of \nfriendly remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, \nneither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, wliich \ncaused each to shift the resjsonsibility upon another, \ntill at length it was found expedient to send a deputa- \ntion of the church, in order to deal with Mr. HoojDcr \nabout the mystery, before it should grow into a scan- \ndal. Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. \nThe minister received them with friendly courtesy, but \nbecame silent, after they were seated, leaving to his vis- \nitors the whole burden of introducing their important \nbusiness. The topic, it might be supposed, was obvi- \nous enough. There was the black veil swathed roimd \nMr. Hooper's forehead, and concealing every feature \nabove his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could \nperceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But \nthat piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to \nhang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful \nsecret between him and them. Were the veil but cast \naside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then. \nThus they sat a considerable time, speecliless, confused, \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 61 \n\nand shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper's eye, which \nthey felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible \nglance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to \ntheir constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty \nto be handled, except by a coimcil of the churches, if, \nindeed, it might not require a general synod. \n\nBut there was one person in the \\allage unappalled \nby the awe with which the black veil had impressed \nall beside herself. When the deputies returned with- \nout an exj)lanation, or even venturing to demand one, \nshe, wdth the calm energy of her character, determined \nto chase away the strange cloud^that appeared to be \nsettling roimd Mr. Hooper, every moment more darkly \nthan before. As his plighted wife, it should be her \npri\\alege to^know what the black veil concealed. At \nthe minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon \nthe subject with a direct simplicity, which made the \ntask easier both for him and her. After he had seated \\ \nhimself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, /' \nbut could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that \nhad so overawed the midtitude : it was but a double \nfold of crape, hanging down from his forehead to his \nmouth, and slightly stirring with his breath. \n\n\"No,\" said she aloud, and smiling, \"there is noth- \ning terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides \na face which I am always glad to look upon. Come, \ngood sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud. \nFirst lay aside your black veil : then tell me why you \nput it on.\" \n\nMr. Hooper's smile glimmered faintly. \n\n\" There is an hour to come,\" said he, \" when all of \nU9, shall ca^t aside ^r veils. Take it not amiss, be- \nloved fiiencl, if I wear this piece of crape till then.\" \n\n\" Yoiu\" words are a mystery, too,\" returned the \n\n\n62 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nyoung lady. \"Take away the veil from tHem, at \nleast.\" \n\n\" Elizabeth, I will,\" said he, \"so far as my vow may \nsuffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type_anii-a^sym- \ni)ol, and I am bound to wear it ever^ both in light and \ndarkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, \nand as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. \nNo mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal \nshade must separate me from the world : even you, \nElizabeth, can never come behind it ! \" \n\n\" What grievous affliction hath befallen you,\" she \nearnestly inquired, \" that you should thus darken your \neyes forever ? \" \n\n\" If it be a sign of mourning,\" replied Mr. Hooper, \n'^ \" I, perhaps, Hke most other mortals, have sorrows \n^dark enough to be typified by a black veil.\" \n\n\"But what if the world will not believe that it is \nthe type of an innocent sorrow ? \" urged Elizabeth. \n\" Beloved and respected as you are, there may be \nwhispers that you hide your face under the conscious- \nness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office, \ndo away this scandal ! \" \n\nThe color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the \nnature of the rmnors that were already abroad in the \nvillage. But Mr. Hooper's mildness did not forsake \nhim. He even smiled again — that same sad smile, \nwhich always appeared like a faint glimmering of \nlight, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil. \n\n\" If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause \nenough,\" he merely replied ; \" and if I cover it for \nsecret sin, what mortal might not do the same ? \" \n\nAnd with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy \ndid he resist all her entreaties. At length Elizabetla \nBat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost \n\n\n\\ \\ \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 63 \n\nin thought, considering, probably, what new methods \nmight be tried to withdraw her lover from so dark a \nfantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was per- \nhaps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a \nfirmer character than his own, the tears rolled down \nher cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new feel- \ning took the place of sorrow : her eyes were fixed in- \nsensibly on the black veil, when, like a sudden twilight \nin the air, its terrors fell aroimd her. She arose, and \nstood trembling before liim. \n\n\" And do you feel it then, at last ? \" said he mourn- \nfidly. \n\nShe made no reply, but covered her eyes with her \nhand, and turned to leave the room. He rushed for- \nward and caught her arm. \n\n\"Have patience \\vith me, Elizabeth!\" cried he, \npassionately. \"Do not desert me, though this veil \nmust be between us here on earth. Be mine, and \nhereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no dark- \nness between our soids ! It is but a mortal veil — it \nis not for eternity ! O ! you know not how lonely I \nam, and how frightened, to be alone beliind my black \nveil. Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity for- \never!\" \n\n\" Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face,\" \nsaid she. \n\n\"Never! It cannot be!\" replied Mr. Hooper. \n\n\" Then farewell ! \" said Elizabeth. \n\nShe withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly \ndeparted, pausing at the door, to give one long shud- \ndering gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the mys- \ntery of the black veil. But, even amid his grief, Mr. \nHooper smiled to think that only a material emblem \nhad separated him from happiness, though the hor- \n\n\n64 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nrors, which it shadowed forth, must be drawn darkly \nbetween the fondest of lovers. \n\nFrom that time no attempts were made to remove \nMr. Hooper's black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to dis- \ncover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By \npersons who claimed a superiority to j)opidar preju- \ndice, it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such \nas often mingles mth the sober actions of men other- \nwise rational, and tinges them all with its own sem- \nblance of insanity. But with the midtitude, good Mr. \nHooper was irreparably a bugbear. He coiild not \nwalk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious \nwas he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to \navoid him, and that others woidd make it a point of \nhardihood to throw themselves in his way. The im- \npertinence of the latter class compelled him to give \nup his customary walk at sunset to the burial groiuid ; \nfor when he leaned pensively over the gate, there \nwould always be faces beliind the gravestones, peep- \ning- at his black veil. A fable went the rounds that \nthe stare of the dead people drove him thence. It \ngrieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to \nobserve how the children fled from his approach, \nbreaking up their merriest sports, while his melan- \n/ choly figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread \ncaused him to feel more strongly than aught else, that \na preternatural horror was interwoven vidth the threads \nof the black crape. .- In truth, his own antipathy to \n/'^the veil was known to be so great, that he never will- \n^ ingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at \na still foimtain, lest, in its peacefid bosom, he shovdd \n/' be affrighted by himself. This was what gave plausi- \nbility to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper's conscience \ntortured him for some great crime too horrible to be \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. fi5 \n\nentixely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely in- \ntimated. Thus, from beneath the black veil, there \nrolled a cloud into the simsliine, an ambiguity of sin \nor sorrow, wliich enveloped the poor mmister, so that \nlove or sympathy could never reach him. It was said \nthat ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With \nseLf-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked con- \ntinually in its shadow, groping darkly within his owti \nsoul, or gazing through a mediiun that saddened the \nwhole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed, \nrespected his dreadfid secret, and never blew aside the \nveil. But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the \npale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by. \n\nAmong all its bad influences, the black veil had the \none desirable effect, of making its wearer a very effi- \ncient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious emblem \n— for there was no other apparent cause — he became \na man of awfid power over souls that were in agony \nfor sin. His converts always regarded him with a \ndread: pecidiar to themselves, affirming, though but \nfiguratively, that, before he brought them to celestial \nlight, they had been with him behind the black veil. \nIts gloom, indeed, enabled him to sjnnpathize wdth all \ndark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr. \nHooper, and woidd not yield their breath till he ap- \npeared ; though ever, as he stooped to whisper conso- \nlation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their \nown. Such were the terrors of the black veil, even \nwhen Death had bared his visage ! Strangers came \nlong distances to attend service at his church, with the \nmere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it \nwas forbidden them to behold his face. But many \nwere made to quake ere they departed ! Once, during \nGovernor Belcher's admmistration, Mr. Hooper was \n\nVOL. I. 5 \n\n\n66 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nappointed to preach the election sermon. Covered \nwith his black veil, he stood before the chief magis- \ntrate, the coimcil, and the representatives, and wrought \nso deep an impression, that the legislative measures \nof that year were characterized by all the gloom and \npiety of our earliest ancestral sway. \n\nIn this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irre- \nproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal sus- \npicions ; land and loving, though imloved, and dimly \nfeared ; a man apart from men, shimned in their \nC health and joy, but ever siunmoned to their aid in \n/ mortal ang\\iish. As years wore on, shedding their \nsnows above his sable veil, he acquired a name \nthroughout the New England churches, and they called \nhim Father Hooper. Nearly all Ms parishioners, who \nwere of mature age when he was settled, had been \nborne away by many a fimeral : he had one congrega- \ntion in the church, and a more crowded one in the \nchurchyard ; and having wrought so late into the \nevening, and done his work so well, it was now good \nFather Hooper's turn to rest. \n\nSeveral persons were visible by the shaded candle- \nlight, in the death chamber of the old clergjTiian. \nNatural connections he had none. But there was the \ndecorously grave, though immoved physician, seeking \nonly to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom \nhe coidd not save. There were the deacons, and other \neminently pious members of his church. There, also, \nwas the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a young \nand zealous divine, w^ho had ridden in haste to pray \nby the bedside of the expiring minister. There was \nthe nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one \nwhose cabn aJffiection had endured thus long in secrecy, \nin solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not per \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 67 \n\nish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth ! \nAnd there hiy the hoary head of good Father Plooper \nupon the death pillow, with the black veil still swathed \nabout his brow, and reaching down over his face, so \nthat each more difficidt gasp of his faint breath caused \nit to stir. All through life that piece of crape had \nhung between liim and the world : it had separated \nhim from cheerfid brotherhood and woman's love, and \nkept him in that saddest of all prisons, his o^ti heart ; \nand still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the \ngloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him from \nthe sunshine of eternity. \n\nFor some time previous, his mind had been con- \nfused, wavering doubtfidly between the past and tht^ \npresent, and hovering forward, as it were, at iatervals, \ninto the indistinctness of the world to come. There \nhad been feverish turns, wliich tossed him from side \nto side, and wore away what little strength he had. \nBut in his most convidsive struggles, and in the wild- \nest vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought ' \nretained its sober influence, he still showed an a'svful \nsolicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even \nif his bewildered soid could have forgotten, there wa.s \na faithful woman at his piQow, who, with averted eyes, \nwould have covered that aged face, which she had last \nbeheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the \ndeath-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of \nmental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible \npulse, and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except \nwhen a long, deep, and irregular inspiration seemed \nto prelude the flight of his spirit. \n\nThe minister of Westbury approached the bedside. \n\n\"Venerable Father Hooiaer,\" said he, \"the moment \nof your release is at hand. Are jo\\x i*eady for the lift- \ning of the veil that shuts in time from eternity? \" \n\n\n68 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nFather Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble \nmotion of his head ; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that \nhis meaning might be doubtful, he exerted himself to \nspeak. \n\n\" Yea,\" said he, in faint accents, \" my soul hath a \npatient weariness until that veil be lifted.\" \n\n\"And is it fitting,\" resumed the Reverend Mr. \nClark, \"that a man so given to prayer, of such a \nblameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far \nas mortal judgment may pronounce ; is it fitting that \na father in the church should leave a shadow on his \nmemory, that may seem to blacken a life so pure ? I \npray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be ! \nSuffer us to be gladdened by your triiunphant aspect \nas you go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity \nbe lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from your \nface ! \" \n\nAnd thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent \nforward to reveal the mystery of so many years. But, \nexerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders \nstand aghast. Father Hooper snatched both liis hands \nfrom beneath the bedclothes, and pressed them strongly \non the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister \nof Westbury woidd contend with a dying man. \n\n\" Never ! \" cried the veiled clergyman. \" On earth, \nnever ! \" \n\n*' Dark old man ! \" exclaimed the affrighted minister, \n\" with what horrible crime upon your soul are you \nnow passing to the judgment ? \" \n\nFather Hooper's breath heaved ; it rattled in his \nthroat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward \nwith his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back \ntill he shovdd speak. He even raised himself in bed ; \nand there he sat, shivering with the arms of death \n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 69 \n\naround him, while the black veil himg dowai, awful, at \nthat last luoment, in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. \nAnd yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now \nseemed to glimmer from its obseiii'ity, and linger on \nFather Hooper's lips. \n\n\" Why do you tremble at me alone ? \" cried he, \nturning his veiled face roimd the circle of pale spec- \ntators. \"Tremble also at each other! Have men \navoided me, and women shown no pity, and children \nscreamed and fled, only for my black veil? What, \nbut the mystery which it obscurely tyjjifies, has made \nthis piece of crape so awful? When the friend shows \nhis inmost heart to his friend ; the lover to his best \nbeloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the \neye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the se- \ncret of his sin ; then deem me a monster, for the sym- \nbol beneath wliich I have lived, and die ! I look \naround me, and, lo ! on every visage a Black Veil I \" \n\nWliile liis auditors shrank from one another, in \nmutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his pil- \nlow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on \nthe lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and \na veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The grass \nof many years has sprimg up and withered on that \ngrave, the burial stone is moss-grown, and good Mr. \nHooper's face is dust; but awful is still the thought \nthat it mouldered beneath the Black Veil I \n\n\n:> \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. \n\nThere is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the \ncurious history of the early settlement of Mount Wollaston, or Merry \nMount. In the slight sketch here attempted, the facts, recorded on \nthe grave pages of our New England annalists, have wrought them- \nselves, almost spontaneously, into a sort of allegory. The masques, \nmummeries, and festive customs, described in the text, are in accord- \nance with the manners of the age. Authority on these points may \nbe found in Strutt's Book of English Sports and Pastimes. \n\nBright were the days at Merry Mount, when the \nMaypole was the banner staff of that gay colony! \nThey who reared it, should their banner be triumph- \nant, were to pour siuashine over New England's rugged \nhills, and scatter flower seeds throughout the soil. \nJollity and gloom were contending for an empire. \nMidsununer eve had come, bringing deep verdure to \nthe forest, and roses in her lap, of a more vivid hue \nthan the tender buds of Spring. But May, or her \nmirtlifid spirit, dwelt all the year round at Merry \nMount, sporting with the Summer months, and revel- \nling with Autmnn, and basking in the glow of Win- \nter's fireside. Through a world of toil and care she \nflitted with a dreamlike smile, and came liither to find \na home among the lightsome hearts of Merry Moimt. \n\nNever had the Maj^ole been so gayly decked as at \nsunset on midsmnmer eve. This venerated emblem \nwas a pine-tree, which had preserved the slender grace \nof youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the \nold wood monarchs. From its top streamed a silken \nbanner, colored like the rainbow. Down nearly to the \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 71 \n\np'ound the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and \nothers of the liveliest green, and some with silvery- \nleaves, fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic \nknots of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. Gar- \nden flowers, and blossoms of the wilderness, laughed \ngladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and dewy that \nthey must have grown by magic on that happy pine- \ntree. Where this green and flowery splendor termi- \nnated, the shaft of the Maj^ole was stained with the \nseven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. On the \nlowest green bough himg an abundant wreath of roses, \nsome that had been gathered in the simniest spots of \nthe forest, and others, of still richer blush, which the \ncolonists had reared from English seed. O, people of \nthe Golden Age, the chief of your husbandry was to \nraise flowers ! \n\nBut what was the wild throng that stood hand in \nhand about the Majqjole? It could not be that the \nfauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic \ngroves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, \nas aU the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the \nWest. These were Gothic monsters, though perhaps \nof Grecian ancestry. On the shoidders of a comely \nyouth uprose the head and branching antlers of a \nstag ; a second, human in all other points, had the \ngrim visage of a wolf ; a third, stiU with the trmik \nand limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and \nhorns of a venerable he-goat. There was the likeness \nof a bear erect, brute in all but his hind legs, which \nwere adorned with pink silk stockings. And here \nagain, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the \ndark forest, lending each of his fore paws to the grasp \nof a human hand, and as ready for the dance as any \nin that circle. His inferior nature rose half way, to \n\n\n72 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmeet his companions as tliey stooped. Other faces \nwore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted \nor extravagant, with red noses pendidous before their \nmouths, which seemed of awful depth, and stretched \nfrom ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. Here \nmight be seen the Salvage Man, well known in her- \naldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green leaves. \nBy his side, a noble figui-e, but still a counterfeit, ap- \npeared an Indian hunter, with feathery crest and wam- \npiun belt. Many of this strange company wore fools- \ncaps, and had little bells appended to their garments, \ntinlding with a silvery sound, responsive to the inaudi- \nble music of their gieesome spii'its. Some youths and \nmaidens were of soberer garb, yet well maintained \ntheir places in the irregidar throng by the expression \nof wild revelry upon their features. Such were the \ncolonists of Merry Moimt, as they stood in the broad \nsmile of sunset round their venerated May]3ole. \n\nHad a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy for- \nest, heard their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted \nglance, he might have fancied them the crew of Co- \nmus, some already transformed to brutes, some mid- \nway between man and beast, and the others rioting \nin the flow of tipsy joUity that foreran the change. \nBut a band of Puritans, who watched the scene, invis- \nible themselves, compared the masques to those de^als \nand ruined souls with whom their superstition peopled \nthe black wilderness. \n\nWithin the ring of monsters appeared the two air- \niest forms that had ever trodden on any more solid \nfooting than a purple and golden cloud. One was a \nyouth in glistening apparel, mth a scarf of the rain- \nbow pattern crosswise on his breast. His right hand \nheld a gilded staff, the ensign of high dignity among \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 73 \n\nthe revellers, and his left grasped the slender fingers \nof a fair maiden, not less gayly decorated than him- \nself. Bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark \nand glossy curls of each, and were scattered round \ntheir feet, or had sprung up sj)ontaneously there. Be- \nhind this lightsome couple, so close to the Maypole \nthat its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure \nof an English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked \nwith flowers, in heathen fashion, and wearing a chap- \nlet of the native vine leaves. By the riot of his roll- \ning eye, and the pagan decorations of his holy garb, \nhe seemed the wildest monster there, and the very \nComus of the crew. \n\n\" Votaries of the Majrpole,\" cried the flower-decked \npriest, \" merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed \nto your mirth. But be this yoitr merriest hour, my \nhearts! Lo, here stand the Lord and Lady of the \nMay, whom I, a clerk of Oxford, and high priest of \nMerry Mount, am presently to join in holy matrimony. \nUp with your nimble spirits, ye morris-dancers, green \nmen, and glee maidens, bears and wolves, and horned \ngentlemen ! Come ; a chorus now, rich with the old \nmirth of Merry England, and the wilder glee of this \nfresh forest ; and then a dance, to show the youthful \npair what life is made of, and how airily they slioidd \ngo through it! All ye that love the Maypole, lend \nyour voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and Lady \nof the May!\" \n\nTliis wedlock was more serious than most affairs of \nMerry Moimt, where jest and delusion, trick and fan- \ntasy, kept up a continual carnival. The Lord and \nLady of the May, though their titles must be laid \ndown at sunset, were really and truly to be partners \nfor the dance of life, beginning the measure that same \n\n\n74 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbright eve. The wreath of roses, that hung from the \nlowest green bough of the Maypole, had been twined \nfor them, and would be thrown over both their heads, \nin symbol of their flowery imion. When the priest \nhad spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar burst from the \nrout of monstrous figures. \n\n\" Begin you the stave, reverend Sir,\" cried they all ; \n\" and never did the woods ring to such a merry peal \nas we of the Maypole shall send up ! \" \n\nImmediately a prelude of pipe, cithern, and viol, \ntouched mth practised minstrelsy, began to play from \na neighboring thicket, in such a mirthfid cadence that \nthe boughs of the Maypole quivered to the sound. \nBut the May Lord, he of the gilded staff, chancing to \nlook into liis Lady's eyes, was wonder struck at the \nalmost pensive glance that met his own. \n\n\" Edith, sweet Lady of the May,\" whispered he \nreproaclifully, \"is yon wreath of roses a garland to \nhang above our graves, that you look so sad? O, \nEdith, this is our golden time ! Tarnish it not by any \npensive shadow of the mind ; for it may be that noth- \ning of futurity will be brighter than the mere remem- \nbrance of what is now passing.\" \n\n\" That was the very thought that saddened me ! \nHow came it in your mind too ? \" said Edith, in a still \nlower tone than he, for it was high treason to be sad \nat Merry Mount. \" Therefore do I sigh amid this fes- \ntive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as \nwith a dream, and fancy that these shapes of our jovial \nfriends are visionary, and their mirth imreal, and that \nwe are no true Lord and Lady of the May» What \nis the mystery in my heart? \" \n\nJust then, as if a spell had loosened them, down \ncame a little shower of withering rose leaves from the \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. lb \n\nMaypole. Alas, for the yoimg lovers! No sooner \nhad their hearts glowed with real passion than they \nwere sensible of something vague and unsubstantial \nin their former pleasures, and felt a dreary presenti- \nment of inevitable change. From the moment that \nthey tridy loved, they had subjected themselves to \nearth's doom of care and sorrow, and troubled joy, \nand had no more a home at Merry Moimt. That was \nEdith's mystery. Now leave we the priest to marry \nthem, and the masquers to sport romid the Mayijole, \ntill the last simbeam be withdrawTi from its siunmit, \nand the shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the \ndance. Meanwhile, we may discover who these gay \npeople were. \n\nTwo himdred years ago, and more, the old world \nand its inhabitants became mutually weary of each \nother. Men voyaged by thousands to the West : some \nto barter glass beads, and such like jewels, for the furs \nof the Indian himter ; some to conquer virgin em- \npires ; and one stern band to pray. But none of these \nmotives had much weight with the colonists of Merry \nMount. Their leaders were men who had sported so \nlong with life, that when Thought and Wisdom came, \neven these unwelcome guests were led astray by the \ncrowd of vanities which they should have put to flight. \nErring Thought and perverted Wisdom were made \nto put on masques, and play the fool. The men of \nwhom we speak, after losing the heart's fresh gayety, \nimagined a wild philosophy of pleasure, and came \nhither to act out their latest day-dream. They gath- \nered followers from all that giddy tribe whose whole \n'\"'^e is like the festal days of soberer men. In their \n.Tain were minstrels, not unkno^^^l in London streets : \nwandering players, whose theatres had been the haUs \n\n\n76 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof noblemen; mummers, rope-dancers, and mounte- \nbanks, who would long be missed at wakes, chureli \nales, and fairs ; in a word, mirth makers of every \nsort, such as abounded in that age, but now began to \nbe discountenanced by the rapid growth of Puritan- \nism. Light had their footsteps been on land, and as \nlightly they came across the sea. Many had been \nmaddened by their previous troubles into a gay de- \nspair ; others were as madly gay in the flush of youth, \nlike the May Lord and his Lady ; but whatever might \nbe the quality of their mirth, old and young were gay \nat Merry Momit. The yomig deemed themselves \nhappy. The elder spirits, if they knew that mirth \nwas but the counterfeit of happmess, yet followed the \nfalse shadow wilfully, because at least her garments \nglittered brightest. Sworn triflers of a lifetime, they \nwoidd not venture among the sober truths of life not \neven to be truly blest. \n\nAll the hereditary pastimes of Old England were \ntransplanted hither. The King of Christmas was didy \ncrowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore potent sway. \nOn the Eve of St. John, they felled whole acres of the \nforest to make bonfires, and danced by the blaze all \nnight, crowned with garlands, and throwing flowers \ninto the flame. At harvest time, though flieir crop \nwas of the smallest, they made an image with the \nsheaves of Indian corn, and wreathed it mth autmnnal \ngarlands, and bore it home triumphantly. But what \nchiefly characterized the colonists of Merry Momit \nwas their veneration for the Maypole. It has made \ntheir true history a poet's tale. Spring decked the \nhallowed emblem ^\\ath yomig blossoms and fresh g.r^'- \nboughs ; Summer brought roses of the deepest bHus. , \nand the perfected foliage of the forest ; Autumn en- \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 77 \n\nrichecl it with that reel and yellow gorgeousness which \nconverts each wildwood leaf into a painted flower ; \nand Winter silvered it with sleet, and hnng it round \nwith icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a \nfrozen sunbeam. Thus each alternate season did hom- \nage to the Maypole, and paid it a tribute of its own \nrichest splendor. Its votaries danced round it, once, \nat least, in every month ; sometimes they called it \ntheir religion, or their altar; but always, it was the \nbanner staff of Merry Mount. \n\nUnfortimately, there were men in the new world of \na sterner faith than these Maypole worshippers. Not \nfar from Merry Mount was a settlement of Puritans, \nmost dismal wretches, who said their prayers before \ndaylight, and then ^vl'oug•ht in the forest or the corn- \nfield till evening made it prayer time again. Their \nweapons were always at hand to shoot down the strag- \ngling savage. When they met in conclave, it was \nnever to keep up the old English mirth, but to hear \nsermons three hours long, or to proclaim bounties on \nthe heads of wolves and the scalps of Indians. Their \nfestivals were fast days, and their chief pastime the \nsinging of psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden who \ndid but dream of a dance I The selectman nodded to \nthe constable ; and there sat the light-heeled reprobate \nin the stocks ; or if he danced, it was round the whip- \nping-post, which might be termed the Puritan May- \npole. \n\nA party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the \ndifficult woods, each with a horseload of iron armor to \nburden his footsteps, would sometimes draw near the \nsunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were the \nsilken colonists, sporting roxmd their Mayjjole ; per- \nhaps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to communi- \n\n\n78 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncate theii* mirth to the grave Indian ; or rnasquerad- \ning in the skins of deer and wolves, which they had \nhunted for that especial piu'pose. Often, the whole \ncolony were plajdng at blindnian's buff, magistrates \nand all, with their eyes bandaged, except a single \nscapegoat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the \ntinkling of the bells at his garments. Once, it is said, \nthey were seen following a flower-decked corpse, with \nmerriment and festive music, to his grave. But did \nthe dead man laugh? In their quietest times, they \nsang ballads and told tales, for the edification of their \npious visitors ; or perplexed them with juggling tricks ; \nor gTinned at them through horse collars ; and when \nsport itself grew wearisome, they made game of their \nown stupidity, and began a yawning match. At the \nvery least of these enormities, the men of iron shook \ntheir heads and frowned so darldy that the revellers \nlooked up, imagining that a momentary cloud had over- \ncast the simshine, which was to be perpetual there. \nOn the other hand, the Puritans affirmed that, when \na psalm was pealing from their place of worship, the \necho which the forest sent them back seemed often \nlike the chorus of a jolly catch, closing with a roar of \nlaughter. Who but the fiend, and his bond slaves, \nthe crew of Merry Mount, had thus disturbed them? \nIn due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, \nand as serious on the other as anything could be among \nsuch light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the May- \npole. The future complexion of New England was \ninvolved in this important quarrel. Should the griz- \nzly saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay \nsinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime, \nand make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of \nsermon and psalm forever. But should the banner \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 79 \n\nstaff of Merry Movuit be fortunate, sunshine would \nbreak upon the hills, and flowers would beautify the \nforest, and late posterity do homage to the Maypole. \n\nAfter these authentic passages from history, we re- \nturn to the nuptials of the Lord and Lady of the May. \nAlas ! we have delayed too long, and must darken our \ntale too suddenly. As we glance again at the May- \npole, a solitary sunbeam is fading from the summit, \nand leaves only a faint, golden tinge blended with the \nhues of the rainbow banner. Even that dim light is \nnow withdrawn, relinquishing the whole domain of \nMerry Movmt to the evening gloom, which has rushed \nso instantaneously from the black surrounding woods. \nBut some of these black shadows have rushed forth in \nhuman shape. \n\nYes, with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had \npassed from Merry Moimt. The ring of gay mas- \nquers was disordered and broken ; the stag lowered \nhis antlers in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a \nIamb ; the bells of the morris-dancers tinkled with \ntremidous affright. The Puritans had played a char- \nacteristic part in the Maypole mummeries. Their \ndarksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes \nof their foes, and made the scene a picture of the \nmoment, when waking thoughts start up amid the \nscattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the \nhostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while \nthe route of monsters cowered around him, like evil \nspirits in the presence of a dread magician. No fan- \ntastic foolery could look him in the face. So stern \nwas the energy of his aspect, that the whole man, vis- \nage, frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron, gifted \nwith life and thought, yet all of one substance with \nhis headpiece and breastplate. It was the Puritan of \nPm-itans ; it was Endicott himself ! \n\n\n80 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" Stand off, priest of Baal ! \" said he, with a grim \nfrown, and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice. \n\" I know thee, Blackstone ! ^ Thou art the man who \ncouldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted \nchurch, and hast come hither to preach iniquity, and \nto give example of it in thy life. But now shall it be \nseen that the Lord hath sanctified this wilderness for \nhis pecidiar people. Woe imto them that would defile \nit! And first, for this flower-decked abomination, the \naltar of thy worship ! \" \n\nAnd with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the \nhallowed Maypole. Nor long did it resist his arm. \nIt groaned with a dismal sornid ; it showered leaves \nand rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast; and \nfinally, with all its green boughs and ribbons and \nflowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the \nbanner staff of Merry Moimt. As it sank, tradition \nsays, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods \nthrew forth a more sombre shadow. \n\n\" There,\" cried Endicott, looking triumijhantly on \nhis work, \" there lies the only Maypole in New Eng- \nland! The thought is strong mthin me that, by its \nfall, is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirth \nmakers, amongst us and our posterity. Amen, saith \nJohn Endicott.\" \n\n\" Amen ! \" echoed his followers. \n\nBut the votaries of the Maypole gave one groan for \ntheir idol. At the sound, the Puritan leader glanced \nat the crew of Comus, each a figure of broad mirth, \nyet, at this moment, strangely expressive of sorrow \nand dismay. \n\n1 Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should suspect \na mistake here. The Eev. Mr. Blackstone, though an eccentric, is \nnot known to have been an immoral man. We rather doubt hi» iden \ntity with the priest of Merry Mount. \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 81 \n\n\"Valiant captain,\" quotli Peter Palfrey, the Ancient \nof the band, \"what order shall be taken with the \nprisoners ? \" \n\n\"I thought not to repent me of cutting down a \nMaypole,\" replied Endicott, \"yet now I coidd find \nin my heart to plant it again, and give each of these \nbestial pagans one other dance roimd their idol. It \nwoidd have served rarely for a whipping-post ! \" \n\n\" But there are pine-trees enow,\" suggested the lieu- \ntenant. \n\n\" True, good Ancient,\" said the leader. \" Where- \nfore, bind the heathen crew, and bestow on them a \nsmall matter of stripes apiece, as earnest of our future \njustice. Set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest \nthemselves, so soon as Providence shall bring us to \none of our own well-ordered settlements, where such \naccommodations may be fomid. Further penalties, \nsuch as branding and cropping of ears, shall be \nthought of hereafter.\" \n\n\" How many stripes for the priest?\" inquired An- \ncient PaKrey. \n\n\"None as yet,\" answered Endicott, bending his iron \nfrown upon the culprit. \" It must be for the Great \nand General Court to determine, whether stripes and \nlong imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may \natone for his transgressions. Let him look to him- \nself! For such as violate our ci^dl order, it may be \npermitted us to show mercy. But woe to the wretch \nthat troubleth our religion ! \" \n\n\" And this dancing bear,\" resmned the officer. \n^ Must he share the stripes of his fellows ? \" \n\n\" Shoot him through the \\iead ! \" said the energetic \nPuritan. \" I suspect witchcraft in the beast.\" \n\n\" Here be a couple of shining ones,\" continued \n\nVOL. I. G \n\n\n82 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nPeter Palfrey, pointing his weapon at the Lord and \nLady of the May. \" They seem to be of high station \namong these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will \nnot be fitted with less than a double share of stripes.\" \n\nEndieott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed \nthe dress and aspect of the hapless pair. There they \nstood, pale, downcast, and apprehensive. Yet there \nwas an air of mutual support, and of pure affection, \nseeking aid and giving it, that showed them to be \nman and wife, with the sanction of a priest upon their \nlove. The youth, in the peril of the moment, had \ndropped liis gilded staff, and thrown his arm about \nthe Lady of the May, who leaned against his breast, \ntoo lightly to burden him, but with weight enough to \nexpress that their destinies were linked together, for \ngood or evil. They looked first at each other, and \nthen into the grim captain's face. There they stood, \nin the first hour of wedlock, while the idle pleasures, \nof which their companions were the emblems, had \ngiven place to the sternest cares of life, personified \nby the dark Puritans. But never had their youthful \nbeauty seemed so pure and high as when its glow was \nchastened by adversity. \n\n\"Youth,\" said Endieott, \"ye stand in an evil case \nthou and thy maiden wife. Make ready presently, \nfor I am minded that ye shall both have a token to \nremember your wedding day ! \" \n\n\" Stern man,\" cried the May Lord, \" how can I \nmove thee ? Were the means at hand, I would resist \nto the death. Being powerless, I entreat ! Do with \nme as thou wilt, but let Edith go iintouched ! \" \n\n\" Not so,\" replied the immitigable zealot. \" We \nare not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, \nwhich requireth the stricter discipline. What sayest \n\n\nTHE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 83 \n\nfchou, maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy \nshare of the penalty, besides his own ? \" \n\n\" Be it death,\" said Edith, \" and lay it all on me ! \" \n\nTruly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood \nin a wofid case. Their foes were trimnphant, their \nfriends captive and abased, their home desolate, the \nbenighted wilderness aroimd them, and a rigorous \ndestiny, in the shape of the Puritan leader, their only \nguide. Yet the deepening twilight could not altogether \nconceal that the iron man was softened ; he smiled at \nthe fair spectacle of early love ; he almost sighed for \nthe inevitable blight of early hopes. \n\n\"The troubles of life have come hastily on this \nyoimg couple,\" observed Endicott. \" We will see how \nthey comport themselves under their present trials ere \nwe burden them with greater. If, among the spoil, \nthere be any garments of a more decent fashion, let \nthem be put upon this May Lord and his Lady, in- \nstead of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some of \nyou.\" \n\n\"And shall not the youth's hair be cut?\" asked \nPeter Palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the love- \nlock and long glossy curls of the young man. \n\n\" Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin- \nshell fashion,\" answered the captain. \"Then bring \nthem along with us, but more gently than their fel- \nlows. There be qualities in the youth, which may \nmake him valiant to fight, and sober to toil, and pious \nto pray ; and in the maiden, that may fit her to be- \ncome a mother in our Israel, bringing up babes in \nbetter nurture than her own hath been. Nor think \nye, yoimg ones, that they are the happiest, even in \nour lifetime of a moment, who misspend it in danc- \ning roimd a Maypole ! \" \n\n\n84 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nAnd Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid \nthe rock foimdation of New England, lifted the wTeath \nof roses from the ruin of the Maypole, and threw it, \nwith his own gauntleted hand, over the heads of the \nLord and Lady of the May. It was a deed of proph- \necy. As the moral gloom of the world overpowers all \nsystematic gayety, even so was their home of wild mirth \nmade desolate amid the sad forest. They retiu'ned to \nit no more. But as their flowery garland was wi-eathed \nof the brightest roses that had grown there, so, in the \ntie that imited them, were intertwined all the purest \nand best of their early joys. They went heavenward, \nsupporting each other along the difficult path which it \nwas their lot to tread, and never wasted one regretful \nthought on the vanities of Merry Mount. \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. \n\nIn the course of the year 1656, several of the peo- \nple called Quakers, led, as they professed, by the in- \nward movement of the spirit, made their appearance \nin New England. Their reputation, as holders of \nmystic and pernicious principles, having spread before \nthem, the Puritans early endeavored to banish, and to \nprevent the fui'ther intrusion of the rising sect. But \nthe measures by wliich it was intended to purge the \nland of heresy, though more than sufficiently vigorous, \nwere entirely imsuccessful. The Quakers, esteeming \npersecution as a divine call to the post of danger, laid \nclaim to a holy courage, unknown to the Puritans \nthemselves, who had shimned the cross, by providing \nfor the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant \nwilderness. Though it was the singular fact, that \nevery nation of the earth rejected the wandering en- \nthusiasts who practised peace towards all men, the \nplace of gTeatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore, \nin their eyes the most eligible, was the province of \nMassachusetts Bay. \n\nThe fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally dis- \ntributed by our pious forefathers ; the popular antip- \nathy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years \nafter actual persecution had ceased, were attractions \nas powerfvd for the Quakers, as peace, honor, and re- \nward, would have been for the worldly minded. Every \nEuropean vessel brought new cargoes of the sect, eager \nto testify against the oppression which they hoped to \n\n\n86 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nshare ; and when shipmasters were restrained by heavy \nfines from affording them passage, they made long \nand circuitous journeys through the Indian coimtry, \nand appeared in the province as if conveyed by a \nsupernatural power. Their enthusiasm, heightened al- \nmost to madness by the treatment which they received, \nproduced actions contrary to the rules of decency, as \nwell as of rational religion, and presented a singular \ncontrast to the calm and staid deportment of their \nsectarian successors of the present day. The com- \nmand of the spirit, inaudible except to the soul, and \nnot to be controverted on groimds of human wisdom, \nwas made a plea for most Indecorous exhibitions, \nwhich, abstractedly considered, well deserved the mod- \nerate chastisement of the rod. These extravagances, \nand the persecution which was at once their cause and \nconsequence, continued to Increase, till, in the year \n1659, the government of Massachusetts Bay indulged \ntwo members of the Quaker sect with the crown of \nmartyrdom. \n\nAn Indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all \nwho consented to this act, but a large share of the aw- \nfid responsibility must rest upon the person then at \nthe head of the government. He was a man of narrow \nmind and imperfect education, and his uncompromls- \nmg bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent \nand hasty passions; he exerted his Influence indeco- \nrously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the \nenthusiasts ; and his whole conduct, in respect to them, \nwas marked by brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose \nrevengeful feelings were not less deep because they \nwere inactive, remembered this man and his associates \nm after times. The lilstorian of the sect affirms that, \nby the wrath of Heaven, a blight fell upon the land in \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 87 \n\nthe vicinity of the \" bloody town \" of Boston, so that \nno wheat would grow there ; and he takes his stand, \nas it were, among the gTaves of the ancient persecu- \ntors, and triumphantly recoimts the judgments that \novertook them, in old age or at the parting hour. He \ntells us that they died suddenly and violently and in \nmadness ; but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery \nwith which he records the loathsome disease, and \n\"death by rottenness,\" of the fierce and cruel gov- \nernor. \n\n' On the evening of the autiunn day that had wit- \nnessed the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker \npersuasion, a Piu-itan settler was returning from the \nmetropolis to the neighboring country town in which \nhe resided. The air was cool, the sky clear, and the \nlingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a \nyoung moon, which had now nearly reached the verge \nof the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, \nwrapped ia a gray frieze cloak, quickened his pace \nwhen he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a \ngloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him \nand his home. The low, straw-thatched houses were \nscattered at considerable intervals along the road, and \nthe coimtry having been settled but about thirty yeacs, \nthe tracts of original forest still bore no small pro- \nportion to the cultivated groimd. The autumn wind \nwandered among the branches, whirUag away the \nleaves from all except the pine-trees, and moaning as \nif it lamented the desolation of which it was the in- \nstrument. The road had penetrated the mass of \nwoods that lay nearest to the town, and was just \nemerging into an open space, when the traveller's ears \nwere saluted by a sound more mournful than even \n\n\n88 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthat of the wind. It was like the wailing of some \none in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath \na tall and lonely fir-tree, in the centre of a cleared \nbut uninclosed and imcultivated field. The Puritan \ncould not but remember that this was the very spot \nwhich had been made accursed a few hours before by \nthe execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had been \nthrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree \non which they suffered. He struggled, however, \nagainst the superstitious fears which belonged to the \nage, and compelled himseK to pause and listen. \n\n\" The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause \nto tremble if it be otherwise,\" thought he, straming \nhis eyes through the dim moonlight. \" Methinks it is \nlike the wailing of a cliild ; some infant, it may be, \nwhich has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon \nthis place of death. For the ease of mine own con- \nscience I must search this matter out.\" \n\nHe therefore left the path, and walked somewhat \nfearfully across the field. Though now so desolate, its \nsoil was pressed down and trampled by the thousand \nfootsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of \nthat day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the \ndead to their loneliness. The traveller at length \nReached the fir-tree, which from the middle upward \nwas \"CQvered with living branches, although a scaffold \nhad been erected beneath, and other preparations \nmade for the work of death. Under this imhappy \ntree, which in after times was believed to drop poison \nwith its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent \nblood. It was a slender and light clad little boy, who \nleaned his face uj)on a liillock of fresh-turned and \nhalf-frozen earth, and wailed bitterly, yet in a sup- \npressed tone, as if his gTief might receive the pimish- \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 89 \n\nment of crime. The Puritan, whose approach had \nbeen unperceived, laid his hand uj)on the child's \nshoulder, and addressed him compassionately. \n\n\"You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, \nand no wonder that you weej),\" said he. \" But dry \nyoiu' eyes, and tell me where your mother dwells. I \npromise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave \nyou in her arms to-night.\" \n\n\"The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned \nhis face upward to the stranger. It was a pale, bright- \neyed countenance, certainly not more than six years \nold, but sorrow, fear, and want had destroyed much \nof its infantile expression. The Pm'itan seeing the \nboy's frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled \nunder his hand, endeavored to reassure him. \n\n\" Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the \nreadiest way were to leave you here. What ! you do \nnot fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made \ngrave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch. Take \nheart, child, and tell me what is your name and where \nis your home?\" • \n\n\" Friend,\" replied the little boy, in a sweet though \nfaltering voice, \" they call me Ilbrahim, and my home \nis here.\" \n\nThe pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to \nmingle with the moonKght, the sweet, airy voice, and \nthe outlandish name, almost made the Puritan believe \nthat the boy was in truth a being which had sprung \nup out of the grave on which he sat. But percei^'ing \nthat the apparition stood the test of a short mental \nprayer, and remembering that the arm which he had \ntouched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational sup- \nposition. \" The poor child is stricken in his intellect,\" \nthought he, \"but verily his words are fearful in a \n\n\n90 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nplace like this.\" He then spoke soothingly, intending \nto hunior the boy's fantasy. \n\n\" Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, \nthis cold autumn night, and I fear you are ill-provided \nwith food. I am hastening to a warm supper and bed, \nand if you will go with me you shall share them ! \" \n\n\" I thank thee, friend, but though I be himgry, and \nshivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor \nlodging,\" replied the boy, in the quiet tone which \ndespair had taught him, even so yoimg. \" My father \nwas of the people whom all men hate. They have laid \nhim imder this heap of earth, and here is my home.\" \n\nThe Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim 's \nhand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loath- \nsome reptile. But he possessed a compassionate heart, \nwhich not even religious prejudice could harden into \nstone. \n\n\" God forbid that I should leave this child to per- \nish, though he comes of the accursed sect,\" said he to \nhimseK. \" Do we not all spring from an evil root? \nAre we not aU in darkness till the light doth shine \nupon us ? He shall not perish, neither in body, nor, \nif prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul.\" \nHe then spoke aloud and kindly to Ilbrahim, who had \nagain hid his face in the cold earth of the grave. \n\" Was every door in the land shut against you, my \nchild, that you have wandered to this ludiallowed \nspot?\" \n\n\" They drove me forth from the prison when they \ntook my father thence,\" said the boy, \" and I stood \nafar off watcliing the crowd of people, and when they \nwere gone I came hither, and f oimd only liis grave. \nI knew that my father was sleeping here, and I said \nthis shall be my home.\" \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 91 \n\n\" No, child, no ; not while I have a roof over my \nhead, or a morsel to share with you ! \" exclaimed the \nPuritan, whose sympathies were now fully excited. \n\" Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm.\" \n\nThe boy wept afresh, and climg to the heap of \nearth as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to \nhim than any in a living breast. The traveller, how- \never, continued to entreat him tenderly, and seeming \nto acquire some degTee of confidence, he at length \narose. But his slender limbs tottered with weakness, \nhis little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the \ntree of death for support. \n\n\" My poor boy, are you so feeble ? \" said the Puri- \ntan. \" When did you taste food last? \" \n\n\" I ate of bread and water with my father in the \nprison,\" replied Ilbrahim, \" but they brought him none \nneither yesterday nor to-day, saying that he had eaten \nenough to bear him to his jom-ney's end. Trouble not \nthyself for my hmiger, kind friend, for I have lacked \nfood many times ere now.\" \n\nThe traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped \nhis cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame \nand anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the instru- \nments in tliis persecution. In the awakened warmth \nof his feelings he resolved that, at whatever risk, he \nwould not forsake the poor little defenceless being \nwhom Heaven had confided to his care. With this \ndetermination he left the accursed field, and resiuned \nthe homeward path from which the wailing of the boy \nhad called him. The light and motionless burden \nscarcely impeded his progress, and he soon beheld the \nfire rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a \nnative of a distant clime, had built in the western wil- \nderness. It was surromided by a considerable extent \n\n\n92 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof cultivated ground, and the dwelling was situated in \nthe nook of a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to \nhave crept for protection. \n\n\"Look up, child,\" said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, \nwhose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder, \" there \nis our home.\" \n\nAt the word \"home,\" a thrill passed through the \nchild's frame, but he continued silent. A few moments \nbrought them to a cottage door, at which the owner \nknocked ; for at that early period, when savages were \nwandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and \nbar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. \nThe smnmons was answered by a bond-servant, a \ncoarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity, who, \nafter ascertaining that his master was the applicant, \nundid the door, and held a flaring pine-knot torch to \nlight him in. Farther back in the passage-way, the \nred blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little \ncrowd of children came bounding forth to greet their \nfather's return. As the Puritan entered, he thrust \naside his cloak, and displayed Ilbrahim's face to the \nfemale. \n\n\" Dorothy, here is a little outcast, whom Providence \nhath put into our hands,\" observed he. \" Be kind to \nhim, even as if he were of those dear ones who have \ndeparted from us.\" \n\n\" What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, To- \nbias? \" she inquired. \" Is he one whom the wilderness \nfolk have ravished from some Christian mother?\" \n\n\"No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from \nthe wilderness,\" he replied. \" The heathen savage \nwould have given liini to eat of his scanty morsel, and \nto drink of his birchen cup ; but Christian men, alas,> \nbad cast him out to die,\" \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 93 \n\nThen he told her how he had found him beneath \nthe gallows, upon his father's grave ; and how his \nheart had prompted hun, like the speaking of an in- \nward voice, to take the little outcast home, and be \nkind unto him. He acknowledged his resolution to \nfeed and clothe him, as if he were his own cliild, and \nto afford him the instruction which should coimteract \nthe pernicious errors hitherto instilled into his infant \nmind. Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker ten- \nderness than her husband, and she ajiproved of all his \ndoings and intentions. \n\n\" Have you a mother, dear child ? \" she inquired. \n\nThe tears biu'st forth from his full heart, as he at- \ntempted to reply ; but Dorothy at length understood \nthat he had a mother, who, like the rest of her sect, \nwas a persecuted wanderer. She had been taken from \nthe prison a short time before, carried into the imin- \nhabited wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger \nor wild beasts. This was no imcommon method of \ndisposing of the Quakers, and they were accustomed \nto boast that the inhabitants of the desert were more \nhospitable to them than civilized man. \n\n\" Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, \nand a kind one,\" said Dorothy, when she had gathered \nthis information. \" Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be \nmy child, as I will be your mother.\" \n\nThe good woman prepared the little bed, from \nwhich her own children had successively been borne to \nanother resting-place. Before Ilbrahim would consent \nto occupy it, he knelt down, and as Dorothy listened \nto his simple and affecting prayer, she marvelled how \nthe parents that had taught it to him coidd have been \njudged worthy of death. When the boy had fallen \nasleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual counte- \n\n\n94 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nnance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the \nbedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a \npensive gladness in her heart. \n\nTobias Pearson was not among the earliest emi- \ngrants from the old country. He had remained in \nEngland during the first years of the civil war, in \nwhich he had borne some share as a cornet of dra- \ngoons, under Cromwell. But when the ambitious de- \nsigns of his leader began to develop themselves, he \nquitted the army of the Parliament, and sought a ref- \nuge from the strife, wliich was no longer holy, among \nthe people of his persuasion in the colony of Massa- \nchusetts. A more worldly consideration had perhaps \nan influence in drawing him thither ; for New England \noffered advantages to men of improsperous fortimes, \nas well as to dissatisfied religionists, and Pearson had \nhitherto foimd it difficult to provide for a wife and in- \ncreasing family. To this supposed impurity of motive \nthe more bigoted Pviritans were inclined to impute the \nremoval by death of all the children, for whose earthly \ngood the father had been over-thoughtfid. They had \nleft their native country blooming like roses, and like \nroses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those ex- \npovmders of the ways of Providence, who had thus \njudged their brother, and attributed his domestic sor- \nrows to his sin, were not more charitable when they \nsaw liim and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void \nin their hearts by the adoption of an infant of the \naccursed sect. Nor did they fail to conmaunicate \ntheir disapprobation to Tobias ; but the latter, in re- \nply, merely pointed at the little, quiet, lovely boy, \nwhose appearance and deportment were indeed as pow- \nerful argxunents as could possibly have been adduced \nin his own favor. Even his beauty, however, and his \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 95 \n\nwinning manners, sometimes produced an effect ulti- \nmately imfavorable ; for the bigots, when the outer \nsurfaces of their iron hearts had been softened and \nagain grew hard, affirmed that no merely natural \ncause coidd have so worked upon them. \n\nTheir antipathy to the poor infant was also in- \ncreased by the ill success of divers theological discus- \nsions, in which it was attempted to convince him of \nthe errors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a \nskilful controversialist ; but the feeling of his religion \nwas strong as instinct in him, and he coidd neither be \nenticed nor driven from the faith which his father had \ndied for. The odiiun of this stubbornness was shared \nin a gTeat measure by the child's protectors, insomuch \nthat Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began to expe- \nrience a most bitter species of persecution, in the cold \nregards of many a friend whom they had valued. The \ncommon people manifested their opinions more openly. \nPearson was a man of some consideration, being a \nrepresentative to the General Court, and an approved \nlieutenant in the trainbands, yet within a week after \nhis adoption of Ilbrahun he had been both hissed and \nhooted. Once, also, when walking through a solitary \npiece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some in- \nvisible speaker ; and it cried, \" What shall be done to \nthe backslider ? Lo ! the scourge is knotted for him, \neven the whip of nine cords, and every cord three \nknots ! \" These insults irritated Pearson's temper for \nthe moment ; they entered also into his heart, and be- \ncame imperceptible but powerfid workers towards an \nend which his most secret thought had not yet whis- \npered. \n\nOn the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a \n\n\n96 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmember of tlieir family, Pearson and liis wife deemed \nit jiroper that he shoidd appear with them at public \nworship. They had anticipated some oj)position to \nthis measure from the boy, but he prepared himself \nin silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the \nnew mourning suit which Dorothy had wrought for \nhim. As the parish was then, and during many sub- \nsequent years, unjirovided with a bell, the signal for \nthe commencement of religious exercises was the beat \nof a drum. At the first sound of that martial call \nto the place of holy and quiet thoughts, Tobias and \nDorothy set forth, each holding a hand of little Ilbra- \nhim, like two parents linked together by the infant of \ntheir love. On their path through the leafless woods \nthey were overtaken by many persons of their ac- \nquaintance, all of whom avoided them, and passed by \non the other side ; but a severer trial awaited their \nconstancy w^hen they had descended the hill, and drew \nnear the pine-built and imdecorated house of prayer. \nAroimd the door, from which the drummer still sent \nforth his thundering summons, was drawn up a for- \nmidable phalanx, including several of the oldest mem- \nbers of the congregation, many of the middle aged, \nand nearly all the yoimger males. Pearson found \nit difficult to sustain their imited and disappro\\dng \ngaze, but Dorothy, whose mind was differently circum- \nstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her, and fal- \ntered not in her approach. As they entered the door, \nthey overheard the muttered sentiments of the assem- \nblage, and when the reviling voices of the little chil- \ndren smote Ilbrahim's ear, he wept. \n\nThe interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. \nThe low ceiling, the miplastered walls, the naked \nwood work, and the undraperied pulpit, offered noth- \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 97 \n\ning to excite the devotion, wliich, without such exter- \nnal aids, often remains latent in the heart. The floor \nof the building was occupied by rows of long, cushion- \nless benches, supplying the place of pews, and the \nbroad aisle formed a sexual di\\ision, im^^assable ex- \ncept by children beneath a certain age. \n\nPearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the \nmeeting-house, and Ilbrahim, being within the years \nof infancy, was retained imder the care of the latter. \nThe wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their \nrusty cloaks as he passed by ; even the mild-f eatiu'ed \nmaidens seemed to dread contamination ; and many \na stern old man arose, and turned his repidsive and \nunheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the \nsanctuary were polluted by his presence. He was a \nsweet infant of the skies that had strayed away from \nhis home, and all the inhabitants of tliis miserable \nworld closed up their impure hearts against him, drew \nback their earth-soiled garments from his touch, and \nsaid, \" We are holier than thou.\" \n\nIlbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother, \nand retainmg fast hold of her hand, assiuned a grave \nand decorous demeanor, such as might befit a person \nof matured taste and miderstanding, who should find \nliimself in a temple dedicated to some worship wliich \nhe did not recognize, but felt himself bound to respect. \nThe exercises had not yet commenced, however, when \nthe boy's attention was arrested by an event, appar- \nently of trifling interest. A woman, having her face \nmuffled in a hood, and a cloak di-awni completely about \nher form, advanced slowly up the broad aisle and took \na place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim's faint \ncolor varied, his nerves fluttered, he was unable to \nturn his eyes from the muffled female. \n\nVOL. I. 7 \n\n\n98 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nWhen the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, \nthe minister arose, and having turned the hour-glass \nwhich stood by the great Bible, commenced his dis- \ncourse. He was now weU stricken in years, a man of \npale, thin countenance, and his gray hairs were closely \ncovered by a blafck velvet skullcap. In his younger \ndays he had practically learned the meaning of perse \ncution from Archbishop Laud, and he was not now \ndisposed to forget the lesson against which he had \nmurmured then. Introducing the often discussed sub- \nject of the Quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and \na description of their tenets, in which error predomi- \nnated, and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was \ntrue. He adverted to the recent measures in the prov- \nince, and cautioned his hearers of weaker parts against \ncalling in question the just severity which God-fear- \ning magistrates had at length been compelled to exer- \ncise. He spoke of the danger of pity, in some cases a \ncommendable and Christian virtue, but inapplicable to \nthis pernicious sect. He observed that such was their \ndevilish obstinacy in error, that even the little cliil- \ndren, the sucking babes, were hardened and desperate \nheretics. He affirmed that no man, without Heaven's \nespecial warrant, shoidd attempt their conversion, lest \nwhile he lent his hand to draw them from the slough, \nhe should himself be precipitated into its lowest \ndepths. \n\nThe sands of the second hour were principally in \nthe lower half of the glass when the sermon concluded. \nAn approving murmur followed, and the clergyman, \nhaving given out a hymn, took his seat with much \nself-congratidation, and endeavored to read the effect \nof his eloquence in the visages of the people. But \nwhile voices from all parts of the house were timing \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 99 \n\nthemselves to sing, a scene occurred, which, though \nnot very unusual at that period in the province, hap- \npened to be without precedent in this parish. \n\nThe muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless \nin the front rank of the audience, now arose, and with \nslow, stately, and unwavering step, ascended the pul- \npit stairs. The qvdverings of incipient harmony were \nhushed, and the divine sat in speechless and almost \nterrified astonishment, while she undid the door, and \nstood up in the sacred desk from which his maledic- \ntions had just been thundered. She then divested hei'- \nself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most \nsingidar array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was \ngirded about her waist with a knotted cord ; her raven \nhair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness \nwas defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which she had \nstrown upon her head. Her eyebrows, dark and \nstrongly defined, added to the deathly whiteness of a \ncountenance, which, emaciated with want, and wild \nwith enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained no trace \nof earher beauty. This figure stood gazing earnestly \non the audience, and there was no soimd, nor any \nmovement, except a faint shuddering which every man \nobserved in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious \nof in himself. At length, when her fit of inspiration \ncame, she spoke, for the first few moments, in a low \nvoice, and not invariably distinct utterance. Her dis- \ncourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly \nentangled with her reason ; it was a vague and in- \ncomprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed to \nspread its own atmosphere round the hearer's soul, \nand to move his feelings by some influence imcon- \nnected with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful \nbut shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like \n\n\n100 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbright things moving in a turbid river ; or a strong \nand singidarly-shaped idea leaped forth, and seized \nat once on the understanding or the heart. But the \ncourse of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the \npersecutions of her sect, and from thence the step was \nshort to her own peculiar sorrows. She was naturally \na woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge \nnow wrapped themselves in the garb of piety; the \ncharacter of her speech was changed, her images be- \ncame distinct though wild, and her denunciations had \nan almost hellish bitterness. \n\n\" The Governor and his mighty men,\" she said, \n\" have gathered together, taking counsel among them- \nselves and saying, 'What shall we do imto this people \n\" — even imto the people that have come into this land \nto put our iniquity to the blush ? ' And lo ! the devil \nentereth into the council chamber, like a lame man of \nlow stature and gravely apparelled, with a dark and \ntwisted countenance, and a bright, downcast eye. And \nhe standeth up among the rulers ; yea, he goeth to and \nfro, whispering to each ; and every man lends his ear, \nfor his word is ' Slay, slay ! ' But I say imto ye. \nWoe to them that slay ! Woe to them that shed the \nblood of saints ! Woe to them that have slain the \nhusband, and cast forth the child, the tender infant, \nto wander homeless and hmigry and cold, till he die ; \nand have saved the mother alive, in the cruelty of their \ntender mercies ! Woe to them in their lifetime ! cursed \nare they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts I \nWoe to them in their death hour, whether it come \nswiftly with blood and violence, or after long and \nUngering pain ! Woe, in the dark house, in the rot- \ntenness of the grave, when the children's children shall \nrevile the ashes of the fathers ! Woe, woe, woe, at \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 101 \n\nthe judgment, when all the persecuted and all the slain \nin this bloody land, and the father, the mother, and \nthe child, shall await them in a day that they cannot \nescape ! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose \nhearts are moving with a power that ye know not, \narise, wash your hands of this innocent blood ! Lift \nyour voices, chosen ones ; cry aloud, and call down a \nwoe and a judgment with me ! \" \n\nHaving thus given vent to the flood of malignity \nwhich she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was \nsilent. Her voice was succeeded by the hysteric shrieks \nof several women, but the feelings of the audience gen- \nerally had not been drawn onward in the current with \nher own. They remained stuiDcfied, stranded as it \nwere, in the midst of a torrent, which deafened them \nby its roaring, but might not move them by its vio- \nlence. The clergyman, who could not hitherto have \nejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by \nbodily force, now addressed her in the tone of just in- \ndignation and legitimate authority. \n\n\" Get you down, woman, from the holy place which \nyou profane,\" he said. \" Is it to the Lord's house \nthat you come to pour forth the foulness of your heart \nand the inspiration of the devil ? Get you down, \nand remember that the sentence of death is on you ; \nyea, and shall be executed, were it but for this day's \nwork!\" \n\n\" I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utter- \nance,\" replied she, in a depressed and even mild tone. \n\" I have done my mission unto thee and to thy people. \nReward me with stripes, imprisonment, or death, as ye \nshall be permitted.\" \n\nThe weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps \nto totter as she descended the pidpit stairs. The peo- \n\n\n102 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\npie, in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the \nfloor of the house, whispering among themselves, and \nglancing towards the intruder. Many of them now \nrecognized her as the woman who had assaulted the \nGovernor with frightful language as he passed by the \nwindow of her prison ; they knew, also, that she was \nadjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved only \nby an invohmtary banishment into the wilderness. \nThe new outrage, by which she had provoked her fate, \nseemed to render further lenity impossible ; and a gen- \ntleman in military dress, with a stout man of inferior \nrank, drew towards the door of the meeting-house, and \nawaited her approach. \n\nScarcely did her feet press the floor, however, when \nan imexpeeted scene occurred. In that moment of \nher peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little \ntimid boy pressed forth, and threw his arms round his \nmother. \n\n\" I am here, mother ; it is I, and I will go with thee \nto prison,\" he exclaimed. \n\nShe gazed at liim with a doubtful and almost fright- \nened expression, for she knew that the boy had been \ncast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his \nface again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one \nof the happy visions with which her excited fancy had \noften deceived her, in the solitude of the desert or in \nprison. But when she felt his hand warm within her \nown, and heard his little eloquence of childish love, \nshe began to know that she was yet a mother. \n\n\" Blessed art thou, my son,\" she sobbed. \" My heart \nwas withered ; yea, dead with thee and with thy father ; \nand now it leaps as in the first moment when I pressed \nthee to my bosom.\" \n\nShe knelt down and embraced him again and agaiii^ \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 103 \n\nvvhile the joy that could find no words expressed itself \nin broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to van- \nish at the surface of a deep fountain. The sorrows of \npast years, and the darker peril that was nigh, cast \nnot a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting mo- \nment. Soon, however, the spectators saw a change \nupon her face, as the consciousness of her sad estate \nreturned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which \njoy had opened. By the words she uttered, it would \nseem that the indidgence of natural love had given her \nmind a momentary sense of its errors, and made her \nknow how far she had strayed from duty in following \nthe dictates of a wild fanaticism. \n\n\" In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor \nboy,\" she said, \"for thy mother's path has gone dark- \nening onward, till now the end is death. Son, son, I \nhave borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tot- \ntering, and I have fed thee with the food that I was \nfainting for ; yet I have ill performed a mother's part \nby thee in life, and now I leave thee no inheritance but \nwoe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through the \nworld, and find all hearts closed against thee and their \nsweet affections tiu'ned to bitterness for my sake. My \nchild, my child, how many a pang awaits thy gentle \nspirit, and I the cause of all ! \" \n\nShe hid her face on Ilbrahim's head, and her long, \nraven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning, \nfell down about him like a veil. A low and inter- \nrupted moan was the voice of her heart's angaiish, and \nit did not fail to move the sympathies of many who \nmistook their involimtary virtue for a sin. Sobs were \naudible in the female section of the house, and every \nman who was a father drew his hand across his eyes. \nTobias Pearson was agitated and imeasy, but a certain \n\n\n104 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nfeeling like the consciousness of guilt oppressed him, \nso that he could not go forth and offer himself as the \nprotector of the cliild. Dorothy, however, had watched \nher husband's eye. Her mind was free from the in- \nfluence that had begun to work on his, and she drew \nnear the Quaker woman, and addressed her in the \nhearing of all the congregation. \n\n\" Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his \nmother,\" she said, taking Ilbrahim's hand. \"Provi- \ndence has signally marked out my husband to protect \nhim, and he has fed at our table and lodged imder \nour roof now many days, till our hearts have grown \nvery strongly vmto him. Leave the tender child with \nus, and be at ease concerning his welfare.\" \n\nThe Quaker rose from the groimd, but drew the boy \ncloser to her, while she gazed earnestly in Dorothy's \nface. Her mild but saddened features, and neat ma- \ntronly attire, harmonized together, and were like a \nverse of fireside poetry. Her very aspect proved that \nshe was blameless, so far as mortal coidd be so, in re- \nspect to God and man ; while the enthusiast, in her \nrobe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as \nevidently violated the duties of the present life and \nthe future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. \nThe two females, as they held each a hand of Ilbrahim, \nformed a practical allegory ; it was rational piety and \nluibridled fanaticism contending for the empire of a \nyoung heart. \n\n\"Thou art not of our people,\" said the Quaker, \nmournfully. \n\n\" No, we are not of your people,\" replied Dorothy, \nwith mildness, \" but we are Christians, looking up- \nward to the same heaven with you. Doubt not that \nyour boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 105 \n\non our tender and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, \nI trust, my own children have gone before me, for I \nalso have been a mother; I am no longer so,\" she \nadded, in a faltering tone, \" and your son will have aU \nmy care.\" \n\n\" But will ye lead him in the path which his parents \nhave trodden ? \" demanded the Quaker. \" Can ye \nteach him the enlightened faith which his father has \ndied for, and for which I, even I, am soon to become \nan im worthy martyr ? The boy has been baptized in \nblood ; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon \nhis forehead ? \" \n\n\" I will not deceive you,\" answered Dorothy. \" If \nyour child become our child, we must breed him up in \nthe instruction which Heaven has imparted to us ; we \nmust pray for him the prayers of our owti faith ; we \nmust do towards him according to the dictates of our \nown consciences, and not of yours. Were we to act \notherwise, we shoidd abuse your trust, even in comply- \ning with your wishes.\" \n\nThe mother looked down upon her boy with a \ntroubled countenance, and then turned her eyes up- \nward to heaven. She seemed to pray internally, and \nthe contention of her soul was evident. \n\n\" Friend,\" she said at leng-th to Dorothy, \" I doubt \nnot that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at \nthy hands. Nay, I will believe that even thy imper- \nfect lights may guide him to a better world, for surely \nthou art on the path thither. But thou hast spoken \nof a husband. Doth he stand herQ among this mul- \ntitude of people? Let him come forth, for I must \nknow to whom I commit this most precious trust.\" \n\nShe turned her face upon the male auditors, and \nafter a momentary delay, Tobias Pearson came forth \n\n\n106 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nfrom among them. The Quaker saw the dress which \nmarked his military rank, and shook her head ; but \nthen she noted the hesitating air, the eyes that strug- \ngled with her own, and were vanquished; the color \nthat went and came, and could find no resting-place. \nAs she gazed, an immirthfid smile spread over her \nfeatures, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some \ndesolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length \nshe spake. \n\n\"I hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within \nme and saith, 'Leave thy child, Catharine, for liis \nplace is here, and go hence, for I have other work for \nthee. Break the bonds of natural affection, martyr \nthy love, and know that in all these things eternal \nwisdom hath its ends.' I go, friends ; I go. Take ye \nmy boy, my precious jewel. I go hence, ti'usting that \nall shall be well, and that even for his infant hands \nthere is a labor in the vineyard.\" \n\nShe knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at \nfirst struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and \ntears, but remained passive when she had kissed his \ncheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her \nhands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready \nto depart. \n\n\" Farewell, friends in mine extremity,\" she said to \nPearson and his wife ; \" the good deed ye have done \nme is a treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned a \nthousand-fold hereafter. And farewell ye, mine ene- \nmies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as \na hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for \na moment. The day is coming when ye shall call \nupon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, \nand I will rise up and answer.\" \n\nShe turned her steps towards the door, and the men, \n\n\nI \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 107 \n\nwho had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew, \nand suffered her to pass. A general sentiment of pity \novercame the virulence of religious hatred. Sancti- \nfied by her love and her affliction, she went forth, and \nall the people gazed after her till she had journeyed \nup the hill, and was lost beliind its brow. She went, \nthe apostle of her own imquiet heart, to renew the \nwanderings of past years. For her voice had been \nalready heard iu many lands of Christendom ; and she \nhad pined in the cells of a Catholic Inquisition before \nshe felt the lash and lay in the dungeons of the Puri- \ntans. Her mission had extended also to the followers \nof the Projjhet, and from them she had received the \ncourtesy and kindness which all the contending sects \nof our purer religion united to deny her. Her hus- \nband and herself had resided many months in Turkey, \nwhere even the Sultan's countenance was gracious to \nthem ; in that pagan land, too, was Ilbrahim's birth- \nplace, and his oriental name was a mark of gratitude \nfor the good deeds of an unbeliever. \n\nWhen Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all \nthe rights over Ilbraliim that coidd be delegated, their \naffection for him became like the memory of their \nnative land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece \nof the immovable furniture of their hearts. The boy, \nalso, after a week or two of mental disquiet, began to \ngratify his protectors by many inadvertent proofs that \nhe considered them as parents, and their house as \nhome. Before the winter snows were melted, the per- \nsecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and \nheathen country, seemed native in the New England \ncottage, and inseparable from the warmth and security \nof its hearth. Under the influence of kind treatment. \n\n\n108 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand in the consciousness that he was loved, Ilbrahim's \ndemeanor lost a prematxu'e manliness, which had re- \nsulted from his earlier situation; he became more \nchildlike, and liis natural character displayed itself \nwdth freedom. It was in many respects a beautifid \none, yet the disordered imaginations of both his father \nand mother had perhaps propagated a certain im- \nhealthiness in the mind of the boy. In his general \nstate, Ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most \ntrifling events, and from every object about him ; he \nseemed to discover rich treasures of happiness, by a \nfaculty analogous to that of the witch hazel, which \npoints to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. \nHis airy gayety, coming to him from a thousand \nsources, commrmicated itself to the family, and Ilbrar \nhim was like a domesticated sunbeam, brightening \nmoody countenances, and chasing away the gloom \nfrom the dark corners of the cottage. \n\nOn the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure \nis also that of pain, the exuberant cheerfidness of the \nboy's prevailing temper sometimes yielded to moments \nof deep depression. His sorrows could not always be \nfollowed up to their original source, but most fre- \nquently they appeared to flow, though Ilbrahim was \nyoimg to be sad for such a cause, from woimded love. \nThe flightiness of his mirth rendered him often guilty \nof offences against the decorum of a Puritan house- \nhold, and on these occasions he did not invariably \nescape rebuke. But the slightest word of real bitter- \nness, wliich he was infallible in distinguisliing from \npretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and \npoison all his enjojnnents, till he became sensible that \nhe was entirely forgiven. Of the malice, which gen- \nerally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness, libra? \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 109 \n\nhim was altogether destitute : when trodden upon, he \nwoidd not turn; when wounded, he coiUd but die. \nHis mind was wanting- in the stamina for self-support ; \nit was a plant that woidd twine beautifidly romid \nsometliing stronger than itself, but if repidsed, or torn \naway, it had no choice but to wither on the groundo \nDorothy's acuteness taught her that severity would \ncrush the spirit of the chdd, and she nurtured him \nwith the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. \nHer husband manifested an equal affection, although \nit grew daily less productive of familiar caresses. \n\nThe feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to \nthe Quaker infant and his protectors, had not vmder- \ngone a favorable change, in spite of the momentary \ntriumph which the desolate mother had obtained over \ntheir sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of which \nhe was the object, were very grievous to Ilbrahim, es- \npecially when any circumstance made him sensible \nthat the cliildren, his equals in age, partook of the \nenmity of their parents. His tender and social nature \nhad already overflowed in attachments to everything \nabout liim, and still there was a residue of unappro- \npriated love, which he yearned to bestow upon the \nlittle ones who were taught to hate him. As the warm \ndays of spring came on, Ilbrahim was accustomed to \nremain for hours, silent and inactive, witliin hearing \nof the children's voices at their play ; yet, with his \nusual delicacy of feeling, he avoided their notice, and \nwould flee and hide himself from the smallest individ- \nual among them. Chance, however, at lengih seemed \nto open a medium of communication between his heart \nand theirs ; it was by means of a boy about two years \nolder than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall fi'om \na tree in the vicinity of Pearson's habitation. As the \n\n\n110 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsufferer's ovn\\ home was at some distance, Dorothy • \nwillingly received him under her roof, and became his \ntender and careful nurse. \n\nIlbrahim was the imconscious possessor of much \nskill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred liim, \nin other circumstances, from attempting to make a \nfriend of this boy. The countenance of the latter im- \nmediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it \nrequired some examination to discover that the cause \nwas a very slight distortion of the mouth, and the ir- \nregidar, broken line, and near approach of the eye- \nbrows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trilling deformi- \nties, was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint, \nand the luieven prominence of the breast ; forming a \nbody, regidar in its general outline, but faidty in al- \nmost all its details. The disposition of the boy was \nsullen and reserved, and the village schoohnaster stig- \nmatized him as obtuse in intellect ; although, at a \nlater period of life, he evinced ambition and very pe- \nculiar talents. But whatever might be his personal \nor moral irregularities, Ilbrahim's heart seized upon, \nand climg to him, from the moment that he was \nbrought womided into the cottage ; the child of perse- \ncution seemed to compare his own fate with that of \nthe sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of \nmisfortune had created a sort of relationship between \nthem. Food, rest, and the fresh air, for which he lan- \nguished, were neglected ; he nestled continually by the \nbedside of the little stranger, and, with a fond jeal- \nousy, endeavored to be the mediimi of all the cares \nthat were bestowed upon him. As the boy became \nconvalescent, Ilbrahim contrived games suitable to \nhis situation, or amused hmi by a facidty wliich he \nhad perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric j \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. Ill \n\nbirthplace. It was that of reciting imaginary adven- \ntures, on the spur of the moment, and apparently in \ninexhaustible succession. His tales were of course \nmonstrous, disjointed, and without aim ; but they were \ncurious on accomit of a vein of human tenderness \nwhich ran through them all, and was like a sweet, \nfamiliar face, encoimtered in the midst of wild and \nimearthly scenerj\\ The auditor paid much attention \nto these romances, and sometimes interrupted them by \nbrief remarks vipon the incidents, displaying shrewd- \nness above his years, mingled with a moral obKquity \nwhich grated very harshly against Ilbrahim's instinc- \ntive rectitude. Nothing, however, coidd arrest the \nprogress of the latter' s affection, and there were many \nproofs that it met mth a response from the dark and \nstubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy's \nparents at length removed him, to complete his cure \nimder their own roof. \n\nIlbrahim did not visit his new friend after his de- \npartiu-e ; but he made anxious and continual inquiries \nrespecting hun, and informed himself of the day when \nhe was to reappear among his playmates. On a pleas- \nant summer afternoon, the cliildren of the neighbor- \nhood had assembled in the little forest-crowned amphi- \ntheatre behind the meeting-house, and the recovering \ninvalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of a \nscore of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy \nvoices, v/hich danced among the trees like sunshine \nbecome audible ; the grown men of this weary world, \nas they journeyed by the spot, marvelled why life, be- \nginning in such brightness, shoidd proceed in gloom ; \nand theii' hearts, or their imaginations, answered them \nand said, that the bliss of childhood gushes from its \ninnocence. But it happened that an unexpected addi- \n\n\n112 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ntion was made to the heavenly little band. It was \nIlbrahiin, who came towards the children with a look \nof sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as \nif, having manifested his love to one of them, he had \nno longer to fear a repulse from their society. A \nhush came over their mirth the moment they beheld \nhim, and they stood whispering to each other while he \ndrew nigh ; but, all at once, the devil of their fathers \nentered into the unbreeched fanatics, and sending up \na fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker \nchild. In an instant, he was the centre of a brood of \nbaby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him \nwith stones, and displayed an instinct of destruction \nfar more loathsome than the bloodtliirstiness of man- \nhood. \n\nThe invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from the \ntumult, crying out with a loud voice, \" Fear not, Ilbra- \nhim, come hither and take my hand ; \" and his im- \nhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After watch- \ning the victim's struggling approach with a calm smile \nand unabashed eye, the foul-hearted little villain lifted \nhis staff and struck Ilbraliim on the mouth, so forci- \nbly that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child's \narms had been raised to guard his head from the storm \nof blows ; but now he dropped them at once. His per- \nsecutors beat him down, trampled upon liim, dragged \nhim by his long, fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on the \npoint of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever en- \ntered bleeding into heaven. The uproar, however, \nattracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put them- \nselves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and \nof conveying him to Pearson's door. \n\nIlbrahim' s bodily harm was severe, but long and \ncareful nursing accomplished his recovery ; the injury \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 113 \n\ndone to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though \nnot so visible. Its signs were principally of a negative \ncharacter, and to be discovered only by those who had \npreviously known him. His gait was thenceforth slow, \neven, and unvaried by the sudden bursts of sprightlier \nmotion, wliich had once corresponded to his overflow- \ning gladness ; his cormtenance was heavier, and its \nformer play of expression, the dance of sunsliine re- \nflected from moving water, was destroyed by the cloud \nover his existence ; his notice was attracted in a far \nless degree by passing events, and he appeared to find \ngreater difficulty in comprehending what was new to \nhim than at a happier period. A stranger, founding \nhis judgment upon these circumstances, would have \nsaid that the dulness of the child's intellect widely \ncontradicted the promise of his features ; but the secret \nwas in the direction of Ilbraliim's thoughts, which \nwere brooding within him when they should naturally \nhave been wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy \nto revive his former sportiveness was the single occa- \nsion on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent \ntlisplay of grief ; he burst into passionate weeping, and \nran and hid himself, for his heart had become so mis- \nerably sore that even the hand of kindness tortured \nit like fire. Sometimes, at night and probably in his \ndreams, he was heard to cry \" Mother ! Mother ! \" as \nif her place, which a stranger had supplied while II- \nbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his ex- \ntreme affliction. Perhaps, among the many life-weary \nwretches then upon the earth, there was not one who \ncombined innocence and misery like this poor, broken- \nhearted infant, so soon the victim of his own heavenly \nnature. \n\nWhile this melancholy change had taken place in \n\nVOL. I. 8 \n\n\n114 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nIlbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different \ncharacter had come to its perfection in liis adojjted \nfather. The incident with which this tale commences \nfound Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet men- \ntally disquieted, and longing for a more fervid faith \nthan he j)ossessed. The first effect of his kindness to \nIlbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, and incip- \nient love for the child's whole sect; but joined to tliis, \nand residting perhaps from self-suspicion, was a proud \nand ostentatious contempt of all their tenets and prac- \ntical extravagances. In the course of much thought, \nhowever, for the subject struggled irresistibly into his \nmind, the fooKshness of the doctrine began to be less \nevident, and the points wliich had particularly offended \nhis reason assumed another aspect, or vanished entirely \naway. The work within liim appeared to go on even \nwliile he slept, and that which had been a doubt, when \nhe laid down to rest, would often hold the place of \na truth, confirmed by some forgotten demonstration, \nwhen he recalled liis thoughts in the morning. But \nwhile he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusi- \nasts, his contempt, in nowise decreasing towards them, \ngrew very fierce against himself ; he imagined, also, \nthat every face of his acquaintance wore a sneer, and \nthat every word addressed to him was a gibe. Such \nwas his state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim's mis- \nfortune ; and the emotions consequent upon that event \ncompleted the change, of wliich the child had been the \noriginal instrument. \n\nIn the mean time, neither the fierceness of the per- \nsecutors, nor the infatuation of their victims, had de- \ncreased. The dungeons were never empty ; the streets \nof ahnost every village echoed daily with the lash ; the \nlife of a woman, whose mild and Christian spirit no \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 115 \n\ncruelty could embitter, had been sacrificed ; and more \ninnocent blood was yet to jDollute the hands that were \nso often raised in prayer. Early after the Restoration, \nthe English Quakers represented to Charles II. that \na \" vein of blood was open in his dominions ; \" but \nthough the displeasure of the voluptuous king was \nroused, his interference was not prompt. And now \nthe tale must stride forward over many months, leav- \ning Pearson to encounter ignominy and misfortime; \nhis wife to a firm endurance of a thousand sorrows ; \npoor Ilbrahim to pine and droop like a cankered rose- \nbud ; his mother to wander on a mistaken errand, neg- \nlectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to \na woman. \n\nA winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened \nover Pearson's habitation, and there were no cheerful \nfaces to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. The \nfire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy \nlight, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, \nlay ready to be cast upon the embers. But the aj)art- \nment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of \nmuch of the homely wealth which had once adorned \nit ; for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own \nneglect of temporal affairs, had greatly unpoverished \nthe owner. And with the furniture of peace, the im- \nplements of war had likewise disappeared ; the sword \nwas broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away for- \never ; the soldier had done with battles, and might not \nlift so much as his naked hand to guard his head. \nBut the Holy Book remained, and the table on which \nit rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the \npersecuted sect sought comfort from its pages. \n\nHe who listened, wliile the other read, was the \n\n\n116 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmaster of the house, now emaciated in form, and al- \ntered as to the expression and healthiness of his coun- \ntenance ; for his mind had dwelt too long among \nvisionary thoughts* and his body had been worn by \nimprisonment and stripes. The hale and weather- \nbeaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less \ninjury from a far longer course of the same mode of \nlife. In person he was tall and dignified, and, which \nalone woidd have made liim hatefvd to the Puritans, \nhis gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed \nhat, and rested on his shoidders. As the old man read \nthe sacred page the snow drifted against the windows, \nor eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast \nkept laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped \nfiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind \nstruck the hill at a certain angle, and swept down by \nthe cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the \nmost dolef id that can be conceived ; it came as if the \nPast were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed \neach a whisper, as if the Desolation of Ages were \nbreathed in that one lamenting soimd. \n\nThe Quaker at length closed the book, retaining \nhowever his hand between the pages which he had \nbeen reading, while he looked steadfastly at Pearson. \nThe attitude and featiu'es of the latter might have \nindicated the endurance of bodily pain ; he leaned \nhis forehead on his hands, liis teeth were firmly closed, \nand his frame was tremulous at intervals with a ner- \nvous agitation. \n\n\" Friend Tobias,\" inquired the old man, compas- \nsionately, \" hast thou found no comfort in these many \nblessed passages of Scripture?\" \n\n\"Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar \noJBf and indistinct,\" replied Pearson without lifting his \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 117 \n\neyes. \"Yea, and when I have hearkened carefully \nthe words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for \nanother and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the \nbook,\" he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. \" I \nhave no part in its consolations, and they do but fret \nmy sorrow the more.\" \n\n\" Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never \nknown the light,\" said the elder Quaker earnestly, \nbut with mildness. \" Art thou he that wouldst be \ncontent to give all, and endure all, for conscience' \nBake ; desiring even peculiar trials, that thy faith \nmight be purified and thy heart weaned from worldly \ndesires? And wilt thou sink beneath an affliction \nwhich happens alike to them that have their portion \nhere below, and to them that lay up treasure in \nheaven ? Faint not, for thy burden is yet light.\" \n\n\"It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!\" ex- \nclaimed Pearson, with the impatience of a variable \nspu-it. \" From my youth upward I have been a man \nmarked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day \nafter day, I have endured sorrows such as others \nknow not in their lifetime. And now I speak not of \nthe love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to \nig-nominy, the ease and plentifulness of aU things to \ndanger, want, and nakedness. All this I could have \nborne, and coimted myself blessed. But when my \nheart was desolate with many losses I fixed it upon the \nchild of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than \naU my buried ones ; and now he too must die as if my \nlove were poison. Verily, I am an accursed man, and \nI will lay me dowTi in the dust and lift up my head \nno more.\" \n\n\" Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to re- \nbuke thee ; for I also have had my hours of darkness, \n\n\n118 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwlierein I have murmured against the cross,\" said the \nold Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of \ndistracting liis companion's thoughts from his own sor- \nrows. \" Even of late was the light obscured within \nme, when the men of blood had banished me on pain \nof death, and the constables led me onward from vil- \nlage to village towards the wilderness. A strong and \ncruel hand was wielding the knotted cords ; they sunk \ndeep into the flesh, and thou mightst have tracked \nevery reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood that \nfollowed. As we went on\" — \n\n\"Have I not borne all this; and have I mur- \nmured ? \" interrupted Pearson impatiently. \n\n\" Nay, friend, but hear me,\" continued the other. \n\" As we journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so \nthat no man could see the rage of the persecutors or \nthe constancy of my endurance, though Heaven for- \nbid that I shoidd glory therein. The lights began to \nglimmer in the cottage windows, and I could discern \nthe inmates as they gathered in comfort and security, \nevery man with his wife and children by their own \nevening hearth. At length we came to a tract of fer- \ntile land ; in the dim light, the forest was not visible \naround it ; and behold ! there was a straw-thatched \ndwelling, which bore the very aspect of my home, far \nover the wild ocean, far in our own England. Then \ncame bitter thoughts upon me ; yea, remembrances \nthat were like death to my soid. The happiness of my \nearly days was painted to me ; the disquiet of my man- \nhood, the altered faith of my declining years. I re- \nmembered how I had been moved to go forth a wan- \nderer when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of \nmy flock, lay on her dying bed, and \" — \n\n\" Coiddst thou obey the command at such a mo. \nment?\" exclaimed Pearson, shuddering. \n\n\nI \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 119 \n\n\"Yea, yea,\" replied the old man hurriedly. \" I was \nkneeling- by her bedside when the voice spoke loud \nwithin me ; but immediately I rose, and took my staff, \nand gat me gone. Oh ! that it were permitted me to \nforget her woful look when I thus withdrew my arm, \nand left her journeying through the dark valley alone ! \nfor her sovd was faint, and she had leaned upon my \nprayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed \nby the thought that I had been an erring Christian \nand a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her \npale, dying features, seemed to stand by me and wliis- \nper, ' Father, you are deceived ; go home and shelter \nyour gray head.' O Thou, to whom I have looked in \nmy farthest wanderings,\" continued the Quaker, rais- \ning his agitated eyes to heaven, \"mflict not upon the \nbloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of \nmy sold, when I believed that all I had done and suf- \nfered for Thee was at the instigation of a mocking \nfiend I But I yielded not ; I knelt down and wrestled \nwith the tempter, while the scovu'ge bit more fiercely \ninto the flesh. My prayer was heard, and I went on \nin peace and joy towards the wilderness.\" \n\nThe old man, though his fanaticism had generally \nall the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while \nreciting this tale ; and his unwonted emotion seemed \nto rebulce and keep down that of his companion. \nThey sat in silence, with their faces to the fire, imag- \nining, perhaps, in its red embers new scenes of perse- \ncution yet to be encoimtered. The snow still drifted \nhard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze \nof the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spa- \ncious chimney and hissed upon the hearth. A cautious \nfootstep might now and then be heard in a neighbor- \ning apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes \n\n\n120 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof both Quakers to the door which led thither. When \na fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his thoughts, \nby a natural association, to homeless travellers on such \na night, Pearson resumed the conversation. \n\n\" I have well-nigh sunk under my own share of this \ntrial,\" observed he, sighing heavily; \"yet I would \nthat it might be doubled to me, if so the child's \nmother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep \nand many, but this will be the sorest of all.\" \n\n\" Fear not for Catharine,\" repKed the old Quaker, \n\" for I know that valiant woman, and have seen how \nshe can bear the cross. A mother's heart, indeed, is \nstrong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with \nher faith ; but soon she will stand up and give thanks \nthat her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice. \nThe boy hath done his work, and she will feel that \nhe is taken hence in kindness both to liim and her. \nBlessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering \ncan enter into peace ! \" \n\nThe fitfid rush of the wind was now distiu'bed by a \nportentous sound ; it was a quick and heavy knocking \nat the outer door. Pearson's wan countenance grew \npaler, for many a visit of persecution had taixght him \nwhat to dread ; the old man, on the other hand, stood \nup erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried \nsoldier who awaits liis enemy. \n\n\" The men of blood have come to seek me,\" he ob- \nserved with cahnness. \" They have heard how I was \nmoved to return from banishment ; and now am I to \nbe led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end \nI have long looked for. I will open unto them, lest \nthey say, ' Lo, he feareth ! ' \" \n\n\" Nay, I will present myself before them,\" said \nPearson, with recovered fortitude. \" It may be that \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 121 \n\nthey seek me alone, and know not that thou abidest \nwith me.\" \n\n\" Let us go boldly, both one and the other,\" rejoined \nhis companion. \" It is not fitting that thou or I should \nshrink.\" \n\nThey therefore proceeded through the entry to the \ndoor, which they opened, bidding the applicant \" Come \nin, in God's name I \" A furious blast of wind drove \nthe storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp ; \nthey had barely time to discern a figure, so white from \nhead to foot with the drifted snow that it seemed like \nWinter's seK, come in hiunan shape, to seek refuge \nfrom its own desolation. \\ \n\n\" Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it \nmay,\" said Pearson. \"It must needs be pressing,\\ \nsince thou comest on such a bitter night.\" \n\n\" Peace be with this household,\" said the stranger, \nwhen they stood on the floor of the inner apartment. \n\nPearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slum- \nbering embers of the fire till they sent up a clear and \nlofty blaze ; it was a female voice that had spoken ; it \nwas a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in \nthat comfortable light. \n\n\" Catharine, blessed woman ! \" exclaimed the old \nman, \" art thou come to this darkened land again ? art \nthou come to bear a valiant testimony as in former \nyears ? The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, \nand from the dungeon hast thou come forth triimiph- \nant ; but strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, Cath- \narine, for Heaven wdll prove thee yet this once, ere \nthou go to thy reward.\" \n\n\" Rejoice, friends ! \" she replied. \" Thou who hast \nlong been of our people, and thou whom a little child \nhath led to us, rejoice ! Lo ! I come, the messenger \n\n\n122 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof glad tidings, for the day of persecution is overpast. \nThe heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved \nin gentleness towards us, and he hath sent forth his \nletters to stay the hands of the men of blood. A ship's \ncompany of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, \nand I also sailed joyfully among them.\" \n\nAs Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about \nthe room, in search of him for whose sake security \nwas dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to the \nold man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful \ntask assigned him. \n\n\" Sister,\" he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm \ntone, \" thou tellest us of His love, manifested in tem- \nporal good ; and now must we speak to thee of that \n^felfsame love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto, \nCatharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a \ndarksome and difficult path, and leading an infant by \nthe hand ; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward \ncontinually, but still the cares of that little child have \ndrawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. \nSister ! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps \nshall impede thine own no more.\" \n\nBut the unhappy mother was not thus to be con- \nsoled ; she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the \nvery snow that himg drifted into her hair. The firm \nold man extended his hand and held her up, keeping \nhis eye upon hers, as if to repress any outbreak of \npassion. \n\n\" I am a woman, I am but a woman ; will He try \nme above my strength?\" said Catharine very quickly, \nand almost in a whisper. \" I have been wounded \nsore : I have suffered much ; many things in the body ; \nmany in the mind ; crucified in myself, and in them \nthat were dearest to me. Surely,\" added she, with a \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 123 \n\nlong shudder, \" He hath spared me in this one thing.\" \nShe broke forth with sudden and irrepressible vio- \nlence. \" Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God \ndone to me ? Hath He cast me down, never to rise \nagain ? Hath He crushed my very heart in his hand ? \nAnd thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast \nthou fulfilled thy trust ? Give me back the boy, well, \nsound, alive, alive ; or earth and Heaven shall avenge \nme!\" \n\nThe agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by \nthe faint, the very faint, voice of a child. \n\nOn this day it had become evident to Pearson, to \nhis aged guest, and to Dorothy, that Ilbrahim's brief \nand troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. The \ntwo former woidd willingly have remained by liim, to \nmake use of the prayers and pious discourses which \nthey deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if \nthey be impotent as to the departing traveller's recep- \ntion in the world wliither it goes, may at least sus- \ntain him in bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbrar \nhim uttered no complaint, he was distiu'bed by the \nfaces that looked upon him ; so that Dorothy's entrea- \nties, and their own conviction that the child's feet \nmight tread heaven's pavement and not soil it, had \ninduced the two Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then \nclosed his eyes and gTew cahn, and, except for now \nand then a kind and low word to his nurse, might \nhave been thought to slmnber. As nightfall came \non, however, and the storm began to rise, something \nseemed to trouble the repose of the boy's mind, and \nto render his sense of hearing active and acute. If a \npassing wind lingered to shake the casement, he strove \nto turn his head towards it ; if the door jarred to and \nfro upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously \n\n\n124 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthitherward ; if the heavy voice of the old man, as he \nread the Scriptures, rose but a little higher, the cliild \nalmost held liis dying breath to listen ; if a snow-drift \nswept by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing \nof a garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some \nvisitant sho'uld enter. \n\nBut, after a little time, he relinquished whatever \nsecret hope had agitated him, and with one low, com- \nplaining whisper, turned his cheek upon the pillow. \nHe then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness, \nand besought her to draw near him ; she did so, and \nIlbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it \nwith a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he \nretained it. At intervals, and without distiu-bing the \nrepose of his countenance, a very faint trembling \npassed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but \nsomewhat cool wind had breathed upon liim, and \nmade him shiver. As the boy thus led her by the \nhand, in his quiet progress over the borders of eter- \nnity, Dorothy almost imagined that she could discern \nthe near, though dim, delightfulness of the home he \nwas about to reach ; she would not have enticed the \nlittle wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself \nthat she must leave him and return. But just when \nIlbrahim's feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise \nhe heard a voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, \nfew paces of the weary path which he had travelled. \nAs Dorothy looked upon liis features, she perceived \nthat their placid expression was again disturbed ; her \nown thoughts had been so wrapped in him, that all \nsounds of the storm, and of himian speech, were lost \nto her ; but when Catharine's shriek pierced through \nthe room, the boy strove to raise himself. \n\n\" Friend, she is come ! Open imto her ! \" cried he, \n\n\nTHE GENTLE BOY. 125 \n\nIn a moment his mother was kneeling by the bed- \nside ; she drew Ilbi-aliim to her bosom, and he nestled \nthere, vnth. no \\'iolenee of joy, but contentedly, as if \nhe were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her \nface, and reading its agony, said, with feeble earnest- \nness, \"' Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now,\" \nAnd with these words the gentle boy was dead. \n\nThe king's mandate to stay the New England per- \nsecutors was effectual in preventing further martyr- \ndoms ; but the colonial authorities, trusting in the \nremoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the sup- \nposed instability of the royal government, shortly re- \nnewed their severities in all other respects. Catha- \nruie's fanaticism had become ^vilder by the sundering \nof all human ties ; and wherever a scourge was lifted \nthere was she to receive the blow ; and whenever a \ndimgeon was unbarred thither she came, to cast her- \nself upon the floor. But in process of time a more \nChristian spirit — a spirit of forbearance, though not \nof cordiality or approbation — began to pervade the \nland in regard to the persecuted sect. And then, \nwhen the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her rather in pity \nthan in -^Tath ; when the matrons fed her ^ith the \nfragments of theii' children's food, and offered her a \nlodging on a hard and lowly bed ; when no little crowd \nof schoolboys left their sports to cast stones after the \nroving enthusiast ; then did Catharine retiarn to Pear- \nson's dwelling and made that her home. \n\nAs if Ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered roimd his \nashes : as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven \nto teac 1 his parent a true religion, her fierce and \\\\n- \ndietive nature was softened by the same griefs wliich \nhad once irritated it. When the course of years had \n\n\nV^6 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmade the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar \nin the settlement, she became a subject of not deep, \nbut general, interest ; a being on whom the otherwise \nsuperfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. \nEvery one spoke of her with that degree of pity \nwhich it is pleasant to experience; every one was \nready to do her the little kindnesses which are not \ncostly, yet manifest good will ; and when at last she \ndied, a long train of her once bitter persecutors fol- \nlowed her, with decent sadness and tears that were \nnot painful, to her place by Ilbrahim's green and \nsunken grave. \n\n\nft \n\n\nMR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. \n\nA YOUNG fellow, a tobacco pedlar by trade, was on \nhis way from MorristowTi, where he had dealt largely \nwith the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the \nvillage of Parker's Falls, on Sahnon River. He had \na neat little cart, painted gTeen, with a box of cigars \ndepicted on each side panel, and an Indian chief, \nholding a pipe and a golden tobacco stalk, on the \nrear. The pedlar drove a smart little mare, and was \na yoimg man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, \nbut none the worse liked by the Yankees ; who, as I \nhave heard them say, would rather be shaved with a \nsharp razor than a dull one. Especially was he be- \nloved by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose \nfavor he used to court by presents of the best smok- \ning tobacco in his stock ; knowing well that the coun- \ntry lasses of New England are generally great per- \nformers on pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in the \ncourse of my story, the pedlar was inquisitive, and \nsomething of a tattler, always itching to hear the \nnews and anxious to tell it again. \n\nAfter an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco \npedlar, whose name was Dominicus Pike, had trav- \nelled seven miles through a solitary piece of woods, \nwithout speaking a word to anybody but himself and \nhis little gray mare. It being nearly seven o'clock, he \nwas as eager to hold a morning gossip as a city shop- \nkeeper to read the morning, paper. An opportunity \nseemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar with a \n\n\n128 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsun-glass, he looked up, and perceived a man coming \nover the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the ped- \nlar had stopped his green cart. Dominicus watched \nhim as he descended, and noticed that he carried a \nbundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and \ntravelled with a weary, yet determined pace. He did \nnot look as if he had started in the freshness of the \nmorning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do \nthe same all day. \n\n\" Good morning, mister,\" said Dominicus, when \nwithin speaking distance. \"You go a pretty good \njog. What 's the latest news at Parker's Falls? \" \n\nThe man pidled the broad brim of a gray hat over \nhis eyes, and answered, rather suddenly, that he did \nnot come from Parker's Falls, wliich, as bemg the \nlimit of his own day's journey, the pedlar had natu- \nrally mentioned in his inquiry. \n\n\" Well then,\" rejoined Dominicus Pike, \" let 's have \nthe latest news where you did come from. I 'm not \nparticular about Parker's Falls. Any jilace vnll an- \nswer.\" \n\nBeing thus importuned, the traveller — who was as \nill looking a fellow as one woidd desire to meet in a \nsolitary piece of woods — appeared to hesitate a little, \nas if he was either searching his memory for news, or \nweighing the expediency of telling it. At last, mount- \ning on the step of the cart, he wliispered in the ear of \nDominicus, though he might have shouted aloud and \nno other mortal would have heard him. \n\n\" I do remember one little trifle of news,\" said he. \n\" Old Mr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered \nin his orchard, at eight o'clock last night, by an Irish- \nman and a nigger. They strung him up to the branch \nof a St. Michael's pear-tree, where nobody woidd find \nhim till the morning.\" \n\n\nMR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 129 \n\nAs soon as this horrible intelligence was commu- \nnicated, the stranger betook liimself to liis journey- \nagain, with more speed than ever, not even ttu^iing \nhis head when Dominicus in\\dted him to smoke a \nSpanish cigar and relate all the jjarticulars. The ped- \nlar whistled to his mare and went up the hill, ponder- \ning on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham whom he \nhad known in the way of trade, having sold him many \na bunch of long nines, and a great deal of pigtail, \nlady's twist, and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished \nat the rapidity vnth. which the news had spread. Kim- \nballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line ; \nthe murder had been perpetrated only at eight o'clock \nthe preceding night ; yet Dominicus had heard of it \nat seven in the morning, when, in all probability, poor \nMr. Higginbotham's own family had but just discov- \nered his corpse, hanging on the St. Michael's pear- \ntree. The stranger on foot must have worn seven- \nleague boots to travel at such a rate. \n\n\" 111 news flies fast, they say,\" thought Dominicus \nPike ; \" but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to \nbe hired to go express with the President's Message.\" \n\nThe difficulty was solved by supposing that the nar- \nrator had made a mistake of one day in the date of \nthe occurrence ; so that our friend did not hesitate to \nintroduce the story at every tavern and country store \nalong the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish \nwrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. \nHe foimd himself invariably the first bearer of the in- \ntelligence, and was so pestered with questions that he \ncoidd not avoid filling up the outline, till it became \nt[uite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece \nof corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a \ntrader ; and a former clerk of his, to whom Domiuicua \n\n\nVOL. I. \n\n\n130 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nrelated the facts, testified that the old gentleman was \naccustomed to return home through the orchard about \nnightfall, with the money and valuable papers of the \nstore in his pocket. The clerk manifested but little \ngrief at Mr. Higginbotham's catastrophe, hinting, \nwhat the pedlar had discovered in his own dealings \nwith him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as \na vice. His property would descend to a pretty niece \nwho was now keeping school in Kimballton. \n\nWhat with telling the news for the public good, and \ndriving bargains for liis own, Dominicus was so much \ndelayed on the road that he chose to put up at a tav- \nern, about five miles short of Parker's Falls. After \nsupper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated him- \nself in the bar-room, and went through the story of \nthe murder, which had grown so fast that it took him \nhalf an hour to tell. There were as many as twenty \npeople in the room, nineteen of whom received it all \nfor gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly farmer, \nwho had arrived on horseback a short time before, and \nwas now seated in a corner smoking his pipe. When \nthe story was concluded, he rose up very deliberately, \nbrought his chair right in front of Dominicus, and \nstared him full in the face, puffing out the vilest to- \nbacco smoke the pedlar had ever smelt. \n\n\" Will you make affidavit,\" demanded he, in the \ntone of a country justice taking an examination, \" that \nold Squire Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered \nin his orchard the night before last, and fomid hang- \ning on his great jDear-tree yesterday morning? \" \n\n\" I tell the story as I heard it, mister,\" answered \nDominicus, dropping his haK-burnt cigar ; \" I don't \nsay that I saw the thing done. So I can't take my \noath that he was murdered exactly in that way.\" \n\n\nMR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 131 \n\n\"But I can take mine,\" said the farmer, \"that if \nSquire Higginbotham was murdered night before last, \nI drank a glass of bitters with his ghost tliis morning. \nBeing a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store, \nas I was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me \nto do a little business for him on the road. He did n't \nseem to know any more about his own murder than I \ndid.\" \n\n\" Why, then, it can't be a fact ! \" exclaimed Domini- \ncus Pike. \n\n\"I guess he 'd have mentioned, if it was,\" said the \nold farmer ; and he removed his chair back to the \ncorner, leaving Dominicus quite down in the mouth. \n\nHere was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higgin- \nbotham ! The pedlar had no heart to mingle in the \nconversation any more, but comforted himself with a \nglass of gin and water, and went to bed where, all \nnight long, he dreamed of hanging on the St. Michael's \npear-tree. To avoid the old farmer (whom he so de- \ntested that his suspension would have pleased him bet- \nter than Mr. Higginbotham's), Dominicus rose in the \ngray of the morning, put the little mare into the green \ncart, and trotted swiftly away towards Parker's FaUs. \nThe fresh breeze, the dewy road, and the pleasant \nsiunmer dawn, revived Ms spirits, and might have en- \ncoiu-aged him to repeat the old story had there been \nanybody awake to hear it. But he met neither ox \nteam, light wagon chaise, horseman, nor foot traveller, \ntill, just as he crossed Salmon River, a man came \ntrudging down to the bridge with a bundle over his \n«hoidder, on the end of a stick. \n\n\" Good morning, mister,\" said the pedlar, reining \nm his mare. \" If you come from Kimballton or that \nneighborhood, may be you can tell me the real fact \n\n\n132 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nabout this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the \nold fellow actually murdered two or three nights ago, \nby an Irishman and a nigger ? \" \n\nDominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to ob- \nserve, at first, that the stranger himself had a deep \ntinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden ques- \ntion, the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its \nyellow hue becoming a ghastly wliite, while, shaking \nand stammering, he thus replied : — \n\n\" No ! no ! There was no colored man ! It was \nan Irishman that hanged him last night, at eight \no'clock. I came away at seven ! His folks can't \nhave looked for him m the orchard yet.\" \n\nScarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he inter- \nrupted himself, and though he seemed weary enough \nbefore, continued his journey at a pace which would \nhave kept the pedlar's mare on a smart trot. Do- \nminicus started after him in great jierplexity. If the \nmurder had not been committed till Tuesday night, \nwho was the prophet that had foretold it, in all its \ncircumstances, on Tuesday morning ? If Mr. Higgin- \nbotham's corpse were not yet discovered by his own \nfamily, how came the mulatto, at above thirty miles' \ndistance, to know that he was hanging in the orchard, \nespecially as he had left Kimballton before the un- \nfortunate man was hanged at all ? These ambigaious \ncircumstances, with the stranger's surprise and terror, \nmade Dominicus think of raising a hue and cry after \nhim, as an accomplice in the murder ; since a mmxler, \nit seemed, had really been perpetrated. \n\n\" But let the poor devil go,\" thought the pedlar. \n\" I don't want his black blood on my head ; and hang- \ning the nigger would n't unhang Mr. Higginbotham. \nUnhang the old gentleman ! It 's a sin, I know ; but \n\n\nMR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 133 \n\nI should hate to have liim come to life a second time, \nand give me the lie I \" \n\nWith these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into \nthe street of Parker's Falls, which, as everybody \nknows, is as thriving a Aollage as three cotton factories \nand a slitting mill can make it. The machinery was \nnot in motion, and but a few of the shop doors un- \nbarred, when he alighted in the stable yard of the \ntavern, and made it his first business to order the mare \nfour quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was \nto impart Mr. Higginbotham's catastrophe to the \nhostler. He deemed it advisable, however, not to be \ntoo positive as to the date of the direful fact, and also \nto be uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an \nIrishman and a midatto, or by the son of Erin alone. \nNeither did he profess to relate it on his own author- \nity, or that of any one person ; but mentioned it as a \nreport generally diffused. \n\nThe story ran through the town like fire among \ngirdled trees, and became so much the universal talk \nthat nobody eoidd tell whence it had originated. Mr. \nHigginbotham was as well known at Parker's Falls \nas any citizen of the place, being part owner of the \nslitting mill, and a considerable stockholder in the \ncotton factories. The inhabitants felt their owti pros- \nperity interested in his fate. Such was the excite- \nment, that the Parker's Falls Gazette anticipated its \nregular day of publication, and came out with haK a \nform of blank paper and a colmnn of double pica \nemphasized with capitals, and headed HORRID \nMURDER OF MR. HIGGINBOTHAM ! Among \nother dreadfid details, the printed account described \nthe mark of the cord round the dead man's neck, and \nstated the niunber of thousand dollars of which he \n\n\n134 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhad been robbed ; there was much pathos also about \nthe affliction of his niece, who had gone from one \nfainting fit to another, ever since her uncle was found \nhanging on the St. Michael's pear-tree with his pock- \nets inside out. The village poet likewise commemo- \nrated the yoimg lady's grief in seventeen stanzas of a \nballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and, in con- \nsideration of Mr. Higginbotham's claims on the town, \ndetermined to issue handbills, offering a reward of \nfive himdred dollars for the apprehension of his mur- \nderers, and the recovery of the stolen property. \n\nMeanwhile the whole popidation of Parker's Falls, \nconsistmg of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding- \nhouses, factory girls, millmen, and school- boys, rushed \ninto the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity \nas more than compensated for the silence of the cotton \nmachines, which refrained from their usual din out of \nrespect to the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham \ncared about postluunous renown, his untimely ghost \nwould have exulted in tliis timiidt. Our friend Do- \nminicus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended pre- \ncautions, and mounting on the town pmnp, announced \nhimseK as the bearer of the authentic intelligence \nwhich had caused so wonderfid a sensation. He im- \nmediately became the great man of the moment, \nand had just begun a new edition of the narrative, \nwith a voice like a field preacher, when the mail stage \ndrove into the village street. It had travelled all \nnight, and must have shifted horses at Kimballton, \nat three in the morning. \n\n\" Now we shall hear all the particidars,\" shouted \nthe crowd. \n\nThe coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, \nfollowed by a thousand people ; for if any man had \n\n\n3IR. HFGGINBOTHAiWS CATASTROPHE. 135 \n\nbeen minding liis own business till then, he now left \nit at sixes and sevens, to hear the news. The pedlar, \nforemost in the race, discovered two passengers, both \nof whom had been startled from a comfortable nap \nto fuid themselves in the centre of a mob. Every \nman assailing them with separate questions, all pro- \npomided at once, the couple were struck speechless, \nthough one was a lawyer and the other a young lady, \n\n\" Mr. Higginbotham ! Mr. Higginbotham ! Tell us \nthe particidars about old Mr. Higginbotham ! \" bawled \nthe mob. \" What is the coroner's verdict ? Are the \nmurderers apprehended ? Is Mr. Higginbotham's \nniece come out of her fainting fits ? Mr. Higgin- \nbotham ! Mr. Higgmbotham ! ! \" \n\nThe coachman said not a word, except to swear \nawfully at the hostler for not brmging him a fresh team \nof horses. The la^vyer inside had generally his wits \nabout him even when asleep ; the first thing he did, \nafter learning the cause of the excitement, was to pro- \nduce a large, red pocket-book. Meantime Dominicus \nPike, being an extremely polite yoimg man, and also \nsuspecting that a female tongue would tell the story \nas glibly as a lawyer's, had handed the lady out of the \ncoach. She was a fine, smart girl, now wide awake \nand bright as a button, and had such a sweet pretty \nmouth, that Dominicus would almost as lief have \nheard a love tale from it as a tale of murder. \n\n\" Gentlemen and ladies,\" said the lawyer to the \nshopkeepers, the milhnen, and the factory girls, \" I can \nassure you that some unaccountable mistake, or, more \nprobably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously contrived to \ninjure Mr. Higginbotham's credit, has excited this \nsingTilar uproar. We passed through Kimballton at \nthree o'clock this morning, and most certainly should \n\n\n136 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhave been informed of the murder had any been per- \npetrated. But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. \nHigginbotham's own oral testimony, in the negative. \nHere is a note relating to a suit of his in the Con- \nnecticut courts, which was delivered me from that \ngentleman himself. I find it dated at ten o'clock last \nevening.\" \n\nSo saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signa- \nture of the note, which irrefragably proved, either \nthat this perverse Mr- Higginbotham was alive when \nhe wrote it, or — as some deemed the more probable \ncase, of two doubtful ones — that he was so absorbed \nin worldly business as to continue to transact it even \nafter his death. But unexpected evidence was forth- \ncoming. The yovmg lady, after listening to the ped- \nlar's explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth \nher gown and put her curls in order, and then ap- \npeared at the tavern door, making a modest signal to \nbe heard. \n\n\" Good people,\" said she, \" I am Mr. Higginbot- \nham's niece.\" \n\nA wondering murmur passed through the crowd on \nbeholding her so rosy and bright ; that same unhappy \nniece, whom they had supposed, on the authority of \nthe Parker's Falls Gazette, to be lying at death's \ndoor in a fainting fit. But some shrewd fellows had \ndoubted, all along, whether a young lady woidd be \nquite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old imcle. \n\n\"You see,\" continued Miss Higginbotham, with a \nsmile, \" that this strange story is quite unfounded as \nto myself ; and I believe I may affirm it to be equally \nBO in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He \nhas the kindness to give me a home in his house, \nthough I contribute to my own support by teaching a \n\n\nMR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 137 \n\nschool. I left Kimballton tliis morning to spend tlia \nvacation of commencement week with a friend, about \nfive miles from Parker's Falls. My generous uncle, \nwhen he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bed- \nside, and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay \nmy stage fare, and another dollar for my extra ex- \npenses. He then laid his pocket-book under his pil- \nlow, shook hands with me, and advised me to take \nsome biscuit in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the \nroad. I feel confident, therefore, that I left my be- \nloved relative alive, and trust that I shall find him so \non my return.\" \n\nThe young lady courtesied at the close of her \nspeech, which was so sensible and well worded, and \ndelivered with such grace and propriety, that every- \nbody thought her fit to be preceptress of the best \nacademy in the State. But a stranger would have \nsupposed that Mr. Higginbotham was an object of ab- \nhorrence at Parker's Falls, and that a thanksgiving \nhad been proclaimed for his murder ; so excessive \nwas the wrath of the inhabitants on learning their \nmistake. The millmen resolved to bestow public hon- \nors on Dominions PUie, only hesitating whether to \ntar and feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh him \n■wdth an ablution at the towm pump, on the top of \nwhich he had declared himself the bearer of the news. \nThe selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spoke of pros- \necuting him for a misdemeanor, in circidating mi- \nfounded reports, to the great disturbance of the peace \nof the Commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus, \neither from mob law or a court of justice, but an \neloquent aj^peal made by the yoimg lady in his behalf. \nAddressing a few words of heartfelt gratitude to his \nbenefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out \n\n\n138 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof town, under a discharge of artillery from the school- \nboys, who found plenty of anmimiition in the neigh- \nboring clay-pits and mud holes. As he turned his \nhead to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. HQggin- \nbotham's niece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty \npudding, hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most \ngrim aspect. His whole person was so bespattered \nwith the like filthy missiles, that he had almost a mind \nto ride back, and supplicate for the threatened ablu- \ntion at the town pump ; for, though not meant in \nIdndness, it would now have been a deed of charity. \n\nHowever, the smi shone bright on poor Dominicus, \nand the mud, an emblem of all stains of imdeserved \nopprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry. Being \na funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up ; nor could \nhe refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar wliich \nhis story had excited. The handbills of the select- \nmen would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds \nin the State ; the paragraph in the Parker's Falls \nGazette would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, \nand perhaps form an item in the London newspapers ; \nand many a miser would tremble for his money bags \nand life, on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higgin- \nbotham. The pedlar meditated with much fervor on \nthe charms of the yomig schoolmistress, and swore \nthat Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so like \nan angel as Miss Higginbotham, while defending liim \nfrom the wratMul populace at Parker's Falls. \n\nDominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, \nhaving all along determined to visit that place, though \nbusiness had drawn hun out of the most direct road \nfrom Morristown. As he approached the scene of the \nsupposed murder, he continued to revolve the circum- \nstances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect \n\n\nMR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 139 \n\nwhich the whole case assumed. Had notliins: oc- \ncurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, \nit might now have been considered as a hoax ; but the \nyellow man was evidently acquainted either ^^ath the \nreport or the fact ; and there was a mystery in his dis- \nmayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. \nWhen, to this singidar combination of incidents, it \nwas added that the rumor tallied exactly with Mr. \nHigginbotham's character and habits of life ; and \nthat he had an orchard, and a St. Michael's pear-tree, \nnear which he always passed at nightfall : the circum- \nstantial evidence appeared so strong that Dominicus \ndoubted whether the autograph produced by the law- \nyer, or even the niece's direct testimony, ought to be \nequivalent. Making cautious inquiries along the road, \nthe pedlar further learned that Mr. Iligginbotham \nhad in his service an Irishman of doubtfid character, \nwhom he had hired without a recommendation, on the \nscore of economy. \n\n\" May I be hanged myself,\" exclaimed Dominicus \nPike aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, \" if \nI '11 believe old Higginbotham is unhanged till I see \nhim with my own eyes, and hear it from his own \nmouth ! And as he 's a real shaver, I '11 have the min- \nister or some other responsible man for an mdorser.\" \n\nIt was growing dusk v,^hen he reached the toll-house \non KinibaUton turnpike, about a quarter of a mUe \nfrom the village of this name. His little mare was fast \nbrmging liim up with a man on horseback, who trotted \nthrough the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded \nto the toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village. \nDominicus was acquainted ^vith the toUman, and, while \nmaking change, the usual remarks on the weather \npassed between them. \n\n\n140 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\"I suppose,\" said the pedlar, throwing back his \nwhiplash, to bring it do\\vii like a feather on the mare's \nflank, \" you have not seen anything of old Mr. Hig- \nginbotham witliin a day or two ? \" \n\n\" Yes,\" answered the toll-gatherer. \" He passed \nthe gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides \nnow, if you can see him through the dusk. He 's been \nto Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff's sale \nthere. The old man generally shakes hands and has \na little chat with me ; but to-night, he nodded, — as \nif to say, ' Charge my toll,' and jogged on ; for wher- \never he goes, he must always be at home by eight \no'clock.\" \n\n\" So they tell me,\" said Dominicus. \n\n\" I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the \nsquire does,\" continued the toll-gatherer. \" Says I to \nmyself, to-night, he 's more like a ghost or an old \nmummy than good flesh and blood.\" \n\nThe pedlar strained his eyes through the twilight, \nand could just discern the horseman now far ahead on \nthe village road. He seemed to recognize the rear of \nMr. Higginbotham ; but through the evening shadows, \nand amid the dust from the horse's feet, the figure ap- \npeared dim and misubstantial ; as if the shape of the \nmysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness \nand gray light. Dominicus shivered. \n\n\"Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other \nworld, by way of the Kimballton turnpike,\" thought \nhe. \n\nHe shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about \nthe same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, \ntill the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. \nOn reacliing this point, the pedlar no longer saw the \nman on horseback, but found himseK at the head of \n\n\n3IR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 141 \n\nthe village street, not far from a number of stores and \ntwo taverns, cliistered roimd the meeting-house steeple. \nOn liis left were a stone wall and a gate, the boimdary \nof a wood-lot, beyond wliich lay an orchard, farthei' \nstill, a mowing field, and last of all, a house. These \nwere the premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose dwell- \ning stood beside the old highway, but had been left \nin the backgroimd by the Kimballton turnpike. Do- \nminicus knew the place ; and the little mare stopped \nshort by instinct ; for he was not conscious of tighten- \ning the reins. \n\n\" For the soid of me, I cannot get by this gate ! \" \nsaid he, trembling. \" I never shall be my own man \nagain, till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging \non the St. Michael's pear-tree ! \" \n\nHe leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round \nthe gate post, and ran along the green path of the \nwood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just \nthen the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep \nstroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew \nfaster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of \nthe orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree. One great \nbranch stretched from the old contorted trunk across \nthe path, and threw the darkest shadow on that one \nspot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the \nbranch ! \n\nThe pedlar had never pretended to more courage \nthan befits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could \nhe account for his valor on this awfid emergency. \nCertain it is, however, that he rushed forward, pros- \ntrated a sturdy Irishman with the butt end of his \nwhip, and found — not indeed hanging on the St. Mi- \nchael's pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, ^\\ith a halter \nround his neck — the old, identical Mr. Higginbotham ! \n\n\n142 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" Mr. Higginbotham,\" said Dominicus tremulously, \n\" you 're an honest man, and I '11 take your word for \nit. Have you been hanged or not ? \" \n\nIf the riddle be not ali:gady guessed, a few words \nwill explain the simple machinery by which this \" com- \ning event \" was made to \" cast its shadow before.\" \nThree men had plotted the robbery and murder of \nMr. Higginbotham ; two of them, successively, lost \ncourage and fled, each delaying the crime one night \nby their disappearance ; the third was in the act of \nperpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the \ncall of fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared \nin the person of Dominicus Pike. \n\nIt only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took \nthe pedlar into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to \nthe pretty schoohnistress, and settled his whole prop- \nerty on their children, allowing themselves the inter- \nest. In due time, the old gentleman capped the climax \nof his favors, by dying a Christian death, in bed, since \nwhich melancholy event Dominicus Pike has removed \nfrom Kimballton, and established a large tobacco \nmanufactory in my native village. \n\n\nLITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. \n\nDing-dong ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! \n\nThe town crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, \nand little Annie stands on her father's doorsteps, try- \ning to hear what the man with the loud voice is talk- \ning about. Let me listen too. Oh, he is telling the \npeople that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal tiger, \nand a horse with horns, and other strange beasts from \nforeign countries, have come to towTi, and will receive \nall visitors who choose to wait upon them. Perhaps \nlittle Annie would like to go. Yes ; and I can see \nthat the pretty child is weary of this vnde and pleasant \nstreet, with the green trees flinging their shade across \nthe quiet simshine, and the pavements and the side- \nwalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept \nthem with her broom. She feels that impulse to go \nstrolling away — that longing after the mystery of the \ngreat world — wliicli many children feel, and which I \nfelt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take a ram- \nble with me. See ! I do but hold out my hand, and, \nlike some bright bird in the simny air, with her blue \nsilk frock fluttering upwards from her white pantalets, \nshe comes bounding on tiptoe across the street. \n\nSmooth back your browTi ciu-ls, Annie ; and let me \ntie on your bonnet, and we will set forth I What a \nstrange couple to go on their rambles together! One \nwalks in black attire, with a measured step, and a \nheavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down ; while \nthe gay little girl trips lightly along, as if she were \n\n\n144 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nforced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet should \ndance away froni the earth. Yet there is sympathy \nbetween us. If I pride myself on anything, it is be- \ncause I have a smile that children love : and. on the \nother hand, there are few orro\\rn ladies that could \nentice me from the side of Httle Annie : for I delight \nto let mv mind go hand in hand with the mind of a \nsinless child. So. come. Annie : but if I moralise as \nwe go. do not listen to me ; only look about you. and \nbe merry! \n\nXow we turn the comer. Here are hacks with two \nhorses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to \nmeet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a \nslower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the \nwharves, and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will \nbe smashed to piec-es before oxrr eyes. Hitherward. \nalso, comes a ttiati trundling a wheelbarrow along the \npavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a tu- \nmult ? Xo; she does not even shrink closer to my \nside, but passes on with fearless c-onfidenc-e. a happy \nchild anudst a great throng of grown people, who pay \nthe same reverenc-e to her infancy that they would to \nextreme old age. Xobody jostles her : ail turn aside \nto make wav for little Annie : and what is most sin- \ngnlar. she appears conscious of her claim to such re- \nspect. Xow her eyes brighten with pleasure ! A street \nmusieian has seated himself on the steps of yonder \nchurch, and pours forth his strains to the busy town. \na melody that ha.^ gone astray among the tramp of \nf«»tsteps. the buzz of voices, and the war of passing \nwheels. \\N ho heeds the poor organ grinder? Xone \nbut mvself and Kttle Annie, whose feet begin to move \nin unison with the lively tone, as if she were loath \ntiiat music should be wasted withotrt a danc-e. Bat \n\n\nLITTLE AXXIE\\S RAMBLE. 145 \n\nwhere would Annie find a partner? Some have the \ngout in their toes, or the rhexunatism in their joints ; \nsome are stiff with age : some feeble with disease ; \nsome are so lean that their bones would rattle, and \nothers of such ponderous size that their agility would \ncrack the flagstones: but many, many have leaden \nfeet, because their hearts are far heavier than lead. \nIt is a sad thought that I have chanced upon. What \na company of dancers should we be ! For I. too. am \na gentleman of sober footsteps, and therefore, little \nAnnie, let us walk sedatelv on. \n\nIt is a question with me. whether this giddy child \nor my sage self have most pleasure in looking at the \nshop windows. We love the silks of sunny hue. that \nglow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry \ngoods\" men ; we are pleasantly dazzled by the bur- \nnished silver and the chased gold, the rings of wed- \nlock and the costly love ornaments, glistening at the \nwindow of the jeweller : but Annie, more than L seeks \nfor a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty look- \niag-glasses at the hardware stores. All that is bright \nand ffav attracts us both. \n\nHere is a shop to which the recollections of my boy- \nhood, as well as present partialities, give a peculiar \nmagic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on the \ndainties of a confectioner : those pies, with such white \nand flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether \nrich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant \napple, delicately rose flavored : those cakes, heart- \nshaped or round, piled iu a lofty pyramid : those sweet \nlittie circlets, sweetiy named kisses : those dark majes- \ntic masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding of \nan heiress, moimtains in size, their summits deeply \nsnow-covered with sugar I Then the mighty treasures \n\nTOL. I. 10 \n\n\n146 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof sugar-plums, white and crimson and yellow, In \nlarge glass vases ; and candy of all varieties ; and \nthose little cockles, or whatever they are called, much \nprized by children for their sweetness, and more for \nthe mottoes which they inclose, by love-sick maids and \nbachelors! Oh, my mouth waters, little Annie, and so \ndoth yours ; but we will not be tempted, except to an \nimaginary feast ; so let us hasten onward, devouring \nthe vision of a plmn cake. \n\nHere are pleasures, as some people woidd say, of a \nmore exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. Is \nAnnie a literary lady ? Yes ; she is deeply read in \nPeter Parley's tomes, and has an increasing love for \nfairy tales, though seldom met with- nowadays, and \nshe will subscribe, next year, to the Juvenile Miscel- \nlany. But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from \nthe printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pict- \nures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this \nshop window the continual loitering-place of children. \nWhat wovdd Annie think if, in the book which I \nmean to send her on New Year's Day, she should find \nher sweet little seK, boimd up in silk or morocco with \ngilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman \ngrown, with cliildren of her own to read about their \nmother's childhood ! That would be very queer. \n\nLittle Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me on- \nward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the most \nwondrous shop in all the town. Oh, my stars ! Is this \na toyshop, or is it fairyland? For here are gilded \nchariots, in which the king and queen of the fairies \nmight ride side by side, wliile their courtiers, on these \nsmall horses, should gallop in trimnphal procession \nbefore and behind the royal pair. Here, too, are \ndishes of china ware, fit to be the dining set of those \n\n\nLITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 147 \n\nsame princely personages, when they make a regal \nbanquet in the stateliest hall of their palace, full fivo \nfeet high, and behold their nobles feasting adown the \nlong perspective of the table. Betwixt the king and \nqueen should sit my little Annie, the prettiest fairy of \nthem all. Here stands a turbaned turk, threatening \nus with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he is. And \nnext a Chinese mandarin, who nods his head at Annie \nand myself. Here we may review a whole army of \nhorse and foot, in red and blue miiforms, wth driuns, \nfifes, trumpets, and all kinds of noiseless music ; they \nhave halted on the shelf of this window, after their \nweary march from Liliput. But what cares Annie for \nsoldiers ? No conquering queen is she, neither a Se- \nmiramis nor a Catharine ; her whole heart is set upon \nthat doll, who gazes at us with such a fashionable stare. \nThis is the little girl's true plaything. Though made \nof wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage, \nendowed by childish fancy with a peculiar life ; the \nmimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a \nsufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhab- \nitant of that wild world with which children ape the \nreal one. Little Annie does not understand what I \nam saying, but looks wishfidly at the proud lady in \nthe window. We wilt invite her home with us as we \nreturn. Meantime, good-by. Dame Doll ! A toy your- \nself, you look forth from your window upon many \nladies that are also toys, though they walk and speak, \nand upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear \ngTave visages. Oh, with your never closing eyes, had \nyou but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before \nthem, what a wise doll would you be ! Come, little \nAnnie, we shall find toys enough, go where we may. \nNow we elbow our way among the throng again. \n\n\n148 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nIt is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to \nmeet with living creatvires that had their birthplace in \nsome far solitude, but have acquired a second nature \nin the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that \ncanary bird, hangmg out of the window in his cage. \nPoor little fellow! His golden feathers are all tar- \nnished in this smoky sunshine; he would have glis- \ntened twice as brightly among the siunmer islands; \nbut still he has become a citizen in all his tastes and \nhabits, and would not sing half so well mthout the iip- \nroar that drowns his music. What a pity that he does \nnot know how miserable he is ! There is a parrot, too, \ncalling out, \" Pretty Poll ! Pretty Poll ! \" as we pass \nby. Foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness \nto strangers, especially as she is not a pretty Poll, \nthough gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If she \nhad said \"Pretty Annie,\" there would have been \nsome sense in it. See that gray squirrel, at the door \nof the fruit shop, whirling round and round so merrily \nwithin his wire wheel I Being condemned to the tread- \nmill, he makes it an amusement. Admirable philos- \nophy! \n\nHere comes a big, rough dog, a coimtrjTnan's dog, \nin search of liis master ; smelling at everybody's heels, \nand touching little Annie's hand vAth his cold nose, \nbut hurrying away, though she would fain have patted \nhim. Success to your search. Fidelity! And there \nsits a great yellow cat upon a window sill, a very cor- \npulent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory \nworld, with owl's eyes, and making pithy comments, \ndoubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. O, \nsage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will \nbe a pair of philosophers ! \n\nHere we see something to remind us of the town \n\n\nLITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 149 \n\ncrier, and his ding-dong' bell I Look ! look at that \ngreat cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over \nwith wdld beasts, as if they had met together to choose \na king, according to their custom in the days of ^Esop. \nBut they are choosing neither a long nor a president, \nelse we shoidd hear a most horrible snarling ! They \nhave come from the deep woods, and the wild moim- \ntains, and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only \nto do homage to my little Annie. As we enter among \nthem, the great elephant makes us a bow, in the best \nstyle of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his \nmountain bulk, with trunk abased, and leg thrust out \nbehind. Annie returns the salute, much to the gratifi- \ncation of the elephant, who is certainly the best-bred \nmonster in the caravan. The lion and the lioness are \nbusy with two beef bones. The royal tiger, the beauti- \nfid, the imtamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with \na haughty step, unmindful of the spectators, or recall- \ning the fierce deeds of his former life, when he was \nwont to leap forth upon such inferior animals from \nthe jmigles of Bengal, \n\nHere we see the very same wolf — do not go near \nhim, Annie ! — the seKsame wolf that devoured little \nRed Riding Hood and her grandmother. In the next \ncage, a hyena from Egyj^t, who has doubtless howled \naroimd the pyramids, and a black bear from our own \nforests, are fellow-prisoners, and most excellent friends. \nAre there any two living creatures who have so few \nsympathies that they cannot possibly be friends ? \nHere sits a great white bear, whom common observers \nwoidd call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him \nto be only absorbed in contemplation ; he is tliinking \nof his voyages on an iceberg, and of Ms comfortable \nhome in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the lit- \n\n\n150 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ntie cubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. \nIn fact, he is a bear of sentiment. But, oh, those un- \nsentimental monkeys ! the ugly, grinning, aping, chat- \ntering, ill-natured, mischievous, and queer little brutes. \nAnnie does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness \nshocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and \nmakes her mind luiquiet, because it bears a wild and \ndark resemblance to humanity. But here is a little \npony, just big enough for Annie to ride, and round \nand roimd he gallops in a circle, keeping time with \nhis trampling hoofs to a band of music. And here — \nwith a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding whip \nin his hand — here comes a little gentleman, small \nenough to be king of the fairies, and ugly enough to \nbe king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the \nsaddle. Merrily, merrily plays the music, and mer- \nrily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old \ngentleman. Come, Annie, into the street agam ; per- \nchance we may see monkeys on horseback there ! \n\nMercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people \nlive in ! Did Annie ever read the Cries of London \nCity ? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man pro- \nclaim that liis wheelbarrow is fidl of lobsters ! Here \ncomes another moimted on a cart, and blowing a \nhoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as \nto say \" Fresh fish ! \" And hark ! a voice on high, \nlike that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, \nannouncing that some chimney sweeper has emerged \nfrom smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the \nupper air. What cares the world for that ? But, \nwelladay, we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the \nscream of a little child, rising louder with every repe- \ntition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced \nby an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, \n\n\nLITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 151 \n\nthough without experience of such direful woe. Lo ! \nthe town crier again, with some new secret for the \npublic ear. Will he teU us of an auction, or of a lost \npocket-book, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of \nsome monstrous beast more horrible than any in the \ncaravan ? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the \nbell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, \nthen with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to \nstrike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered \nforth in quick succession, far and near. \n\nDing-dong ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! \n\nNow he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the \ndin of the town ; it drowns the buzzing talk of many \ntongues, and draws each man's mind from his own \nbusiness ; it rolls up and down the echoing street, \nand ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and \npenetrates downward to the cellar kitchen, where the \nhot cook turns from the fire to listen. Who, of all \nthat address the public ear, whether in church, or \ncourt-house, or hall of state, has such an attentive \naudience as the town crier ? What said the people's \norator ? \n\n\" Strayed from her home, a little girl, of five \nyears old, in a blue silk frock and wliite pantalets, \nwith brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever \nwill bring her back to her afflicted mother \" — \n\nStop, stop, town crier ! The lost is foimd. O, my \npretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our \nramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the towTi \ncrier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting \nold and yoimg, for the loss of a little girl who has not \nonce let go my hand ? Well, let us hasten homeward ; \nand as we go, forget not to thank Heaven, my Annie, \nthat, after wandering a little way into the world, you \n\n\n152 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmay return at the first summons, with an imtainted \nand unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. \nBut I have gone too far astray for the town crier to \ncall me back. \n\nSweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, \nthroughout my ramble with little Annie ! Say not \nthat it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle \nmatter, a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of \nchildish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a \ngrown man's notice. Has it been merely this ? Not \nso ; not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm \nit. As the pure breath of children revives the life of \naged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free \nand simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy \nmirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused \nand soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least \nreciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is \nahnost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, \nthough it seems but as yesterday ; when life settles \ndarkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call \nourselves yoimg any more, then it is good to steal \naway from the society of bearded men, and even of \ngentler woman, and spend an hour or t«^o wdth chil- \ndren. After drkiking from those foimtains of still \nfresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I \ndo now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, \nperliaps as fervently as ever, but, for a tiaie, mth a \nkinder and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. \nAH this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie ! \n\n\nWAKEFIELD. \n\nIn some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a \nstory, told as truth, of a man — let us call him Wake- \nfield — who absented himself for a long time from his \nwife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very- \nuncommon, nor — without a proper distinction of cir- \ncxunstances — to be condemned either as naughty or \nnonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most \naggravated, is perhaps the strangest, instance on rec- \nord, of marital delinquency ; and, moreover, as re- \nmarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of \nhuman oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. \nThe man, under pretence of going a journey, took \nlodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, \nunheard of by his wife or friends, and without the \nshadow of a reason for such seK-banishment, dwelt \nupwards of twenty years. During that period, he be- \nheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn \nMrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his \nmatrimonial felicity — when his death was reckoned \ncertain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from \nmemory, and liis wife, long, long ago, resigned to her \nautimmal widowhood — he entered the door one even- \ning, quietly, as from a day's absence, and became a \nlox^ing spouse till death. \n\nThis outline is all that I remember. But the inci- \ndent, though of the purest originality, imexampled, \nand probably never to be repeated, is one, I think, \nwhich appeals to the generous sympathies of mankind. \n\n\n154 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nWe know, each for himself, that none of us would \nperpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might. \nTo my own contemplations, at least, it has often re- \ncurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that \nthe story must be true, and a conception of its hero's \ncharacter. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects \nthe mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the \nreader choose, let him do his own meditation ; or if he \nprefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of \nWakefield's vagary, I bid him welcome ; trusting that \nthere will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even \nshould we fail to find them, done up neatly, and con- \ndensed into the final sentence. Thought has always its \nefficacy, and every striking incident its moral. \n\nWhat sort of a man was Wakefield ? We are free \nto shape out our own idea, and call it by his name. \nHe was now in the meridian of life ; his matrimonial \naffections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, \nhabitual sentiment ; of all husbands, he was likely to \nbe the most constant, because a certain sluggishness \nwould keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be \nplaced. He was intellectual, but not actively so ; his \nmind occupied itseK in long and lazy musings, that \nended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it ; \nhis thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold \nof words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the \nterm, made no part of Wakefield's gifts. With a \ncold but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a \nmind never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor per- \nplexed with originality, who coidd have anticipated \nthat our friend would entitle himself to a foremost \nplace among the doers of eccentric deeds ? Had his \nacquaintances been asked, who was the man in Lon- \ndon the surest to perform nothing to-day which should \n\n\nWAKEFIELD. 155 \n\nbe remembered on the morrow, they woiild have \nthought of Wakefield. Only the wife of his bosom \nmight have hesitated. She, without having analyzed \nhis character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness, \nthat had rusted into his inactive mind ; of a peculiar \nsort of vanity, the most luieasy attribute about him ; \nof a disposition to craft, which had seldom produced \nmore positive effects than the keeping of petty se- \ncrets, hardly worth revealing ; and, lastly, of what she \ncalled a little strangeness, sometimes, in the good man, \nTliis latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps non-ex- \nistent. \n\nLet us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his \nwife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His \nequipment is a drab great-coat, a hat covered with an \noilcloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a \nsmall portmanteau in the other. He has informed \nMrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night coach into \nthe country. She woidd fain inquire the length of \nhis journey, its object, and the probable time of his \nreturn ; but, indidgent to his harmless love of mystery, \ninterrogates liim only by a look. He tells her not to \nexpect him positively by the return coach, nor to be \nalarmed should he tarry three or four days ; but, at \nall events, to look for him at supper on Friday even- \ning. Wakefield himself, be it considered, has no sus- \npicion of what is before him. He holds out his hand, \nshe gives her own, and meets his parting kiss in the \nmatter-of-coiu'se way of a ten years' matrimony ; and \nforth goes the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost re- \nsolved to perjDlex his good lady by a whole week's ab- \nsence. After the door has closed behind him, she \nperceives it thrust partly open, and a vision of her \nhusband's face, through the aperture, smding on her, \n\n\n156 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand gone in a moment. For the time, this little inci- \ndent is dismissed without a thought. But, long after- \nwards, when she has been more years a widow than a \nwife, that smile recurs, and flickers across all her rem- \niniscences of Wakefield's visage. In her many mus- \nings, she surrounds the original smile with a multi- \ntude of fantasies, which make it strange and a^vful : \nas, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that \nparting look is frozen on his pale features ; or, if she \ndreams of him in heaven, still his blessed spirit wears \na quiet and crafty smile. Yet, for its sake, when aU \nothers have given him up for dead, she sometimes \ndoubts whether she is a widow. \n\nBut our business is with the husband. We must \nhurry after him along the street, ere he lose his indi- \nviduality, and melt into the great mass of London \nHfe. It would be vain searching for him there. Let \nus follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after sev- \neral superfluous turns and doublings, we find him com- \nfortably established by the fireside of a small apart- \nment;, previously bespoken. He is in the next street \nto his own, and at liis journey's end.. He can scarcely \ntrust his good fortune, in having got thither luiper- \nceived — recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed \nby the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern ; \nand, again, there were footsteps that seemed to tread \nbehind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp \naround him ; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting \nafar, and fancied that it called liis name. Doubtless, \na dozen busybodies had been watching him, and told \nhis wife the whole affair. Poor Wakefield ! Little \nknowest thou tliine own insignificance in this great \nworld ! No mortal eye but mme Has traced thee. \nGo quietly to thy bed, foolish man; and, on the mor- \n\n\nWAKEFIELD. 157 \n\nrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. \nWakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thy- \nself, even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste \nbosom. Were she, for a single moment, to deem thee \ndead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou \nwouldst be wofidly conscious of a change in thy true \nwife forever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in \nhmnan affections ; not that they gape so long and \nwide — but so quickly close again I \n\nAlmost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may \nbe termed, Wakefield lies dowoi betimes, and starting \nfrom his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide \nand solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. \" No,\" — \nthinks he, gathering the bedclothes about him, — \"I \nwlQ not sleep alone another night.\" \n\nIn the morning he rises earher than usual, and sets \nhimself to consider what he really means to do. Such \nare his loose and rambling modes of thought that he \nhas taken this very smgidar step with the conscious- \nness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to \ndefine it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The \nvagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with \nwhich he pltmges into the execution of it, are equally \ncharacteristic of a feeble-minded man. AVakefield sifts \nhis ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and finds \nhimself curious to know the progress of matters at \nhome — how his exemplary wife will endure her widow- \nhood of a week ; and, briefly, how the little sphere of \ncreatures and circumstances, in which he was a central \nobject, wdl be affected by his removal. A morbid \nvanitj^ therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. \nBut, how is he to attain his ends? Not, certainly, \nby keeping close in this comfortable lodging, where, \nthough he slept and awoke in the next street to his \n\n\n158 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhome, lie is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach \nhad been whirling him away all night. Yet, should \nhe reappear, the whole project is knocked m the head. \nHis poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with this di- \nlemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to \ncross the head of the street, and send one hasty glance \ntowards his forsaken domicile. Habit — for he is a \nman of habits — takes him by the hand, and guides \nhim, wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just at \nthe critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of \nhis foot upon the step. Wakefield ! whither are you \ngoing? \n\nAt that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. \nLittle dreaming of the doom to which his first back- \nward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless \nwith agitation hitherto imfelt, and hardly dares turn \nhis head at the distant corner. Can it be that nobody \ncaught sight of him ? Will not the whole household \n— the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid servant, \nand the dirty little footboy — raise a hue and cry, \nthrough London streets, in pursuit of their fugitive \nlord and master ? Wonderful escape ! He gathers \ncourage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed \nwith a sense of change about the familiar edifice, such \nas affects us all, when, after a separation of months or \nyears, we again see some hill or lake, or work of art, \nwith which we were friends of old. In ordinary cases, \nthis indescribable impression is caused by the compar- \nison and contrast between our imperfect reminiscences \nand the reality. In Wakefield, the magic of a single \nnight has wrought a similar transformation, because, \nin that brief period, a gTeat moral change has been \neffected. But this is a secret from himself. Before \nleaving the spot, he catches a far and momentary \n\n\nWAKEFIELD. 159 \n\nglimpse of his wife, passing athwart the front window, \nwith her face turned towards the head of the street. \nThe crafty nincompoop takes to liis heels, scared mth \nthe idea that, among a thousand such atoms of mor- \ntality, her eye must have detected him. Right glad is \nhis heart, though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when \nhe finds hunself by the coal fire of his lodgings. \n\nSo much for the commencement of this long wliim- \nwham. After the initial conception, and the stirring \nup of the man's sluggish temperament to put it in \npractice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural \ntrain. We may suppose him, as the result of deep \ndeliberation, bujdng a new wig, of reddish hair, and \nselecting sundry garments, in a fashion imlike his cus- \ntomary suit of brown, from a Jew's old-clothes bag. \nIt is accomplished. Wakefield is another man. The \nnew system being now established, a retrograde move- \nment to the old would be almost as difficult as the step \nthat placed him in his unparalleled position. Further- \nmore, he is rendered obstinate by a sidkiness occasion- \nally incident to his temper, and brought on at present \nby the inadequate sensation wliich he conceives to \nhave been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. \nHe will not go back until she be frightened half to \ndeath. Well ; twice or thrice has she passed before \nhis sight, each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, \nand more anxious brow ; and in the third week of his \nnon-appearance he detects a portent of evil entering \nthe house, in the giiise of an apothecary. Next day \nthe knocker is muffled. Towards nightfall comes the \nchariot of a physician, and deposits its big-wigged and \nsolemn burden at Wakefield's door, whence, after a \nquarter of an home's visit, he emerges, perchance the \nherald of a f imeral. Dear woman ! Will she die ? \n\n\n160 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nBy this time, Wakefield is excited to sometliing like \nenergy of feeling, but still lingers away from his wife's \nbedside, pleading with his conscience that she must \nnot be disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else re- \nstrains him, he does not know it. In the course of a \nfew weeks she gradually recovers ; the crisis is over ; \nher heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet ; and, let liim re- \nturn soon or late, it will never be feverish for him \nagain. Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wake- \nfield's mind, and render him indistinctly conscious \nthat an almost impassable gulf divides his hired apart- \nment from his former home. \" It is but in the next \nstreet ! \" he sometimes says. Fool ! it is in another \nworld. Hitherto, he has put off his return from one \nparticular day to another ; henceforward, he leaves the \nprecise time undetermined. Not to-morrow — prob- \nably next week — pretty soon. Poor man ! The dead \nhave nearly as much chance of revisiting their eartlily \nhomes as the self-banished Wakefield. \n\nWould that I had a folio to write, instead of an \narticle of a dozen pages ! Then might I exemplify \nhow an influence beyond our control lays its strong \nhand on every deed which we do, and weaves its con- \nsequences into an iron tissue of necessity. Wakefield \nis speU-boimd. We must leave him, for ten years or \nso, to haunt around his house, without once crossing \nthe threshold, and to be faithfid to liis wife, with all \nthe affection of which his heart is capable, while he is \nslowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be re- \nmarked, he had lost the perception of singularity in \nhis condvict. \n\nNow for a scene ! Amid the throng of a London \nstreet we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with \nfew characteristics to attract careless observers, yet \n\n\nWAKEFIELD. 161 \n\nbearing, in his whole aspect, the handwriting of no \ncommon fate, for such as have the skill to read it. He \nis meagi-e ; his low and narrow forehead is deeply- \nwrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes \nwander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to \nlook inward. He bends his head, and moves with an \nindescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to dis- \nplay his full front to the world. Watch him long \nenough to see what we have described, and you will \nallow that circmnstances — which often produce re- \nmarkable men from nature's ordinary handiwork — \nhave produced one such here. Next, leaving him to \nsidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite \ndirection, where a portly female, considerably in the \nwane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is pro- \nceeding to yonder church. She has the placid mien of \nsettled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away, \nor have become so essential to her heart, that they \nwould be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the lean \nman and well-conditioned woman are passing, a slight \nobstruction occurs, and brings these two figures di- \nrectly in contact. Their hands touch ; the pressure of \nthe crowd forces her bosom against liis shoulder ; they \nstand, face to face, staring into each other's eyes. Af- \nter a ten years' separation, thus Wakefield meets his \nwife ! \n\nThe throng eddies away, and carries them asunder. \nThe sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds \nto church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a per- \nplexed glance along the street. She jDasses in, how- \never, opening her prayer-book as she goes. And the \nman ! with so wild a face that busy and selfish Lon- \ndon stands to gaze after him, he hurries to his lodgings, \nbolts the door, and throws himself upon the bed. The \n\nVOL. I. 11 \n\n\n162 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nlatent feelings of years break out ; his feeble mind ac- \nquires a brief energy from their strength ; all the mis- \nerable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a \nglance : and he cries out, passionately, \" Wakefield ! \nWakefield ! You are mad ! \" \n\nPerhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation \nmust have so moulded him to himself, that, considered \nin regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of \nlife, he could not be said to possess his right mind. \nHe had contrived, or rather he had happened, to dis- \nsever himself from the world — to vanish — to give \nup his place and privileges with living men, without \nbeing admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit \nis nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the \ncity, as of old ; but the crowd swept by and saw him \nnot ; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside his \nwife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth \nof the one nor the affection of the other. It was \nWakefield's unprecedented fate to retain his original \nshare of human sympathies, and to be still involved m \nhmnan interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influ- \nence on them. It would be a most curious speculation \nto trace out the effect of such circumstances on his \nheart and intellect, separately, and in unison. Yet, \nchanged as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it, \nbut deem himself the same man as ever ; glimpses of \nthe truth, indeed, woidd come, but only for the mo- \nment ; and still he wovQd keep saying, \" I shall soon \ngo back!\" — nor reflect that he had been saying so \nfor twenty years. \n\nI conceive, also, that these twenty years would ap- \npear, in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week \nto which Wakefield had at first limited his absence. \nHe would look on the affair as no more than an inter- \n\n\nWAKEFIELD. 163 \n\nhide in the main business of liis life. When, after a \nlittle while more, he should deem it time to reenter liis \nparlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on be- \nholding the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what \na mistake ! Woidd Time but await the close of our \nfavorite follies, we shoidd be young men, all of us, and \ntill Doomsday. \n\nOne evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, \nWakefield is taking his customary walk towards the \ndwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty \nnight of autumn, with frequent showers that patter \ndown upon the pavement, and are gone before a man \ncan put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house, \nWakefield discerns, through the parlor windows of the \nsecond floor, the red glow and the glimmer and fitful \nflash of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a \ngrotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, \nthe nose and chin, and the broad waist, form an ad- \nmirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the \nup-flickering and down-sinking blaze, almost too mer- \nrily for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant \na shower chances to fall, and is driven, by the miman- \nnerly gust, full into Wakefield's face and bosom. He \nis quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he \nstand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth has \na good fii'e to warm him, and his own wife \\vill rim to \nfetch the gray coat and small-clothes, wliich, doubtless, \nshe has kept carefully in the closet of their bed cham- \nber ? No ! Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends \nthe steps — heavily ! — for twenty years have stiffened \nhis legs since he came down — but he knows it not. \nStay, Wakefield ! Would you go to the sole home \nthat is left you ? Then step into your grave ! The \ndoor opens. As he passes in, we have a parting \n\n\n164 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nglimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile, \nwhich was the precursor of the little joke that he has \never since been playing off at his wife's expense. How \nunmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well, a \ngood night's rest to Wakefield ! \n\nThis happy event — supposing it to be such — could \nonly have occurred at an impremeditated moment. \nWe will not follow our friend across the threshold. \nHe has left us much food for thought, a portion of \nwhich shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped \ninto a figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our \nmysterious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to \na system, and systems to one another and to a whole, \nthat, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes \nhimself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. \nLike Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the Out- \ncast of the Universe. \n\n\nA RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. \n\n^ Scene — the corner of two principal streets.^ The Town Pump \ntalking through its nose.) \n\nNoon, by the North clock! Noon, by the east! \nHigh noon, too, by these hot sunbeams which fall, \nscarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the \nwater bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. \nTruly, we public characters have a tough time of it ! \nAnd, among all the town officers, chosen at March \nmeeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year, \nthe burden of such manifold duties as are imposed, \nin perpetuity, upon the Town Pump ? The title of \n\" town treasurer \" is rightfully mine, as guardian of \nthe best treasure that the town has. The overseers of \nthe poor ought to make me their chairman, since I \nprovide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to \nhim that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire de- \npartment, and one of the physicians to the board of \nhealth. As a keeper of the peace, all water drinkers \nwill confess me equal to the constable. I perform \nsome of the duties of the town clerk, by promulgating \npublic notices, when they are posted on my front. To \nspeak within bounds, I am the chief person of the \nmunicipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pat- \ntern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady, up- \nright, downright, and impartial discharge of my busi- \nness, and the constancy with wliich I stand to my post. \nSummer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain ; for, all \n1 Essex and Washington Streets, Salem. \n\n\n\"^^6 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nday long, I am seen at the busiest comer, just above \nthe market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor \nalike ; and at night, I hold a lantern over my head, \nboth to show where I am, and keep people out of the \ngutters. \n\nAt this sidtry noontide, I am cupbearer to the \nparched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is \nchained to my waist. Like a dram seller on the mall, \nat muster day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my \nplainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice : \nHere it is, gentlemen ! Here is the good liquor ! \nWalk vip, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! \nHere is the superior stuff ! Here is the unadulterated \nale of father Adam — better than Cognac, Hollands, \nJamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price ; here it is, \nby the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to \npay ! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help your- \nselves ! \n\nIt were a pity if all this outcry should draw no \ncustomers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen ! \nQuaff, and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a \nnice cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another \ncupful, to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as \ntliick there as it is on your cowhide shoes. I see that \nyou have trudged half a score of miles to-day ; and, \nlike a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and \nstopped at the nmning brooks and well curbs. Other- \nwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would \nhave been burned to a cinder, or melted down to noth- \ning at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and \nmake room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to \nquench the fiery fever of last night's potations, which \nhe drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most \nrubicund sir ! You and I have been great strangers, \n\n\nI \n\n\nA RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 167 \n\nhitherto ; nor, to confess the truth, ^vill my nose be \nanxious for a closer intimacy, till the fiunes of your \nbreath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the \nwater absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and \nis converted quite to steam in the miniature tophet \nwhich you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and \ntell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, \nin cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram shop, spend \nthe price of your children's food for a swig half so \ndelicious? Now, for the first time these ten years, \nyou know the flavor of cold water. Good-by ; and, \nwhenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a \nconstant supply at the old stand. Who next? O, \nmy little friend, you are let loose from school, and \ncome hither to scrub your blooming fac^ and drown \nthe memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other \nschool-boy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pimip. \nTake it, pure as the current of your yomig life. Take \nit, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched \nwith a fiercer thirst than now ! There, my dear child, \nput down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly \ngentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving- \nstones, that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. \nWhat ! he limps by, without so much as thanking me, \nas if my hospitable offers were meant only for people \nwho have no wine cellars. Well, well, sir — no harm \ndone, I hope ! Go draw the cork, tip the decanter ; \nbut, when your gTcat toe shall set you a-roaring, it \nwill be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleas- \nant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town \nPmnp. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling \nout, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on liis \nhind legs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See \nhow lightly he capers away again ! Jowler, did your \nworship ever have the gout ? \n\n\n168 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nAre you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, \nmy good friends ; and, while my spout has a moment's \nleisure, I will delight the town with a few historical \nreminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome \nshadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of \nthe leaf-strewn earth, in the very spot where you now \nbehold me, on the sunny pavement. The water was \nas bright and clear, and deemed as precious, as liquid \ndiamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of it from \ntime immemorial, till the fatal deluge of the fire water \nburst upon the red men, and swept their whole race \naway from the cold fountains. Endicott and his fol- \nlowers came next, and often knelt down to drink, dip- \nping their long beards in the spring. The richest \ngoblet, then, was of birch bark. Governor Winthrop, \nafter a journey afoot from Boston, drank here, out of \nthe hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here \nwet his palm, and laid it on the brow of the first town- \nborn child. For many years it was the watering-place, \nand, as it were, the washbowl of the vicinity — whither \nall decent folks resorted, to purify their visages and \ngaze at them afterwards — at least the pretty maidens \ndid — in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath days, \nwhenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled \nhis basin here, and placed it on the communion table \nof the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the \nsite of yonder stately brick one. Thus, one generation \nafter another was consecrated to Heaven by its waters, \nand cast their waxing and waning shadows into its \nglassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mor- \ntal life were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally, \nthe foiuitain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all \nsides, and cartloads of gravel flung upon its source, \nwhence oozed a turbid stream, forming a mud puddle, \n\n\nA RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 169 \n\nat the corner of two streets. In the hot months, when \nits refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in \nclouds over the forgotten birthplace of the waters, now \ntheir grave. But, in the course of time, a Town Pump \nwas simk into the source of the ancient spring ; and \nwhen the first decayed, another took its place — and \nthen another, and still another — till here stand I, \ngentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. \nDrink, and be refreshed ! The water is as pure and \ncold as that wliicli slaked the thirst of the red sagamore \nbeneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the \nwilderness is treasured imder these hot stones, where \nno shadow falls but from the brick buildings. And \nbe it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted and \nlong-lost fomitain is now known and prized again, so \nshall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since \nyour fathers' days, be recognized by all. \n\nYour pardon, good people ! I must interrupt my \nstream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of \nwater, to replenish the trough for this teamster and \nhis two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, \nor somewhere along that way. No part of my busi- \nness is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look ! \nhow rapidly they lov/er the watermark on the sides of \nthe trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened \nwith a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time \nto breathe it in, with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now \nthey roll their quiet eyes aroimd the brim of their \nmonstrous drinking vessel. An ox is your true toper. \n\nBut I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are im- \npatient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, \nI beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a \nlittle longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifa- \nrious merits. It is altogether for your good. The \n\n\n170 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbetter you think of me, the better men and women \nwill you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my \nall-important aid on washing days ; though, on that \naccount alone, I might call myself the household god \nof a hundred families. Far be it from me also to hint, \nmy respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces \nwhich you woxdd present, without my pains to keep \nyou clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when \nthe midnight bells make you tremble for your combus- \ntible town, you have fled to the Town Pmnp, and \nfoimd me always at my post, firm amid the confusion, \nand ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. \nNeither is it worth while to lay much stress on my \nclaims to a medical dijjloma, as the physician whose \nsimple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous \nlore which has foimd men sick or left them so, since \nthe days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view \nof my beneficial influence on mankind. \n\nNo ; these are trifles compared with the merits \nwhich wise men concede to me — if not in my single \nself, yet as the representative of a class — of being the \ngrand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such \nspouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse \nour earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish, \nwhich has gushed from the fiery foimtains of the still. \nIn this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great \nconfederate. Milk and water ! The ToA\\Tsr Pump and \nthe Cow! Such is the glorious copartnership that \nshall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, ujsroot \nthe vineyards, shatter the cider presses, ruin the tea \nand coffee trade, and, finally, monopolize the whole \nbusiness of quenching thirst. Blessed consmnmation ! \nThen, Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding \nno hovel so wretched where her squalid form may \n\n\nA RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 171 \n\nshelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims, \nshall gnaw its oa\\ti heart, and die. Then Sin, if she \ndo not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now, \nthe frenzy of hereditary fever has raged in the human \nblood, transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled, in \nevery generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. \nWhen that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat \nof passion cannot but grow cool, and war — the drimk- \nenness of nations — perhaps will cease. At least, there \nwill be no war of households. The husband and wiie, \ndrinking deep of peacefid joy, — a calm bliss of tem- \nperate affections, — shall pass hand in hand through \nlife, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted \nclose. To them, the past will be no tiu-moil of mad \ndreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as \nfollow the delirimn of the drunkard. Their dead faces \nshall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by \na lingering smile of memory and hope. \n\nAhem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to \nan impractised orator. I never conceived, till now, \nwhat toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. \nHereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. \nDo, some kind Christian, piunp a stroke or two, just \nto wet my whistle. Thank you, sir ! My dear hearers, \nwhen the world shall have been regenerated by my \ninstrmnentalit}% you will collect your useless vats and \nliquor casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire \nin honor of the Town Pmnp. And, when I shall \nhave decayed, like my predecessors, then, if you revere \nmy memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptiu'ed, \ntake my place upon this spot. Such monmnents shoidd \nbe erected everywhere, and inscribed with the names \nof the distinguished cham})ions of my cause. Now \nlisten, for something very important is to come next. \n\n\n172 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nThere are two or three honest friends of mine — and \ntrue friends, I know, they are — who nevertheless, by \ntheir fiery pugnacity in my behalf, do put me in fear- \nful hazard of a broken nose or even a total overthrow \nupon the pavement, and the loss of the treasure which \nI guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this faidt be \namended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with \nzeal for temperance, and take up the honorable cause \nof the Town Pump in the style of a toper fighting for \nhis brandy bottle? Or, can the excellent quahties of \ncold water be not otherwise exemplified than by phmg- \ning, slapdash, into hot water, and wofully scaldmg \nyourselves and other people ? Trust me, they may. In \nthe moral warfare which you are to wage — and, in- \ndeed, in the whole conduct of your lives — you cannot \nchoose a better example than myself, who have never \npermitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbu- \nlence and manifold disquietudes of the world aroimd \nme, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, which may \nbe called my soul. And whenever I pour out that \nsold, it is to cool earth's fever or cleanse its stains. \n\nOne o'clock! Nay, then, if the dinner bell begins \nto speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes \na pretty yoimg girl of my acquaintance, with a large \nstone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband, \nwhile drawing her water, as Rachel did of old. Hold \nout your vessel, my dear ! There it is, fidl to the \nbrim ; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image \nin the pitcher as you go ; and forget not, in a glass of \nmy own liquor, to drink — \" Success to the Town \nPump ! \" \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE.' \n\nA MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. \n\nAt nightfall, once in the olden time, on the rugged \nside of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers \nwere refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruit- \nless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come \nthither, not as friends nor partners in the enterprise, \nbut each, save one youthful pair, impelled by his own \nselfish and solitary longing for this wondrous gem. \nTheir feeling of brotherhood, however, was strong \nenough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in \nbuilding a rude hut of branches, and kindling a great \nfire of shattered pines, that had drifted down the head- \nlong current of the Amonoosuck, on the lower bank of \nwhich they were to pass the night. There was but one \nof their nimiber, perhaps, who had become so estranged \nfrom natural sjonpathies, by the absorbing spell of the \npursuit, as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight \nof human faces, in the remote and solitary region \nwhither they had ascended. A vast extent of wilder- \nness lay between them and the nearest settlement, \nwhile scant a mile above their heads was that black \nverge where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle \nof forest trees, and either robe themselves in clouds \n\n1 The Indian tradition, on which this somewhat extravagant tale is \nfounded, is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought \nU]) in prose. Sullivan, in his History of Maine, w'ritten since tlie Rev- \nolution, remarks, that even then the existence of the Great Carbuncle \nwas not entirely discredited. \n\n\n174 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nor tower naked into the sky. The roar of the Amo- \nnoosuck would have been too awful for endurance if \nonly a solitary man had listened, while the mountain \nstream talked with the wind. \n\nThe adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable \ngreetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, where \neach man was the host, and all were the guests of the \nwhole company. They spread their individual sup- \nplies of food on the flat siu'face of a rock, and partook \nof a general repast ; at the close of which, a sentiment \nof good fellowship was perceptible among the party, \nthough repressed by the idea, that the renewed search \nfor the Great Carbuncle must make them strangers \nagain in the morning. Seven men and one young \nwoman, they warmed themselves together at the fire, \nwhich extended its bright wall along the whole front \nof their wigwam. As they observed the various and \ncontrasted figiires that made up the assemblage, each \nman looking like a caricature of himself, in the un- \nsteady light that flickered over him, they came mutu- \nally to the conclusion, that an odder society had never \nmet, in city or \\vilderness, on mountain or plain. \n\nThe eldest of the gi'oup, a tall, lean, weather-beaten \nman, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of \nwild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to \nimitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had \nlong been his most intimate companions. He was one \nof those ill-fated mortals, such as the Indians told of, \nwhom, in their early youth, the Great Carbtmcle smote \nwith a peculiar madness, and became the passionate \ndream of their existence. All who visited that region \nknew liim as the Seeker, and by no other name. As \nnone could remember when he first took up the search, \nthere went a fable in the valley of the Saco, that for \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 175 \n\nhis inordinate lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had \nbeen condemned to wander among the mountains till \nthe end of time, still ^\\'ith the same feverish hojaes at \nsimrise — the same despair at eve. Near this misera- \nble Seeker sat a little elderly personage, wearing a \nhigh-crowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. \nHe was from beyond the sea, a Doctor Cacaphodel, \nwho had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by \ncontinually stooping over charcoal furnaces, and in- \nhaling unwholesome fumes during his researches in \nchemistry and alchemy. It was told of him, whether \ntruly or not, that, at the commencement of his studies, \nhe had drained his body of all its richest blood, and \nwasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an \nimsuccessful experiment — and had never been a well \nman since. Another of the adventurers was Master \nIchabod Pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman \nof Boston, and an elder of the famous Mr. Norton's \nchurch. His enemies had a ridiculous story that Mas- \nter Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour \nafter prayer time, every morning and evening, in wal- \nlowing naked among an immense quantity of pine-tree \nshillings, which were the earliest silver comage of Mas- \nsachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice had no \nname that his companions knew of, and was chiefly \ndistinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thin \nvisage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles, which \nwere supposed to deform and discolor the whole face \nof nature, to this gentleman's perception. The fifth \nadventurer like^\\ase lacked a name, which was the \ngreater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was a \nbright-eyed man, but wofully jDined away, which was \nno more than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his \nordinary' diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the \n\n\n176 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ndensest cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine, \nwhenever he could get it. Certain it is, that the po- \netry which flowed from him had a smack of all these \ndainties. The sixth of the party was a young man of \nhaughty mien, and sat somewhat apart from the rest, \nwearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, wliile \nthe fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress, \nand gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his \nsword. This was the Lord de Vere, who, when at \nhome, was said to spend much of his time in the burial \nvault of his dead progenitors, rmnmaging their mouldy \ncoffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory \nthat was hidden among bones and dust ; so that, be- \nsides his own share, he had the collected haughtiness \nof his whole line of ancestry. \n\nLastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, \nand by his side a blooming little person, in whom a \ndelicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into \nthe rich glow of a yoimg wife's affection. Her name \nwas Hannah, and her husband's Matthew; two homely \nnames, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair, \nwho seemed strangely out of place among the whimsi- \ncal fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the \nGreat Carbiuicle. \n\nBeneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze \nof the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, \nall so intent upon a single object, that, of whatever \nelse they began to speak, their closing words were \nsure to be illuminated with the Great Carbimcle. \nSeveral related the circumstances that brought them \nthither. One had listened to a traveller's tale of this \nmarvellous stone in liis o^ii distant countiy, and had \nimmediately been seized with such a thirst for behold- \ning it as could only be quenched in its intensest \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 177 \n\nlustre. Another, so long ago as when the famous \nCaptain Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing \nfar at sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening \nyears till now that he took up the search. A tliird, \nbeing encamped on a hunting expedition full forty \nmiles south of the White Mountains, awoke at mid- \nnight, and beheld the Great Carbuncle gleaming like \na meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell back- \nward from it. They spoke of the inniunerable at- \ntemjDts which had been made to reach the spot, and of \nthe singidar fatality which had hitherto witliheld suc- \ncess from all adventurers, though it might seem so \neasy to follow to its source a light that overpowered \nthe moon, and almost matched the sun. It was ob- \nservable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of \nevery other in anticipating better fortune than the \npast, yet nourished a scarcely hidden conviction that \nhe would himself be the favored one. As if to allay \ntheir too sangiiine hopes, they recurred to the Indian \ntraditions that a spirit kept watch about the gem, and \nbe^vildered those who sought it either by remoxdng it \nfrom peak to peak of the higher hills, or by calling up \na mist from the enchanted lake over which it himg. \nBut these tales were deemed unworthy of credit, all \nprofessing to believe that the search had been baffled \nby want of sagacity or perseverance in the adventur- \ners, or such other causes as might naturally obstruct \nthe passage to any given point among the intricacies \nof forest, valley, and mountain. \n\nIn a pause of the conversation the wearer of the \nprodigious spectacles looked round upon the party, \nmaking each individual, in turn, the object of the \nsneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. \n\n\" So, fellow-pilgrims,\" said he, \" here we are, seven \n\nVOL. I. 12 \n\n\n178 rWlCE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwise men, and one fair damsel — who, doubtless, is as \nwise as any graybeard of the company : here we are, \nI say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. Me- \nthinks, now, it were not amiss that each of us declare \nwhat he proposes to do with the Great Carbimcle, \nprovided he have the good hap to clutch it. What \nsays our friend in the bear skin ? How mean you, \ngood sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been seek- \ning, the Lord knows how long, among the Crystal \nHills?\" \n\n\" How enjoy it ! \" exclaimed the aged Seeker, bit- \nterly. \" I hope for no enjoyment from it ; that folly \nhas passed long ago ! I keep up the search for this \naccursed stone because the vain ambition of my youth \nhas become a fate upon me in old age. The pur- \nsuit alone is my strength, — the energy of my soul, — \nthe warmth of my blood, — and the pith and marrow \nof my bones ! Were I to turn my back upon it I \nshould fall down dead on the hither side of the Notch, \nwhich is the gateway of this mountain region. Yet \nnot to have my wasted lifetime back again woidd I \ngive up my hopes of the Great Carbmicle ! Ha^dng \nfound it, I shall bear it to a certain cavern that I wot \nof, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and \ndie, and keep it buried Avith me forever.\" \n\n\" O wretch, regardless of the interests of science ! \" \ncried Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic indigna- \ntion. \" Thou art not worthy to behold, even from \nafar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever \nwas concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is \nthe sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the \npossession of the Great Carbimcle. Immediately on \nobtaining it — for I have a presentiment, good people, \nthat the prize is reserved to crown my scientific repu \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 179 \n\ntation — I shall return to Europe, and employ my re- \nmaining years in reduciag it to its first elements. A \nportion of the stone will I grind to impalpable pow- \nder ; other parts shall be dissolved in acids, or what- \never solvents will act upon so admirable a composi- \ntion ; and the remainder I design to melt in the cruci- \nble, or set on fire with the blow-pipe. By these various \nmethods I shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally \nbestow the residt of my labors upon the world in a \nfolio voliune.\" \n\n\" Excellent ! \" quoth the man with the spectacles. \n\" Nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the \nnecessary destruction of the gem ; since the perusal \nof your folio may teach every mother's son of us to \nconcoct a Great Carbmicle of his own.\" \n\n\" But, verily,\" said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, \" for \nmine owti part I object to the maldng of these coun- \nterfeits, as being calciuated to reduce the marketable \nvalue of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have \nan interest in keeping up the price. Here have I \nquitted my regidar traffic, leaving my warehouse in \nthe care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great \nhazard, and, furthermore, have put myseK in peril of \ndeath or captivity by the accursed heathen savages — \nand all this without daring to ask the prayers of the \ncongregation, because the quest for the Great Car- \nbimcle is deemed little better than a traffic with the \nE\\al One. Now think ye that I would have done this \ngrievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, and es- \ntate, without a reasonable chance of profit ? \" \n\n\" Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,\" said the man with \nthe spectacles. \" I never laid such a great folly to \nthy charge.\" \n\n\" Truly, I hope not,\" said the merchant. \" Now, \n\n\n180 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nas touching tliis Great Carbuncle, I am free to own \nthat I have never had a giimpse of it ; but be it only \nthe hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will \nsurely outvalue the Great Mogul's best diamond, which \nhe holds at an incalculable sum. ^Vherefore, I am \nminded to put the Great Carbimcle on shipboard, and \nvoyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or \ninto Heathendom, if Providence shoidd send me \nthither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best \nbidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may \nplace it among his crown jewels. If any of ye have a \nwiser plan, let him expound it.\" \n\n\" That have I, thou sordid man ! \" exclaimed the \npoet. \" Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold \nthat thou woiddst transmute all this ethereal lustre \ninto such dross as thou wallowest in already ? For \nmyself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie \nme back to my attic chamber, in one of the darksome \nalleys of London. There, night and day, will I gaze \nupon it ; my soid shall drink its racKance ; it shall \nbe diffused throughout my intellectual powers, and \ngleam brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. \nThus, long ages after I am gone, the splendor of the \nGreat Carbuncle will blaze around my name ! \" \n\n\" Well said. Master Poet ! \" cried he of the specta- \ncles. \" Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou ? Why, \nit will gleam through the holes, and make thee look \nlilie a jack-o'-lantern ! \" \n\n\" To think ! \" ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather \nto himself than his companions, the best of whom he \nheld utterly im worthy of his intercourse — \"to think \nthat a fellow in a tattered cloak shoidd talk of convey \nmg the Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grub Street ! \nHave not I resolved witliin myseK that the whole \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 181 \n\nearth contains no fitter ornament for the great hall of \nmy ancestral castle? There shall it flame for ages, \nmaking a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits \nof armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that hang \naroimd the wall, and keeping bright the memoiy of \nheroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers souoht \nthe prize in vain but that I might win it, and make it \na symbol of the glories of our lofty line? And never, \non the diadem of the Wliite Mountains, did the Great \nCarbimcle hold a place half so honored as is reserved \nfor it in the hall of the De Veres ! \" \n\n\" It is a noble thought,\" said the Cynic, with an ob- \nsequious sneer. \" Yet, might I presume to say so, the \ngem would make a rare sepulchral lamjD, and would \ndisplay the glories of your lordship's progenitors more \ntruly in the ancestral vaidt than in the castle hall.\" \n\n\" Nay, forsooth,\" observed Matthew, the yoimg rus- \ntic, who sat hand in hand Avith his bride, \" the gentle- \nman has bethought liimself of a 23rofitable use for this \nbright stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a \nlike purpose.\" \n\n\" How, fellow ! \" exclaimed his lordship, in surprise. \n\" What castle hall hast thou to hang it in ? \" \n\n\" No castle,\" replied Matthew, \" but as neat a cot- \ntage as any witliin sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye \nmust know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded \nthe last week, have taken up the search of the Great \nCarbuncle, because we shall need its light in the long- \nwinter evenings ; and it will be such a pretty thing to \nshow the neighbors when they visit us. It will shine \nthrough the house so that we may pick up a pin in \nany corner, and will set all the windows aglowing as \nif there were a great fire of pine knots in the chimney. \nA.nd then how pleasant, when we awake in the night, \nto be able to see one another's faces ! \" \n\n\n182 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nThere was a general smile among the adventurers \nat the sunplicity of the young couple's project in re- \ngard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which \nthe greatest monarch on earth might have been proud \nto adorn liis palace. Especially the man with specta- \ncles, who -had sneered at all the company in turn, now \ntwisted his visage into such an expression of ill-nat \nured mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather peevishlj^ \nwhat he himself meant to do with the Great Car- \nbuncle. \n\n\" The Great Carbuncle ! \" answered the Cynic, with \nineffable scorn. \" Why, you blockhead, there is no \nsuch thing in rerum natura. I have come three thou- \nsand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every \npeak of these mountains, and poke my head into every \nchasm, for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the \nsatisfaction of any man one whit less an ass than thy- \nself that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug ! \" \n\nVain and foolish were the motives that had brought \nmost of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills ; but \nnone so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of \nthe scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was \none of those wretched and evil men whose yeammgs \nare downward to the darkness, instead of heaven- \nward, and who, coidd they but distingTiish the lights \nwhich God hath kindled for us, would coimt the mid- \nnight gloom their chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, \nseveral of the party were startled by a gleam of red \nsplendor, that showed the huge shapes of the sur- \nrounding mountains and the rock-bestrewn bed of the \nturbident river with an illumination unlike that of \ntheir fire on the trvuiks and black boughs of the \nforest trees. They listened for the roll of thunder, \nbut heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 183 \n\neame not near them. The stars, those dial-points of \nheaven, now warned the adventurers to close their \neyes on the blazing logs, and open them, in dreams, to \nthe glow of the Great Carbimcle. \n\nThe yoiuig married couple had taken their lodgings \nin the farthest corner of the wigwam, and were sepa- \nrated from the rest of the party by a curtain of \nciu-iously-woven twigs, such as might have hung, in \ndeep festoons, around the bridal-bower of Eve. The \nmodest little wife had wrought this piece of tapestry \nwliile the other guests were talking. She and her \nhusband fell asleej) with hands tenderly clasped, and \nawoke from xdsions of uneartlily radiance to meet the \nmore blessed light of one another's eyes. They awoke \nat the same instant, and with one happy smile beam- \ning over their two faces, which grew brighter with \ntheir consciousness of the reality of life and love. \nBut no sooner did she recollect where they were, than \nthe bride peeped through the interstices of the leafy \ncurtain, and saw that the outer room of the hut was \ndeserted. \n\n\" Up, dear Matthew ! \" cried she, in haste. \" The \nstrange folk are all gone ! Up, this very minute, or \nwe shall loose the Great Carbuncle ! \" \n\nIn truth, so little did these poor yoimg people de- \nserve the mighty prize wliich had lured them thither, \nthat they had slept peacefully all night, and till the \nsummits of the hills were glittering with simshme ; \nwhile the other adventurers had tossed their limbs in \nfeverish wakefidness, or dreamed of climbing preci- \npices, and set off to realize their dreams with the \nearliest peep of dawn. But Matthew and Hannah, \nafter their cahn rest, were as light as two young deer, \nand merely stopped to say their prayers and wash \n\n\n184 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthemselves m a cold pool of the Amonoosuck, and \nthen to taste a morsel of food, ere they turned their \nfaces to the moimtain-side. It was a sweet emblem of \nconjugal affection, as they toiled up the difficult as- \ncent, gathering strength from the mutual aid which \nthey afforded. After several little accidents, such as \na torn robe, a lost shoe, and the entanglement of Han- \nnah's hair in a bough, they reached the uj^per verge of \nthe forest, and were now to pursue a more adventu- \nrous course. The inniunerable trunks and heavy fo- \nliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts, \nwhich now shrank affrighted from the region of wind \nand cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine, that \nrose immeasurably above them. They gazed back at \nthe obscure wilderness wliich they had traversed, and \nlonged to be bui-ied again in its depths rather than \ntrust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. \n\n\" Shall we go on?\" said Matthew, throwing liis arm \nround Hannah's waist, both to protect her and to com- \nfort his heart by drawing her close to it. \n\nBut the little bride, simple as she was, had a \nwoman's love of jewels, and coidd not forego the hope \nof possessing the very brightest in the world, in spite \nof the perils with which it must be won. \n\n\" Let us clunb a little higher,\" whispered she, yet \ntremulously, as she turned her face upward to the \nlonely sky. \n\n\" Come, then,\" said Matthew, mustering his manly \ncourage and drawing her along with liim, for she be- \ncame timid again the moment that he grew bold. \n\nAnd upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the \nGreat Carbuncle, now treading upon the toj)S and \nthickly-interwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, by \nthe growth of centuries, though mossy ^\\ith age, had \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 385 \n\nbarely readied three feet in altitude. Next, they \ncame to masses and fragments of naked rock heaped \nconfusedly together, like a cairn reared by giants in \nmemory of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of \nupper air notliing breathed, nothing grew ; there was \nno life but what was concentrated in their two hearts :; \nthey had climbed so liigh that Nature herself seemed \nno longer to keep them company. She lingered be- \nneath them, witliin the verge of the forest trees, and \nsent a farewell glance after her children as they \nstrayed where her own green footprints had never \nbeen. But soon they were to be hidden from her eye. \nDensely and dark the mists began to gather below, \ncasting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape, \nand sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest \nmountain peak had smnmoned a council of its kindred \nclouds. Finally, the vapors welded themselves, as it \nwere, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a \npavement over which the wanderers might have \ntrodden, but where they wotdd vainly have sought an \navenue to the blessed earth which they had lost. And \nthe lovers yearned to behold that green earth again, \nmore intensely, alas ! than, beneath a clouded sky, \nthey had ever desired a glimpse of heaven. They \neven felt it a relief to their desolation when the \nmists, creeping gradually up the mountain, concealed \nits lonely peak, and thus annihilated, at least for \nthem, the whole region of visible space. But they \ndrew closer together, with a fond and melancholy \ngaze, dreading lest the vmiversal cloud should snatch \nthem from each other's sight. \n\nStill, perhaps, they woidd have been resolute to \nclimb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, \nas they could find foothold, if Hannah's strength had \n\n\n186 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nnot begun to fail, and with that, her courage also. \nHer breath grew short. She refused to burden her \nhusband with her weight, but often tottered against \nhis side, and recovered herself each time by a feebler \neffort. At last, she sank do^vn on one of the rocky \nsteps of the accli\\\"ity. \n\n\" We are lost, dear Matthew,\" said she, mournfully. \n\" We shall never find our way to the earth again. \nAnd oh how happy we might have been in our cot- \ntage ! \" \n\n\"Dear heart! — we will yet be happy there,\" an- \nswered Matthew. \" Look ! In this direction, the sun- \nshine penetrates the dismal mist. By its aid, I can \ndirect our course to the passage of the Notch. Let \nus go back, love, and dream no more of the Great \nCarbuncle ! \" \n\n\" The Sim cannot be yonder,\" said Hannah, with \ndespondence. \"By this time it must be noon. If \nthere could ever be any svmshine here, it would come \nfrom above our heads.\" \n\n\" But look ! \" repeated Matthew, in a somewhat \naltered tone. \" It is brightening every moment. If \nnot sunsliine, what can it be ? \" \n\nNor could the young bride any longer deny that a \nradiance was breaking through the mist, and changing \nits dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew \nmore vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused \nwith the gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll \naway from the mountain, while, as it heavily with- \ndrew, one object after another started out of its im- \npenetrable obscurity into sight, with precisely the ef- \nfect of a new creation, before the indistinctness of the \nold chaos had been completely swallowed up. As the \nprocess went on, they saw the gleaming of water close \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 187 \n\nat their feet, and found themselves on the very border \nof a mountain lake, deep, bright, clear, and calmly \nbeautifid, spreading from brim to brim of a basin that \nhad been scooped out of the solid rock. A ray of \nglory flashed across its surface. The pilgrims looked \nwhence it shovdd proceed, but closed their eyes with \na thrill of awful admiration, to exclude the fer\\dd \nsplendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impend- \ning over the enchanted lake. For the simple pair had \nreached that lake of mystery, and found the long- \nsought shrine of the Great Carbuncle ! \n\nThey threw their arms around each other, and \ntrembled at their own success ; for, as the legends of \nthis wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, \nthey felt themselves marked out by fate — and the \nconsciousness was fearful. Often, from childhood uj)- \nward, they had seen it shming like a distant star. And \nnow that star was throwing its intensest lustre on their \nhearts. They seemed changed to one another's eyes, \nin the red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, \nwhile it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and \nsky, and to the mists wliich had rolled back before its \npower. But, with their next glance, they beheld an \nobject that drew their attention even from the mighty \nstone. At the base of the cliff, directly beneath the \nGreat Carbmicle, appeared the figure of a man, with \nhis arms extended in the act of climbing, and his face \nturned upward, as if to drink the full gush of splendor. \nBut he stirred not, no more than if changed to marblco \n\n\" It is the Seeker,\" whispered Hannah, convulsively \ngraspmg her husband's arm. \" Matthew, he is dead.\" \n\n\" The joy of success has killed him,\" replied Mat \nthew, trembling violently. \" Or, perhaps, the very \nlight of the Great Carbmicle was death ! \" \n\n\n188 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" The Great Carbuncle,\" cried a peevish voice \"be. \nhind them. \" The Great Humbug ! If you have \nfomid it, prithee point it out to me.\" \n\nThey turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, \nwith his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his \nnose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now \nat the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great \nCarbimcle itself, yet seemingly as miconscious of its \nliofht as if all the scattered clouds were condensed \nabout liis person. Though its radiance actually threw \nthe shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he \nturned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not \nbe convinced that there was the least glimmer there. \n\n\"Where is your Great Humbug?\" he repeated. \n\" I challenge you to make me see it ! \" \n\n\" There,\" said Matthew, incensed at snch perverse \nblindness, and turning the Cynic round towards the \nilliuninated cliff. \" Take off those abominable spec- \ntacles, and you cannot helj) seeing it ! \" \n\nNow these colored spectacles probably darkened \nthe Cynic's sight, in at least as great a degree as the \nsmoked glasses through which people gaze at an \neclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched \nthem from his nose, and fixed a bold stare full uj^on \nthe ruddy blaze of the Great Carbimcle. But scarcely \nhad he encountered it, when, with a deep, shuddering \ngroan, he dropped his head, and pressed both hands \nacross liis miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in \nvery truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any \nother light on earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the \npoor Cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects \nthrough a medirmi that deprived them of every glimpse \nof brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenom- \nenon, striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him \nforever \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 189 \n\n\" Matthew,\" said Hannali, clinging to liim, \" let us \ngo hence ! \" \n\nMatthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down, \nsupported her in his arms, while he threw some of the \nthrill ingly cold water of the enchanted lake upon her \nface and bosom. It revived her, but could not reno- \nvate her courac;e. \n\n\" Yes, dearest ! \" cried Matthew, pressing her tremu- \nlous form to his breast, — \" we will go hence, and \nreturn to our humble cottage. The blessed smishine \nand the quiet moonlight shall come through our win- \ndow. We will Idndle the cheerfid glow of our hearth, \nat eventide, and be happy in its light. But never \nagain will we desire more light than all the world may \nshare ^ith us.\" \n\n\" No,\" said liis bride, \" for how could we live by \nday, or sleep by night, in this awf id blaze of the Great \nCarbuncle ! \" \n\nOut of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a \ndraught from the lake, which presented them its waters \nuncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending their \nguidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered not a word, \nand even stifled liis groans in his own most wretched \nheart, they began to descend the momitain. Yet, as \nthey left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit's \nlake, they threw a farewell glance towards the cliff, \nand beheld the vapors gathering in dense volmnes, \nthrough which the gem burned duskily. \n\nAs touching the other pilgrims of the Great Car- \nbimcle, the legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful \nMaster Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a \ndesperate specidation, and wisely resolved to betake \nhimself again to his warehouse, near the to\\\\Ti dock, in \nBoston. But, as he passed through the Notch of tho \n\n\n190 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmountains, a war party of Indians captured our un- \nlucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there \nholding him in bondage, till, by the payment of a \nheavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from liis \nhoard of pine-tree sliillings. By his long absence, \nmoreover, his affairs had become so disordered that, \nfor the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, \nhe had seldom a sixpence worth of copper. Doctor \nCacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory \nwith a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground \nto powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible, \nand burned with the blow-pipe, and published the re- \nsult of his experiments in one of the heaviest folios of \nthe day. And, for all these purjjoses, the gem itself \ncould not have answered better than the granite. The \npoet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a \ngreat piece of ice, which he found in a sunless chasm \nof the moimtains, and swore that it corresponded, in \nall points, with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. The \ncritics say, that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of \nthe gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. The \nLord de Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where \nhe contented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier, \nand filled, in due course of time, another coffin in the \nancestral vaidt. As the funeral torches gleamed wdthin \nthat dark receptacle, there was no need of the Great \nCarbmicle to show the vanity of earthly pomp. \n\nThe Cynic, ha\\ang cast aside liis spectacles, wan- \ndered about the world, a miserable object, and was \npunished with an agonizing desire of light, for the wil- \nf id blindness of his former life. The whole night long, \nhe woidd lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon \nand stars ; he turned liis face eastward, at sunrise, as \ndidy as a Persian idolater ; he made a pilgiinia^ c to \n\n\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 191 \n\nRome, to witness the magnificent illumination of St. \nPeter's Church ; and finally perished in the great fire \nof London, into the midst of which he had thrust him- \nself, with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray \nfrom the blaze that was kindling earth and heaven. \n\nMatthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, \nand were fond of telling the legend of the Great Car- \nbimcle. The tale, however, towards the close of their \nlengthened lives, did not meet with the fidl credence \nthat had been accorded to it by those who remembered \nthe ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed that, \nfrom the horn* when two mortals had shown themselves \nso simply wise as to reject a jewel which woidd have \ndimmed all earthly things, its splendor waned. When \nother pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an \nopaque stone, with particles of mica glittering on its \nsurface. There is also a tradition that, as the youth- \nful pair departed, the gem was loosened from the fore- \nhead of the cliff, and fell into the enchanted lake, and \nthat, at noontide, the Seeker's form may still be seen \nto bend over its quencliless gleam. \n\nSome few believe that tliis inestimable stone is blaz- \ning as of old, and say that they have cavight its radi- \nance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down the \nthe valley of the Saco. And be it owned that, many \na mile from the Crystal Hills, 1 saw a wondrous light \naroimd their summits, and was lured, by the faith of \npoesy, to be the latest pilgrim of the Great Car- \nbuncle. \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES.^ \n\n\" But this painter ! \" cried Walter Ludlow, with \nanimation. \" He not only excels in his pecidiar art, \nbut j)ossesses vast acquirements in all other learning \nand science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather, and \ngives lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, \nhe will meet the best instructed man among us on his \nown ground. Moreover, he is a polished gentleman \n— a citizen of the world — yes, a true cosmopolite ; \nfor he will speak like a native of each clime and coim- \ntry of the globe except our own forests, whither he is \nnow gomg. Nor is all this what I most admire in \nhim.\" \n\n\" Indeed ! \" said Elinor, who had listened with a \nwoman's interest to the description of such a man. \n\" Yet this is admirable enough.\" \n\n\" Surely it is,\" replied her lover, \" but far less so \nthan his natural gift of adapting himself to every \nvariety of character, insomuch that all men — and all \nwomen too, Elinor — shall find a mirror of themselves \nin this wonderful painter. But the greatest wonder is \nyet to be told.\" \n\n\"Nay, if he have more wonderfid attributes than \n\nthese,\" said Elinor, laughing, \" Boston is a perilous \n\nabode for the poor gentleman. Are you telling me of \n\na painter or a wizard ? \" \n\n1 This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart, related in Dun- \nlap's Hisfori/ of the Aiis <>f Design, — a most entertaining book to the \ngeneral reader, and a deeply interesting one, we should think, to tha \nRrtist. \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 193 \n\n*' In truth,\" answered he, \" that question might be \nasked much more seriously than you suppose. They \nsay that he paints not merely a man's features, but his \nmind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and \npassions, and throws them upon the canvas, like feim- \nshine — or perhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled men, \nHke a gleam of infernal lire. It is an awful gift,\" \nadded Walter, lowering liis voice from its tone of en- \nthusiasm. \" I shall be ahnost afraid to sit to him.\" \n\n\" Walter, are you in earnest? \" exclaimed Elinor. \n\n\" For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him \npaint the look which you now wear,\" said her lover, \nsmiling, though rather perplexed. \" There : it is pass- \ning away now, but when you spoke you seemed fright- \nened to death, and very sad besides. What were you \nthinking of ? \" \n\n\" Nothing, nothing,\" answered Elinor hastily. \" You \npaint my face with your own fantasies. Well, come \nfor me to-morrow, and we will visit this wonderfid \nartist.\" \n\nBut when the young man had departed, it cannot be \ndenied that a remarkable expression was again visible \non the fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was \na sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what \nshould have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve \nof wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of \nher heart. \n\n\" A look ! \" said Elinor to herself. \" No wonder \nthat it startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes \nfeel. I know, by my own experience, how frightfid a \nlook may be. But it was all fancy. I thought noth- \ning of it at the time — I have seen nothing of it since \n\"-^ I did but dream it.\" \n\nAnd she busied herself about the embroidery of a \n\nVOL I. 13 \n\n\n194 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nruff, in which she meant that her portrait should be \ntaken. \n\nThe painter, of whom they had been speaking, was \nnot one of those native artists who, at a later period \nthan this, borrowed their colors from the Indians, and \nmanufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts. \nPerhaps, if he could have revoked liis life and prear- \nranged his destiny, he might have chosen to belong to \nthat school without a master, in the hope of being at \nleast original, since there were no works of art to imi- \ntate nor rules to follow. But he had been born and \neducated in Europe. People said that he had studied \nthe grandeur or beauty of conception, and every touch \nof the master hand, in all the most famous pictures, in \ncabinets and galleries, and on the walls of churches, \ntill there was nothing more for his powerful mind to \nlearn. Art could add nothing to its lessons, but Nat- \nure might. He had therefore visited a world wliither \nnone of his professional brethren had preceded him, \nto feast his eyes on visible images that were noble \nand picturesque, yet had never been transferred to \ncanvas. America was too poor to afford other temp- \ntations to an artist of eminence, though many of the \ncolonial gentry, on the painter's arrival, had expressed \na wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity by \nmeans of lus skill. Whenever such proposals were \nmade, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and \nseemed to look him through and through. If he be- \nheld only a sleek and comfortable visage, though there \nwere a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture and golden \nguineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and \nthe reward. But if the face were the index of any \nthing uncommon, in thought, sentiment, or experience ; \nor if he met a beggar in the street, with a white beard \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 195 \n\nand a furrowed brow ; or if sometimes a child hap- \npened to look up and smile, he would exhaust all the \nart on them that he denied to wealth. \n\nPictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the \npainter became an object of general curiosity. If few \nor none could appreciate the technical merit of his \nproductions, yet there were points, in regard to which \nthe opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined \njudgment of the amateur. He watched the effect that \neach picture produced on such imtutored beholders, and \nderived profit from their remarks, wliile they woidd \nas soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as \nhim who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it \nmust be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of \nthe age and country. Some deemed it an offence \nagainst the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous \nmockery of the Creator, to bring into existence such \nlively images of his creatures. Others, frightened at \nthe art which could raise phantoms at will, and keep \nthe form of the dead among the living, were inclined \nto consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the \nfamous Black Man, of old witch times, plotting mis- \nchief in a new giiise. These foolish fancies were more \nthan half believed among the mob. Even in superior \ncircles his character was invested with a vague awe, \npartly rising like smoke wreaths from the popular \nsuperstitions, but chiefly caused by the varied knowl- \nedge and talents which he made subservient to liis \nprofession. \n\nBeing on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and \nElinor were eager to obtain their portraits, as the first \nof what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long series \nof family pictures. The day after the conversation \nabove recorded they visited the painter's rooms. A \n\n\n196 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nservant ushered them into an apartment, where, though \nthe artist himself was not visible, there were person- \nages whom they could hardly forbear greeting with \nreverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole assem- \nbly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate \nthe idea of life and intellect from such striking coun- \nterfeits. Several of the portraits were known to them, \neither as distinguished characters of the day or their \nprivate acquaintances. There was Governor Burnett, \nlooking as if he had just received an undutifid com- \nmunication from the House of Representatives, and \nwere inditing a most sharj) response. Mr. Cooke hung \nbeside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and some- \nwhat puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The \nancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from \nthe wall, in ruff and f artliingale, — an imperious old \ndame, not unsuspected of witchcraft. Jolin Winslow, \nthen a very young man, wore the expression of war- \nlike enterprise, which long afterwards made him a dis- \ntinguished general. Their personal friends were rec- \nognized at a glance. In most of the pictures, the \nwhole mind and character were brought out on the \ncountenance, and concentrated into a single look, so \nthat, to speak paradoxically, the originals hardly re- \nsembled themselves so strikingly as the portraits did. \n\nAmono; these modern worthies there were two old \nbearded Saints, who had ahnost vanished into the dark- \nening canvas. There was also a pale, but unfaded \nMadonna, who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome, \nand now regarded the lovers vdth such a mild and \nholy look that they longed to worship too. \n\n\" How singular a thought,\" observed Walter Lud- \nlow, \"that this beautiful face has been beautiful for \nabove two hundred years ! Oh, if all beauty would en. \ndure so well ! Do you not en^'y her, Elinor ? \" \n\n\nTHE PROPHEriC PICTURES. 197 \n\n\" If earth were heaven, I might,\" she replied. \n\" But where all things fade, how miserable to be the \none that could not fade ! \" \n\n\"This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly- \nscowl, saint though he be,\" continued Walter. \" He \ntroubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at us.\" \n\n\" Yes ; but very sorrowfully, methinks,\" said Elinor. \n\nThe easel stood beneath these three old pictures, \nsustaining one that had been recently commenced. \nAfter a little inspection, they began to recognize the \nfeatures of their own minister, the Kev. Dr. Colman, \ngrowing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud. \n\n\" Kind old man ! \" exclaimed Elinor. \" He gazes \nat me as if he were about to utter a word of paternal \nadvice.\" \n\n\"• And at me,\" said Walter, \" as if he were about to \nshake his head and rebuke me for some suspected in- \niquity. But so does the original. I shall never feel \nquite comfortable under his eye till we stand before \nhim to be married.\" \n\nThey now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning, \nbeheld the painter, who had been some moments in \nthe room, and had listened to a few of their remarks. \nHe was a middle-aged man, with a countenance well \nworthy of his owti pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque, \nthough careless arrangement of his rich dress, and, \nperhaps, because his soul dwelt always among painted \nshapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself. \nHis visitors were sensible of a kindred between the \nartist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures \nhad stepped from the canvas to salute them. \n\nWalter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the \npainter, explained the object of their visit. While he \nspoke, a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and \n\n\n198 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nElinor's, with so happy an effect that they also seemed \nliving pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by \nbright fortune. The artist was evidently struck. \n\n\" My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and \nmy stay in Boston must be brief,\" said he, thought- \nfully; then, after an observant glance, he added: \n••' but your \\vishes shall be gratified, though I disap- \npoint the Cliief Justice and Madam Oliver. I must \nnot lose this opportimity, for the sake of painting a \nfew ells of broadcloth and brocade.\" \n\nThe painter expressed a desire to introduce both \ntheir portraits into one picture, and represent them \nengaged in some appropriate action. Tliis plan would \nhave delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected, \nbecause so large a space of canvas would have been \nunlit for the room which it was intended to decorate. \nTwo half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon. \nAfter they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked \nElinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influ- \nence over their fates the painter was about to acquire. \n\n\" The old women of Boston affirm,\" continued he, \n\"that after he has once got possession of a person's \nface and figure, he may paint him in any act or situa- \ntion whatever — and the pictm-e will be prophetic. Do \nyou believe it ? \" \n\n\" Not quite,\" said Elinor, smiling. \" Yet if he has \nsuch magic, there is sometliing so gentle in his man- \nxier that I am sure he will use it well.\" \n\nIt was the painter's choice to proceed with both the \nportraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, in \nthe mystical language which he sometimes used, that \nthe faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly \nhe gave now a touch to AV alter, and now to Elinor, \nand the features of one and the other began to start \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 199 \n\nforth so vi\\aclly that it appeared as if his triumphant \nart would actually disengage them from the canvas. \nAmid the rich light and deep shade, they beheld their \nphantom selves. But, though the likeness promised \nto be perfect, they were not quite satisfied with the \nexpression ; it seemed more vague than in most of the \npainter's works. He, however, was satisfied with tlie \nprospect of success, and being much interested in the \nlovers, employed his leisure moments, unknown to \nthem, in making a crayon sketch of their two figiires. \nDm-ing their sittings, he engaged them in conversation, \nand kindled up their faces with characteristic traits, \nwhich, though contmually varying, it was his purpose \nto combine and fix. At length he announced that at \ntheir next visit both the portraits would be ready for \ndelivery. \n\n\"If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in \nthe few last touches which I meditate,\" observed he, \n\" these two pictures will be my very best performances. \nSeldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects.\" \n\nWhile speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye \nupon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the \nbottom of the stairs. \n\nNothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes \nstronger hold of the imagination than this affair of \nhaving a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so ? \nThe looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons, \nthe mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces, \ncontinually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, \nof ourselves, which we glance at, and straightway for- \nget them. But we forget them only because they \nvanish. It is the idea of duration — of earthly im- \nmortality— that gives such a mysterious interest to \nour own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not in- \n\n\n200 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsensible to this feeling, and hastened to the painter's \nroom, punctually at the appointed hour, to meet those \npictured shapes which were to be their representatives \nwith posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into \nthe apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy as they \nclosed the door. \n\nTheir eyes were immediately attracted to their por- \ntraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the \nroom. At the first glance, through the dim light and \nthe distance, seeing themselves in precisely their nat- \nural attitudes, and with all the air that they recognized \n90 well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of \ndelight. \n\n\"There we stand,\" cried \"Walter, enthusiastically, \n\" fixed in sunsliine forever ! No dark passions can \ngather on our faces ! \" \n\n\" No,\" said Elinor, more calmly ; \" no dreary \nchange can sadden us.\" \n\nThis was said while they were approaching, and \nhad yet gained only an imperfect \\dew of the pictures. \nThe painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a \ntable in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visit- \nors to form their own judgment as to his perfected \nlabors. At intervals, he sent a glance from beneath \nhis deep eyebrows, watcliing their coimtenances in \nprofile, with his pencil suspended over the sketch. \nThey had now stood some moments, each in front of \nthe other's picture, contemplating it with entranced \nattention, but without uttering a word. At length, \nWalter stepped forward — then back — viewing Eli- \nnor's portrait in various lights, and finally spoke. \n\n\" Is there not a change ? \" said he, in a doubtful \nand meditative tone. \" Yes ; the perception of it \ngrows more vivid the longer I look. It is certainly \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 201 \n\nthe same picture that I saw yesterday ; the dress — \nthe features — all are the same ; and yet something is \naltered.\" \n\n\" Is then the picture less like than it was yester- \nday ? \" inquired the painter, now drawing near, with \nirrepressible interest. \n\n\"\" The features are perfect, Elinor,\" answered Wal- \nter, \" and, at the first glance, the expression seemed \nalso hers. But, I coidd fancy that the portrait has \nchanged countenance, while I have been looking at it. \nThe eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and \nanxious expression. Nay, it is grief and terror ! Is \nthis like Elinor ? \" \n\n\" Compare the living face with the pictured one,\" \nsaid the painter. \n\nWalter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. \nIVIotionless and absorbed — fascinated, as it were — in \ncontemplation of Walter's portrait, Elinor's face had \nassumed precisely the expression of which he had just \nbeen complaining. Had she practised for whole hours \nbefore a mirror, she could not have caught the look so \nsuccessfidly. Had the picture itself been a mirror, it \ncould not have thrown back her present aspect with \nstronger and more melancholy truth. She appeared \nquite miconscious of the dialogue between the artist \nand her lover. \n\n\" Elinor,\" exclaimed Walter, in amazement, \" what \nchange has come over \"you?\" \n\nShe did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed \ngaze, till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her \nnotice ; then, with a sudden tremor, she looked from \nthe picture to the face of the original. \n\n\" Do you see no change in your portrait ? \" asked \nshe. \n\n\n202 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\"In mine? — None ! \" replied Walter, examining it. \n\" But let me see ! Yes ; there is a slight change — an \nimprovement, I think, in the picture, though none in \nthe likeness. It has a livelier expression than yester- \nday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the \neyes, and about to be uttered from the lips. Now \nthat I have caught the look, it becomes very decided.\" \n\nWhile he was intent on these observations, Elinor \nturned to the painter. She regarded Mm with grief \nand awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy \nand commiseration, though wherefore, she could but \nvaguely guess. \n\n\" That look ! \" whispered she, and shuddered. \n\" How came it there ? \" \n\n\" Madam,\" said the painter, sadly, taking her hand, \nand leading her apart, \"\" in both these pictures, I have \npainted what I saw. The artist — the true artist — \nmust look beneath the exterior. It is his gift — his \nproudest, but often a melancholy one — to see the in- \nmost soul, and, by a power indefinable even to him- \nself, to make it glow or darken upon the canvas, in \nglances that express the thought and sentuuent of \nyears. Would that I might convince myself of error \nin the present instance ! \" \n\nThey had now approached the table, on which were \nheads in chalk, hands almost as expressive as ordinary \nfaces, ivied church towers, thatched cottages, old thun- \nder-stricken trees. Oriental and antique costume, and \nall such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle mo- \nments. Turning them over, with seeming careless- \nness, a crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed. \n\n\" If I have failed,\" contiiuied he — \" if your heart \ndoes not see itself reflected in your own portrait — if \nyou have no secret cause to trust my delineation of the \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 203 \n\nother — it is not yet too late to alter them. I might \nchange the action of these figures too. But would it \ninfluence the event ? \" \n\nHe directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran \nthrough Elinor's frame ; a shriek was upon her lips ; \nbut she stifled it, with the self-command that becomes \nhabitual to all who hide thoughts of fear and anguish \nmthin their bosoms. Turning from the table, she \nperceived that Walter had advanced near enough to \nhave seen the sketch, though she could not determine \nwhether it had caught his eye. \n\n\" We will not have the pictures altered,\" said she, \nhastily. \" If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer \nfor the contrast.\" \n\n\" Be it so,\" answered the painter, bowing. \" May \nyour griefs be such fanciful ones that only your pict- \nure may mourn for them ! For your joys — may they \nbe true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely \nface till it quite belie my art ! \" \n\nAfter the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pict- \nures formed the two most splendid ornaments of their \nabode. They hung side by side, separated by a nar- \nrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet \nalways returning the gaze of the spectator. Trav- \nelled gentlemen, who professed a knowledge of such \nsubjects, reckoned these among the most admirable \nspecimens of modern portraiture ; while common ob- \nservers compared them with the originals, feature by \nfeature, and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. \nBut it was on a third class — neither travelled con- \nnoisseurs nor common observers, but people of natural \nsensibility — that the pictures wrought their strongest \neffect. Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, \nbut, becoming interested, woidd return day after day, \n\n\n204 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand study these painted faces like the pages of a mys- \ntic vohmie. AV alter Ludlow's portrait attracted their \nearliest notice. In the absence of liimself and his \nbride, they sometimes disputed as to the exjaression \nwhich the painter had intended to throw upon the \nfeatiu'es ; all agreeing that there was a look of earnest \nimport, though no two explained it alike. There was \nless diversity of opmion in regard to Elinor's picture. \nThey differed, indeed, in their attempts to estunate \nthe nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon \nher face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from \nthe natural temperament of their youthful friend. A \ncertain fanciful person announced, as the result of \nmuch scrutiny, that both these pictures were parts of \none design, and that the melancholy strength of feel- \ning, in Elinor's countenance, bore reference to the \nmore vivid emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild pas- \nsion, in that of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, \nhe even began a sketch, in which the action of the two \nfigures was to correspond with their mutual expres- \nsion. \n\nIt was w^hispered among friends that, day by day, \nElinor's face was assmning a deeper shade of pensive- \nness, which threatened soon to render her too true a \ncounterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on the \nother hand, instead of acquiring the \\dvid look which \nthe painter had given him on the canvas, became \nreserved and doAvncast, with no outward flashes of \nemotion, however it might be smouldering within. In \ncourse of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of pur- \nple silk, Avrought with flowers and fringed with heavy \ngolden tassels, before the pictures, under j^retence that \nthe dust would tarnish their hues, or the light dim \nthem. It was enough. Her visitors felt, that the \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 205 \n\nmassive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn, nor \nthe portraits mentioned in her presence. \n\nTime wore on ; and the painter came again. He \nhad been far enough to the north to see the silver cas- \ncade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast \nromid of cloud and forest from the smnmit of New \nEngland's loftiest momitain. But he did not profane \nthat scene by the mockery of his art. He had also \nlain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, making \nhis sold the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till \nnot a picture in the Vatican was more \\d\\dd than his \nrecollection. He had gone with the Indian himters to \nNiagara, and there, again, had flimg his hopeless pencil \ndown the precipice, feeling that he coidd as soon pamt \nthe roar, as aught else that goes to make up the won- \ndrous cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impidse to \ncopy natural scenery, except as a framework for the \ndelineations of the human form and face, instmct with \nthought, passion, or suffering. With store of such his \nadventurous ramble had enriched him : the stern dig- \nnity of Indian chiefs ; the dusky loveliness of In- \ndian girls ; the domestic life of wig-wams ; the stealthy \nmarch ; the battle beneath gloomy pme-trees ; the \nfrontier fortress with its garrison ; the anomaly of the \nold French partisan, bred in courts, but growoi gray in \nshaggy deserts ; such were the scenes and portraits \nthat he had sketched. The glow of perilous moments ; \nflashes of wild feeling ; struggles of fierce power, — \nlove, hate, grief, frenzy ; in a word, all the worn-out \nheart of the old earth had been revealed to liim imder \na new form. His portfolio was filled with graphic \nillustrations of the volmne of his memory, wiiieh genius \nwoidd transmute into its owai substance, and imbue \nwith immortality. He felt that the deep wisdom in \nhis art, wliich he had sought so far, was found. \n\n\n206 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nBut amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the \nforest or its overwhelming peacefuhiess, still there had \nbeen two phantoms, the companions of his way. Like \nall other men aroimd whom an engTossing purpose \nm-eathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of \nhuman kind. He had no aim — no pleasure — no \nsympathies — but what were ultimately connected with \nhis art. Though gentle in manner and upright in in- \ntent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings ; his \nheart was cold ; no living creature could be brought \nnear enough to keep him warm. For these two beings, \nhowever, he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the sort \nof interest which always allied liim to the subjects of \nhis pencil. He had pried into their souls with his \nkeenest insight, and pictured the result upon their \nfeatures with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall \nshort of that standard which no genius ever reached, \nhis own severe conception. He had caught from the \nduskiness of the future — at least, so he fancied — a \nfearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the \nportraits. So much of himself — of his imagination \nand all other powers — had been lavished on the study \nof Walter and Elinor, that he abnost regarded them \nas creations of his own, like the thousands with which \nhe had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did \nthey flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on \nthe mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mii-ror of \nthe lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They \nhaunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life, \nnor pale gobbns of the dead, but in the guise of por- \ntraits, each with the unalterable expression which his \nmagic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He \ncoidd not recross the Atlantic till he had again beheld \nthe originals of those airy pictures. \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 207 \n\n\" O o'lorious Art I \" thus mused the enthusiastic \npainter as he trod the street, \"thou art the image \nof the Creator's own. The innumerable fonns, that \nwander in nothingness, start into being at thy beck. \nThe dead live again. Thou recallest them to their old \nscenes, and givest their gray shadows the lustre of a bet- \nter life, at once eartlily and immortal. Thou snatchest \nback the fleeting moments of History. With thee \nthere is no Past, for, at thy touch, all that is great \nbecomes forever present ; and illustrious men live \nthrough long ages, in the visible performance of the \nvery deeds which made them what they are. O potent \nArt! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past to \nstand in that narrow strip of sunlight, which we call \nNow, canst thou summon the slirouded Future to meet \nher there ? Have I not achieved it ? Am I not thy \nProphet?\" \n\nThus, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, did he \nalmost cry aloud, as he passed through the toilsome \nstreet, among people that knew not of his reveries, nor \ncoidd luiderstand nor care for them. It is not good for \nman to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless there be \nthose around him by whose example he may regulate \nhimself, his thoughts, desires, and hopes will become \nextravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps the real- \nity, of a madman. Reading other bosoms with an \nacuteness almost preternatural, the painter failed to \nsee the disorder of his owti. \n\n\"And this should be the house,\" said he, looking up \nand down the front, before he knocked. \" Heaven \nhelp my brains ! That picture ! Methinks it will \nnever vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the \ndoor, there it is framed within them, painted strongly, \nand glowing in the richest tints — the faces of the \npoi-traits — the figures and action of the sketch ! \" \n\n\n208 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nHe knocked. \n\n\" The Portraits ! Are they within ? \" inquired he \nof the domestic ; then recollecting himself — \" your \nmaster and mistress ! Are they at home ? \" \n\n\" They are, sir,\" said the servant, adding, as he no- \nticed that picturesque aspect of wiiich the painter \ncould never divest himself, \" and the Portraits too ! \" \n\nThe guest was admitted into a parlor, communi- \ncating by a central door with an interior room of the \nsame size. As the first apartment was empty, he \npassed to the entrance of the second, witliin which \nhis eyes were greeted by those living personages, as \nwell as their pictured representatives, who had long \nbeen the objects of so singular an interest. He invol- \nimtarily paused on the threshold. \n\nThey had not perceived his approach. Walter and \nElinor were standing before the portraits, whence the \nformer had just flung back the rich and volmninous \nfolds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel \nwith one hand, while the other grasped that of his \nbride. The pictures, concealed for months, gleamed \nforth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to \nthrow a sombre light across the room, rather than to \nbe disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor \nhad been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next \na gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her coun- \ntenance, deepening, with the lapse of time, into a quiet \nanguish. A mixture of affright would now have made \nit the very expression of the jjortrait. Walter's face \nwas moody and dull, or animated only by fitf id flashes, \nwhich left a hea\\der darkness for their momentary \nillumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait, \nand thence to his own, in the contemplation of which \nhe finally stood absorbed. \n\n\nTHE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 209 \n\nThe painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny \napproaching behind him, on its progress towards its \nvictims. A strange thought darted into his mind. \nWas not his own the form in which that destmy had \nembodied itself, and he a chief agent of the coming \nevil which he had foreshadowed ? \n\nStill, Walter remained silent before the picture, \ncommuning with it as with his own heart, and aban- \ndoning himself to the spell of evil influence that the \npainter had cast upon the features. Gradually his \neyes kindled ; while as Elinor watched the increasing \nwildness of liis face, her own assmned a look of ter- \nror ; and when at last he turned ujion her, the resem- \nblance of both to their portraits was complete. \n\n\" Our fate is upon us ! \" howled Walter. \" Die ! \" \n\nDrawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sink- \ning to the groimd, and aimed it at her bosom. In the \naction, and in the look and attitude of each, the painter \nbeheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with all \nits tremendous coloring, was finished. \n\n\" Hold, madman ! \" cried he, sternly. \n\nHe had advanced from the door, and interposed \nhimself between the wretched beings, with the same \nsense of power to regidate their destiny as to alter a \nscene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician, \ncontrolling the phantoms which he had evoked. \n\n\" What ! \" muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relaiDsed \nfrom fierce excitement into silent gloom, \" Does Fate \nimpede its own decree?\" \n\n\" Wretched lady ! \" said the painter, \" did I not \nwarn you ? \" \n\n\" You did,\" replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror \ngave place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. \n\"But — I loved him!\" \n\nVOL. I. 14 \n\n\n210 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nIs there not a deep moral in the tale ? Could the \nresult of one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and \nset before us, some woidd call it Fate, and Jiurry on- \nward, others be swept along by their passionate de- \nsires, and none be turned aside by the Pkophetic \n\nPiCTUEES. \n\n\nDAVID SWAN. \n\nA FANTASY. \n\nWe can be but partially acquainted even with the \nevents which actually influence our course through \nlife, and om' final destiny. There are innumerable \nother events — if such they may be called — wliich \ncome close upon us, yet pass away without actual \nresults, or even betraiydng their near approach, by the \nreflection of any light or shadow across our minds. \nCould we know all the vicissitudes of our fortimes, \nlife woidd be too fidl of hope and fear, exultation or \ndisappointment, to afford us a single hour of true \nserenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page \nfrom the secret history of David Swan. \n\nWe have nothing to do with David until we find \nhim, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his \nnative place to the city of Boston, where his imcle, a \nsmall dealer in the grocery line, was to take him be- \nhind the coimter. Be it enough to say that he was a \nnative of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, \nand had received an ordinary school education, with, a \nclassic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After \njoumejdng on foot from simrise till nearly noon of a \nsmnmer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat \ndetermined him to sit down in the first convenient \nshade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. \nAs if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared \na little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the \n\n\n212 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmidst, and such a fresh bubbling spring that it seemed \nnever to have spai'kled for any wayfarer but David \nSwan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty \nlips, and then flung himself along the bi-ink, pillowing \nhis head upon some shirts and a pair of pantailoons, \ntied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The stm- \nbeams could not reach him ; the dust did not yet rise \nfrom the road after the heavy rain of yesterday ; and \nhis grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed \nof do\\Nai. The spring murmured drowsily beside him ; \nthe branches waved dreamily across the blue sky over- \nhead ; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams \nwithin its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are \nto relate events which he did not dream of. \n\nWhile he lay sound asleep in the shade, other peo- \nple were wide awake, and passed to and fro, afoot, on \nhorseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny \nroad by his bedchamber. Some looked neither to the \nright hand nor the left, and knew not that he was \nthere ; some merely glanced that way, without admit- \nting the slumberer among their busy thoughts ; some \nlaughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, \nwhose hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected \ntheir venomous superfluity on DaAdd Swan. A middle- \naged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her \nhead a little way into the recess, and vowed that the \nyoung fellow looked charming in liis sleep. A tem- \nperance lecturer saw Imn, and wrought poor David \ninto the texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful \ninstance of dead drunkenness by the roadside. But \ncensure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference were \nall one, or rather all nothing, to David S^van. \n\nHe had slept only a few moments when a brown \ncarriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled \n\n\nDAVID SWAN. 213 \n\neasily along, and was brought to a stand-still nearly \nin front of David's resting-place. A linchpin had \nfallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. \nThe damage was slight, and occasioned merely a mo- \nmentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, \nwho were returning to Boston in the carriage. While \nthe coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, \nthe lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath \nthe maple-trees, and there espied the bubbling fount- \nain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed \nwith the awe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds \naroimd him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout \nwoidd allow ; and his spouse took good heed not to \nrustle her silk gown, lest David should start up all of \na sudden. \n\n\" How soundly he sleeps ! \" whispered the old gen- \ntleman. \" From what a depth he draws that easy \nbreath ! Such sleep as that, brought on without an \nopiate, would be worth more to me than half my in- \ncome ; for it woidd suppose health and an imtroubled \nmind.'' \n\n\"And youth, besides,\" said the lady. \"Healthy \nand quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slmnber is no \nmore like his than our wakefidness.\" \n\nThe longer they looked the more did this elderly \ncouple feel interested in the unkno^vn youth, to whom \nthe w^ayside and the maple shade were as a secret \nchamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains \nbrooding over him. Percei\\ang that a stray sunbeam \nglunmered dowTi upon his face, the lady contrived to \ntsvist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And hav- \ning done tliis little act of kindness, she began to feel \nlike a mother to him. \n\n\"Providence seems to have laid him here,\" whis- \n\n\n214 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\npered she to her husband, \"and to have brought us \nhither to find him, after our disappointment in our \ncousin's son. Metliinks I can see a likeness to our \ndeparted Henry. Shall we waken him ? \" \n\n\" To what purpose ? \" said the merchant, hesitating. \n\" We know nothing of the youth's character.\" \n\n\"That oj)en cotmtenance! \" replied his wife, in the \nsame hushed voice, yet earnestly. \"This innocent \nsleep!\" \n\nWhile these whispers were passing, the sleeper's \nheart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, \nnor his features betray the least token of interest. \nYet Fortime was bending over him, just ready to let \nfall a burden of gold. The old merchant had lost his \nonly son, and had no heir to his wealth except a dis- \ntant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. \nIn such cases, people sometimes do stranger things \nthan to act the magician, and awaken a yoimg man to \nsplendor who fell asleep in poverty. \n\n\" Shall we not waken him ? \" repeated the lady, \npersuasively. \n\n\"The coach is ready, sir,\" said the servant, behind. \n\nThe old couple started, reddened, and hurried \naway, mutually wondering that they should ever have \ndreamed of doing anything so very ridicidous. The \nmerchant threw himself back in the carriage, and oc- \ncupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylmn \nfor unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David \nSwan enjoyed his nap. \n\nThe carriage could not have gone above a mile or \ntwo, when a pretty young girl came along, with a \ntripping pace, which showed precisely how her little \nheart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this \nmerry kind of motion that caused — is there any harm \n\n\nDAVID SWAN. 215 \n\nin saying it ? — her garter to slip its knot. Conscious \nthat the silken girth — if silk it were — was relaxing \nits hold, she tiu-ned aside into the shelter of the maple- \ntrees, and there found a young man asleep by the \nspring ! Bhishing as red as any rose that she should \nhave intruded into a gentleman's bedchamber, and for \nsuch a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape \non tiptoe. But there was peril near the sleeper. A \nmonster of a bee had been wandering overhead — - \nbuzz, buzz, buzz — now among the leaves, now flashing \nthrough the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the \ndark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on \nthe eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is some- \ntimes deadly. As free hearted as she was innocent, \nthe girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, \nbrushed him soimdly, and drove him from beneath the \nmaple shade. How sweet a picture ! This good deed \naccomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper \nblush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for \nwhom she had been battling with a dragon in the \nair. \n\n\"He is handsome ! \" thought she, and blushed redder \nyet. \n\nHow could it be that no dream of bliss grew so \nstrong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, \nit should part asimder, and allow him to perceive the \ngirl among its phantoms ? Why, at least, did no smile \nof welcome brighten upon his face ? She was come, \nthe maid whose soul, according to the old and beauti- \nful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, \nin all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to \nmeet. Her, only, could he love with a perfect love ; \nhim, only, could she receive into the depths of her \nheart ; and now her image was faintly blushing in the \n\n\n216 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nfoimtain, by his side ; sliovilcl it pass away, its happy \nlustre would never gleam upon his life again. \n\n\" How soimd he sleeps ! \" murmured the girl. \n\nShe departed, but did not trip along the road so \nlightly as when she came. \n\nNow, this girl's father was a tliriving coimtry mer- \nchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that \nidentical time, to be looking out for just such a yormg \nman as David Swan. Had Da\\dd formed a wayside \nacquaintance with the daughter, he would have become \nthe father's clerk, and aU else in natural succession. \nSo here, again, had good fortime — the best of for- \ntunes — stolen so near that her garments brushed \nagainst him ; and he knew nothing of the matter. \n\nThe girl was hardly out of sight when two men \nturned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark \nfaces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawTi down \naslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, \nyet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of \nrascals who got their living by whatever the devil \nsent them, and now, in the interim of other business, \nhad staked the joint profits of their next piece of \nvillany on a game of cards, which was to have been \ndecided here imder the trees. But, finding David \nasleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to \nhis fellow, — \n\n\" Hist ! — Do you see that bundle under his head ? \" \n\nThe other villain nodded, winked, and leered. \n\n\" I '11 bet you a horn of brandy,\" said the first, \" that \nthe chap has either a pocket-book, or a snug little \nhoard of small change, stowed away amongst his \nshirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his \npantaloons pocket.\" \n\n\" But how if he wakes ? \" said the other. \n\n\nDAVID SWAN. 217 \n\nHis companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed \nto the handle of a dirk, and nodded. \n\n\" So be it ! \" muttered the second villain. \n\nThey approached the unconscious David, and, while \none pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other \nbegan to search the bimdle beneath his head. Their \ntwo faces, grim, wi^inkled, and ghastly with guilt and \nfear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough \nto be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. \nNay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, \neven they would hardly have knowTi themselves as \nreflected there. But David Swan had never worn a \nmore tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's \nbreast. \n\n\" I must take away the bundle,\" whispered one. \n\n\" If he stirs, I '11 strike,\" muttered the other. \n\nBut, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the \ngromid, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed \nalternately at each of these wicked men, and then \nat the quiet sleeper. He then lapjted out of the \nfountain. \n\n\" Pshaw ! \" said one villain. \" We can do nothing \nnow. The dog's master must be close behind.\" \n\n\" Let 's take a drink and be off,\" said the other. \n\nThe man with the dagger thrust back the weapon • \ninto his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not \nof that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was \na flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed \nujoon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, \nand left the spot, with so many jests, and such \nlaughter at their imaccomplished wickedness, that \nthey might be said to have gone on their way re- \njoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole \naffair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had \n\n\n218 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwritten down the crime of murder against their souls, \nin letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, \nhe still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow \nof death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of \nrenewed life when that shadow was withdrawn. \n\nHe slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An \nhour's repose had snatched, from liis elastic frame, \nthe weariness with which many hours of toil had bur- \ndened it. Now he stirred — now, moved his lips, \nwithout a sound — now, talked, in an inward tone, to \nthe noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of \nwheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, \nvmtil it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's \nslmnber — and there was the stage-coach. He started \nup with all his ideas about him. \n\n\" Halloo, driver ! — Take a passenger ? \" shouted \nhe. \n\n\" Room on top ! \" answered the driver. \n\nUp mounted David, and bowled away merrily \ntowards Boston, without so much as a parting glance \nat that foimtain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew \nnot that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden \nhue upon its waters — nor that one of Love had \nsighed softly to their murmur — nor that one of Death \nhad threatened to crimson them with his blood — all, \nin the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleep- \ning or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of \nthe strange things that almost happen. Does it not \nargue a superintending Providence that, while view- \nless and imexpected events thrust themselves contin- \nually athwart our path, there should still be regularity \nenough in mortal life to render foresight even par- \ntially available? \n\n\nSIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. \n\nSo ! I have climbed liigh, and my reward is small. \nHere I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a \ndizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me \nstill. Oh that I could soar up into the very zenith, \nwhere man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and \nwhere the ethereal azure melts away from the eye, \nand appears only a deepened shade of nothingness ! \nAnd yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. \nWhat clouds are gathering in the golden west, with \ndireful intent against the brightness and the warmth \nof this summer afternoon ! They are ponderous air \nships, black as death, and freighted with the tempest ; \nand at intervals their thimder, the signal gims of that \nimearthly squadron, rolls distant along the deep of \nheaven. These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor — me- \nthinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day \nlong ! — seem scattered here and there for the repose \nof tired pilgrims through the sky. Perhaps — for \nwho can tell ? — beautiful spirits are disporting them- \nselves there, and will bless my mortal eye with the \nbrief appearance of their curly locks of golden light, \nand laughing faces, fair and faint as the people of a \nrosy dream. Or, where the floating mass so imper- \nfectly obstructs the color of the firmament, a slender \nfoot and fairy limb, resting too heavily upon the frail \nsupport, may be thrust through, and suddenly v,ith- \ndrawn, while longing fancy foUows them in vain. \nYonder again is an airy archipelago, where the sun- \n\n\n220 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbeams love to linger in their journeyings through \nspace. Every one of those little clouds has been \ndipped and steeped in radiance, which the slightest \npressure might disengage in silvery profusion, like \nwater wrung from a sea-maid's hair. Bright they are \nas a young man's visions, and, like them, would be \nrealized in chillness, obscurity, and tears. I will look \non them no more. \n\nIn three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is \nthis spire, I discern cidtivated fields, villages, white \ncountry seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid \nlakes, and here and there a rising ground, that would \nfain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea, \nstretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue \nand calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow \nflits across its surface, and is gone. Hitherward, a \nbroad inlet penetrates far into the land ; on the verge \nof the harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town ; and \nover it am I, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. \nOh that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like \nthose of Madrid, and betray, in smoky whispers, the \nsecrets of all who, since their first foiuidation, have \nassembled at the hearths within ! Oh that the Limp- \ning Devil of Le Sage woidd perch beside me here, \nextend his wand over this contigiuty of roofs, uncover \nevery chamber, and make me familiar with their in- \nhabitants ! The most desirable mode of existence \nmight be that of a spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering \ninvisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, \nsearching into their hearts, borrowing brightness from \ntheir felicity and shade from their sorrow, and retain- \ning no emotion pecidiar to himself. But none of these \nthings are possible ; and if I would know the interior \nof brick walls, or the mystery of human bosoms, I can \nbut guess. \n\n\nSIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 221 \n\nYonder is a fair street, extending north and sonth. \nThe stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of \nverdant grass, and a long- flight of steps descends from \nevery door to the pavement. Ornamental trees — the \nbroad-leafed horse-chestnnt, the elm so lofty and bend- \ning, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others \nwhereof, I know not the names — grow thrivingly \namong brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun \nare intercepted by these green citizens, and by the \nhouses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and \npleasant walk. On its whole extent there is now but a \nsingle passenger, advancing from the upper end ; and \nhe, unless distance and the mediimi of a pocket spy- \nglass do him more than justice, is a fine yomig man \nof twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping his \nleft hand with liis folded gloves, bending his eyes \nupon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to \nthrow a glance before him. Certainly, he has a pen- \nsive air. Is he in dovibt, or in debt ? Is he, if the \nquestion be allowable, in love ? Does he strive to be \nmelancholy and gentleman-like? Or, is he merely \novercome by the heat ? But I bid him farewell for \nthe present. The door of one of the houses — an aris- \ntocratic edifice, with curtains of purple and gold wav- \ning from the windows, is now opened, and down the \nsteps come two ladies, swinging their parasols, and \nlightly arrayed for a summer ramble. Both are young, \nboth are pretty, but methinks the left-hand lass is the \nfairer of the twain ; and, though she be so serious at \ntliis moment, I could swear that there is a treasure of \ngentle fun within her. They stand talking a little \nwhile upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street. \nMeantime, as their faces are now turned from me, I \nmay look elsewhere. \n\n\n222 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nUpon that wharf, and down the corresponding \nstreet, is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I \nhave just noticed. Business evidently has its centre \nthere, and many a man is wasting the summer after- \nnoon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches or m gain- \ning them, when he woidd be wiser to flee away to some \npleasant covmtry village, or shaded lake in the forest, \nor wild and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading at \nthe wharf, and precious merchandise strewn upon the \nground, abundantly as at the bottom of the sea, that \nmarket whence no goods return, and where there is \nno captain nor supercargo to render an account of \nsales. Here, the clerks are diligent with their paper \nand pencils, and sailors ply the block and tackle that \nhang over the hold, accompanjdng their toil with cries, \nlong drawn and roughly melodious, till the bales and \npuncheons ascend to upper air. At a little distance a \ngroup of gentlemen are assembled round the door of \na warehouse. Grave seniors be they, and I would \nwager — if it were safe in these times to be responsi- \nble for any one — that the least eminent among them \nmight vie with old Vicentio, that incomparable traf- \nficker of Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of the \ncompany. It is the elderly personage, in somewhat \nrusty black, with powdered hair, the superfluous white- \nness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. \nHis twenty sliips are wafted on some of their many \ncourses by every breeze that blows, and his name — I \nwill venture to say, though I know it not — is a famil- \niar sound among the far separated merchants of \nEurope and the Indies. \n\nBut I bestow too much of my attention in this quar- \nter. On looking again to the long and shady walk, 1 \nperceive that the two fair girls have encountered the \n\n\nSIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 223 \n\nyoung man. After a sort of sh}aiess in the recognition, \nhe turns back with them. Moreover, he has sanctioned \nmy taste in regard to his companions by placing him- \nself on the inner side of the pavement, nearest the \nVenus to whom I — enacting, on a steeple top, the \npart of Paris on the top of Ida — adjudged the golden \napple. \n\nIn two streets, converging at right angles towards \nmy watchtower, I distinguish three different proces- \nsions. One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers, in \nbright imiform, resembling, from the height whence I \nlook down, the painted veterans that garrison the win- \ndows of a toyshop. And yet, it stirs my heart ; their \nregiUar advance, their nodding plumes, the sunflash on \ntheir bayonets and musket barrels, the roll of their \ndrums ascending past me, and the fife ever and anon \npiercing through — these tilings have wakened a war- \nlike fire, peaceful though I be. Close to their rear \nmarches a battalion of school-boys, ranged in crooked \nand irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a \nharsh and miripe clatter from an instrmnent of tin, \nand ridiculously aping the intricate manoeuvres of the \nforemost band. Nevertheless, as slight differences are \nscarcely perceptible from a church spire, one might be \ntempted to ask, \" Which are the boys ? \" — or rather, \n\" Which the men ? \" But, leaving these, let us turn \nto the third procession, wliich, though sadder in out- \nward show, may excite identical reflections in the \nthouo-htfid mind. It is a fiuieral. A hearse, drawn \nby a black and bony steed, and covered by a dusty \npall ; two or three coaches rumbling over the stones, \ntheir drivers half asleep ; a dozen couple of careless \nmourners in their every-day attire ; such was not the \nfashion of our fathers, when they carried a friend to \n\n\n224 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhis grave. There is now no doleful clang of the bell \nto proclaim sorrow to the town. Was the King of \nTerrors more a\\vful in those days than in our own, \nthat wisdom and philosophy have been able to produce \nthis change ? Not so. Here is a proof that he retains \nhis proper majesty. The military men and the mili- \ntary boys are wheeling round the corner, and meet \nthe ftmeral full in the face. Immediately the drmn is \nsilent, all but the tap that regidates each simultaneous \nfootfall. The soldiers yield the path to the dusty \nhearse and mipretending train, and the children quit \ntheir ranks, and ckister on the sidewalks, with timo- \nrous and instinctive curiosity. The mourners enter the \nchurchyard at the base of the steeple, and pause by an \nopen grave among the burial stones ; the lightning \nglimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and \nthe thunder rattles heavily while they throw the earth \nupon its lid. Verily, the shower is near, and I trem- \nble for the young man and the girls, who have now \ndisappeared from the long and shady street. \n\nHow various are the situations of the people covered \nby the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the \nevents at this moment befalling them ! The new born, \nthe aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent \ndead, are in the chambers of these many mansions. \nThe fidl of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the \ndesperate, dwell together witliin the circle of my \nglance. In some of the houses over which my eyes \nroam .^flLgoldlyj gvult is entering into hearts that are \nstill tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue, — ■ \nguilt is on the very edge of commission, and the im- \npending deed might be averted ; guilt is done, and the \ncriminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad \nthoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to \n\n\nSIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 2\"25 \n\ngive them distinctness, they would make their way in \neloquence. Lo ! the raindrops are descending. \n\nThe clouds, within a little time, have gathered over \nall the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in \none imbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals, the \nlightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, \ndisappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling \nslowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has \nsprimg up, howls through the darkened streets, and \nraises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the ap- \nproaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the fu- \nneral has already vanished like its dead, and all people \nhurry homeward — all that have a home ; while a few \nlounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at \ntheir leisure. In a narrow lane, which communicates \nwith the shady street, I discern the rich old mer- \nchant, putting himself to the top of his speed, lest the \nrain shoidd convert his hair powder to a paste. Un- \nhappy gentleman ! By the slow vehemence and pain- \nful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but too \nevident that Podagra has left its thrilling tenderness \nin his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid pace, \ncome three other of my acquaintance, the two pretty \ngirls and the young man, unseasonably interrupted in \ntheir walk. Their footsteps are supported by the risen \ndust, — the wind lends them its velocity, — they fly \nlike three sea-birds driven landward by the tempestu- \nous breeze. The ladies woidd not thus rival Atalanta \nif they but knew that any one were at leisure to ob- \nserve them. Ah ! as they hasten onward, laughing in \nthe angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has \nchanced. At the corner where the narrow lane enters \ninto the street, they come plump against the old mer \nchant, whose tortoise motion has just brought him to \n\nVOL. I. 15 \n\n\n226 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthat point. He likes not the sweet encounter ; the \ndarkness of the whole air gathers speedily upon his \nvisage, and there is a pause on both sides. Finally, \nhe thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes \nan arm of each of the two girls, and plods onward, \nlike a magician with a prize of captive fairies. All \nthis is easy to be understood. How disconsolate the \npoor lover stands ! regardless of the rain that threatens \nan exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, \ntill he catches a backward glance of mirth from a \nbright eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it \nconveys. \n\nThe old man and his daughters are safely housed, \nand now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwell- \ning I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they \nshut down the windows, excluding the impetuous \nshower, and shrinking away from the quick fiery \nglare. The large drops descend with force upon the \nslated roofs, and rise again in smoke. There is a \nrush and roar, as of a river through the air, and \nmuddy streams bubble majestically along the pave- \nment, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and \ndisappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa \nsink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst \nof the tumidt which I am powerless to direct or quell, \nwith the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the \nthunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. \nI will descend. Yet let me give another glance to the \nsea, where the foam breaks out in long white lines \nupon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far \ndistant points, like snowy mountain tops in the eddies \nof a flood ; and let me look once more at the green \nplain, and little hills of the country, over w^hich the \ngiuiit of the storm is striding in robes of mist, and at \n\n\nSIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 227 \n\nthe town, whose obscured and desolate streets might \nbeseem a city of the dead ; and turning a single mo- \nment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects, \nI prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But \nstay ! A little speck of azure has widened in the \nwestern heavens ; the sunbeams find a passage, and \ngo rejoicing through the tempest ; and on yonder \ndarkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory \nof another world and the trouble and tears of this, \nbrio-htens forth the Rainbow ! \n\n\nTHE HOLLOAV OF THE THREE HILLS. \n\nIn those strange old times, when fantastic dreams \nand madmen's reveries were realized among the \nactual circumstances of life, two persons met together \nat an appointed hour and place. One was a lady, \ngraceful in form and fair of feature, though pale and \ntroubled, and smitten with an untimely blight in what \nshould have been the fidlest bloom of her years ; the \nother was an ancient and meanly-dressed woman, of \nill-favored aspect, and so withered, shrunken, and de- \ncrepit, that even the space since she began to decay \nmust have exceeded the ordinary term of human \nexistence. In the spot where they encountered, no \nmortal could observe them. Three little hills stood \nnear each other, and down in the midst of them sunk \na hollow basin, almost mathematically circidar, two or \nthree hundred feet in breadth, and of such depth that \na stately cedar might but just be visible above the \nsides. Dwarf pines were numerous upon the hills, \nand partly fringed the outer verge of the intermediate \nhollow, within which there was nothing but the b^o^^^l \ngrass of October, and here and there a tree trunk that \nhad fallen long ago, and lay moiddering with no \n^f^-green successor from its roots. One of these masses \nof decaying wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested \nclose beside a pool of gTcen and sluggish water at the \nbottom of the basm. Such scenes as this (so gray \ntradition tells) were once the resort of the Power of \nEvil and his plighted subjects ; and here, at midnight \n\n\nTHE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 229 \n\nor on the dim verge of evening, tliey were said to \nstand round the mantling j^ool, disturbing its putrid \nwaters in the performance of an impious baptismal \nrite. The chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was \nnow gilding the three hill-tops, whence a jDaler tint \nstole down their sides into the hollow. \n\n\" Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,\" said \nthe aged crone, \" according as thou hast desired. Say \nquickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but \na short hour that we may tarry here.\" \n\nAs the old withered woman spoke, a smile glim- \nmered on her countenance, like lamplight on the wall \nof a sepvdchre. The lady trembled, and cast her eyes \nupward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to \nreturn with her purpose unaccomplished. But it was \nnot so ordamed. \n\n\" I am a stranger in this land, as you know,\" said \nshe at length. \" Whence I come it matters not ; but \nI have left those behind me with whom my fate was \nintimately bovmd, and from whom I am cut off for- \never. There is a weight in my bosom that I cannot \naway with, and I have come hither to inquire of their \nwelfare.\" \n\n\" And who is there by this green pool that can \nbring thee news from the ends of the earth ? \" cried \nthe old woman, peering into the lady's face. \" Not \nfrom my lips mayst thou hear these tidings ; yet, be \nthou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from \nyonder hill-top before thy wish be granted.\" \n\n\" I will do your bidding though I die,\" replied the \nlady desperately. \n\nThe old woman seated herself on the trunk of the \nfallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her \ngray locks, and beckoned her companion to draw near. \n\n\n230 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" Kneel clown,\" she said, \" and lay your forehead \non my knees.\" \n\nShe hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had \nlong been kindling burned fiercely up within her. \nAs she knelt down, the border of her garment was \ndipped into the pool ; she laid her forehead on the old \nwoman's knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the \nlady's face, so that she was in darkness. Then she \nheard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst of \nwhich she started, and woidd have arisen. \n\n\" Let me flee, — let me flee and hide myself, that \nthey may not look upon me ! \" she cried. But, with \nreturning recollection, she hushed herself, and was \nstill as death. \n\nFor it seemed as if other voices — familiar in in- \nfancy, and unforgotten through many wanderings, and \nin all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune — \nwere mingling with the accents of the prayer. At \nfirst the words were faint and indistinct, not rendered \nso by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages \nof a book which we strive to read by an imperfect and \ngradually brightening light. In such a manner, as \nthe prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon \nthe ear ; till at length the petition ended, and the con- \nversation of an aged man, and of a woman broken \nand decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to \nthe lady as she knelt. But those strangers appeared \nnot to stand in the hollow depth between the three \nhills. Their voices were encompassed and reechoed \nby the walls of a chamber, the windows of which were \nrattling in the breeze ; the regular vibration of a clock, \nthe crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers \nas they fell among the ashes, rendered the scene al- \nmost as vivid as if painted to the eye. By a melan- \n\n\nTHE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 231 \n\ncholy hearth sat these two old people, the man calmly \ndespondent, the woman querulous and tearfid, and \ntheir words were all of sorrow. They spoke of a \ndaughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing \ndishonor along with her, and leaving shame and afflic- \ntion to bring their gray heads to the grave. They \nalluded also to other and more recent woe, but in the \nmidst of their talk their voices seemed to melt into the \nsound of the wind sweeping mournfully among the au- \ntumn leaves ; and when the lady lifted her e}' es, there \nwas she kneeling in the hollow between three hills. \n\n\" A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple \nhave of it,\" remarked the old woman, smiling in the \nlady's face. \n\n\" And did you also hear them ? \" exclaimed she, a \nsense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her \nagony and fear. \n\n\" Yea ; and we have yet more to hear,\" replied the \nold woman. \" Wherefore, cover thy face quickly.\" \n\nAgain the withered hag poured forth the monoto- \nnous words of a prayer that was not meant to be ac- \nceptable in heaven ; and soon, in the pauses of her \nbreath, strange murmurings began to thicken, grad- \nually increasing so as to drown and overpower the \ncharm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through \nthe obsciu-ity of sound, and were succeeded by the \nsinging of sweet female voices, which, in their turn, \ngave way to a 'svild roar of laughter, broken suddenly \nby groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly \nconfusion of terror and mourning and mirth. Chains \nwere rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats, \nand the scourge resomided at their command. AU \nthese noises deepened and became substantial to the \nlistener's ear, till she could distinguish every soft and \n\n\n232 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ndreamy accent of the love songs that died causelessly \ninto funeral hymns. She shuddered at the unpro- \nvoked wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous \nkindling of flame, and she grew faint at the fearful \nmerriment raging miserably around her. In the \nmidst of this wild scene, where mibound passions \njostled each other in a drunken career, there was one \nsolemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious \nvoice it might once have been. He went to and fro \ncontinually, and his feet sounded upon the floor. In \neach member of that frenzied comjDany, whose own \nburning thoughts had become their exclusive world, \nhe sought an auditor for the story of his individual \nwrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as his \nreward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman's per- \nfidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a \nhome and heart made desolate. Even as he went on, \nthe shout, the laugh, the shriek, the sob, rose up in \nunison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful, and \nuneven sound of the wind, as it fought among the pine- \ntrees on those three lonely hills. The lady looked up, \nand there was the withered woman smiling in her face. \n\n\" Couldst thou have thought there were such merry \ntimes in a mad-house ? \" inquired the latter. \n\n\" True, true,\" said the lady to herself ; \" there is \nmirth within its walls, but misery, misery without.\" \n\n\" Wouldst thou hear more ? \" demanded the old \nwoman. \n\n\" There is one other voice I would fain listen to \nagain,\" replied the lady, faintly. \n\n\" Then, lay dowoi thy head speedily upon my knees, \nthat thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be \npast.\" \n\nThe golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon \n\n\nTHE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 233 \n\nthe hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the \npool, as if sombre night were rising thence to over- \nspread the world. Again that evil woman began to \nweave her spell. Long did it proceed imanswered, till \nthe knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of \nher words, like a clang that had travelled far over \nvalley and rising groimd, and was just ready to die in \nthe air. The lady shook upon her companion's knees \nas she heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew \nand sadder, and deepened into the tone of a death \nbell, knolling dolefully from some ivj^-mantled tower, \nand bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cot- \ntage, to the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer, that all \nmight weep for the doom appointed in turn to them. \nThen came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly \non, as of mourners with a coffin, their garments trail- \ning on the ground, so that the ear could measure the \nlength of their melancholy array. Before them went \nthe priest, reading the burial service, while the leaves \nof his book were rustling in the breeze. And though \nno voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there \nwere revilings and anathemas, wliispered but distinct, \nfrom women and from men, breathed against the \ndaughter who had ^vrimg the aged hearts of her par- \nents, — the wife who had betrayed the trusting fond- \nness of her husband, — the mother who had sinned \nagainst natiiral affection, and left her child to die. \nThe sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away \nlike a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had \nseemed to shake the coffin pall, moaned sadly round \nthe verge of the Hollow between three Hills. But \nwhen the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she \nlifted not her head. \n\n\" Here has been a sweet hour's sport ! \" said the \nwithered crone, chuckling to herself. \n\n\nTHE TOLI^GATHERER'S DAY. \n\nA SKETCH OF TRANSITORY LIFE. \n\nMethinks, for a person whose instinct bids him \nrather to pore over the current of life than to plunge \ninto its tumultuous waves, no undesirable retreat were \na toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare of the \nland. In youth, perhaps, it is good for the observer \nto rim about the earth — to leave the track of his foot- \nsteps far and wide — to mingle himself with the action \nof numberless vicissitudes ; and, finally, in some calm \nsolitude, to feed a musing spirit on all that he has seen \nand felt. But there are natures too indolent, or too \nsensitive, to endure the dust, the sunshine, or the rain, \nthe turmoU of moral and physical elements, to which \nall the wayfarers of the world expose themselves. For \nsuch a man, how pleasant a miracle, coidd life be \nmade to roll its variegated length by the threshold of \nhis own hermitage, and the great globe, as it were, \nperform its revolutions and shift its thousand scenes \nbefore his eyes without whirling liim onward in its \ncourse. If any mortal be favored with a lot analogous \nto this, it is the toll-gatherer. So, at least, have I \noften fancied, while loungmg on a bench at the door \nof a small square edifice, which stands between shore \nand shore in the midst of a long bridge. Beneath the \ntimbers ebbs and flows an arm of the sea ; while above, \nlike the life-blood through a great artery, the travel of \nthe north and east is continually throbbing. Sitting on \n\n\nTHE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY. 235 \n\nthe aforesaid bench I amuse myself with a conception, \nillustrated by nmnerous pencil sketches in the air, of \nthe toll-gatherer's day. \n\nIn the morning- — dim, gTay, dewy summer's morn \n— the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to \nmingle with my old friend's slumbers, creaking more \nand more harshly through the midst of his dream, and \ngradually replacing it with realities. Hardly con- \nscious of the change from sleep to wakefulness, he \nfinds himseK partly clad and throwing wide the toll- \ngates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. The \ntimbers groan beneath the slow-revohing w^heels ; one \nsturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, and, peering \nfrom the simimit of the hay, by the glimmer of the \nhalf-extingiushed lantern over the toll-house, is seen \nthe drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a \nnap some ten miles long. The toll is paid — creak, \ncreak, again go the w^heels, and the huge haymow van- \nishes into the morning mist. As yet, nature is but \nhalf awake, and familiar objects appear visionary. \nBut yonder, dashing from the shore with a rattling \nthunder of the w^heels and a confused clatter of hoofs, \ncomes the never-tiring mail, which has hurried onw^ard \nat the same headlong, restless rate, all through the \nquiet night. The bridge resounds in one continued \npeal as the coach rolls on without a pause, merely af- \nfording the toll-gatherer a glimjose at the sleepy pas- \nsengers, w^ho now^ bestir their torpid limbs and snuff \na cordial in the briny air. The morn breathes upon \nthem and blushes, and they forget how wearily the \ndarkness toiled aw^ay. And behold now the fervid \nday, in his bright chariot, glittering aslant over the \nwaves, nor scorning to throw a tribute of his golden \nbeams on the toll-gatherer's little hermitage. The \n\n\n236 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nold man looks eastward, and (for he is a moralizer) \nframes a simile of the stage-coach and the smi. \n\nWhile the world is rousing itself, we may glance \nslightly at the scene of our sketch. It sits above the \nbosom of the broad flood, a spot not of earth, but in \nthe midst of waters, which rush with a murmuring \nsound among the massive beams beneath. Over the \ndoor is a weather-beaten board, inscribed with the \nrates of toll, in letters so nearly effaced that the gild- \ning of the simshine can hardly make them legible. \nBeneath the window is a wooden bench, on which a \nlong succession of weary wayfarers have reposed them- \nselves. Peeping within doors, we perceive the white- \nwashed walls bedecked with simdry lithographic prints \nand advertisements of various import, and the immense \nshowbill of a wandering caravan. And there sits our \ngood old toll-gatherer, glorified by the early sunbeams. \nHe is a man, as his aspect may announce, of quiet \nsoul, and thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, who, \nof the wisdom which the passing world scatters along \nthe wayside, has gathered a reasonable store. \n\nNow the Sim smiles upon the landscape, and earth \nsmiles back again upon the sky. Frequent, now, are \nthe travellers. The toll-gatherer's practised ear can \ndistinguish the weight of every vehicle, the number \nof its wheels, and how many horses beat the resound- \ning timbers with their iron tramp. Here, in a sub- \nstantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to take \nadvantage of the dewy road, come a gentleman and \nhis wife, with their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting glad- \nsomely between them. The bottom of the chaise is \nheaped with multifarious band-boxes, and carpet-bags, \nand beneath the axle swings a leathei-n trunk, dusty \nwith yesterday's journey. Next appears a four-wheeled \n\n\nTHE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY. 23T \n\ncarryall, peopled with a round half dozen of pretty \ngirls, all drawTi by a single horse, and driven by a \nsingle gentleman. Lnckless wight, doomed, through \na whole simimer day, to be the butt of mirth ?ind mis- \nchief among the frolicsome maidens ! Bolt vipright \nin a sidky rides a thin, sour-visaged man, who, as he \npays his toll, hands the toll-gatherer a printed card \nto stick upon the wall. The vinegar-faced traveller \nproves to be a manufacturer of pickles. Now paces \nslowly from timber to timber a horseman clad in \nblack, with a meditative brow, as of one who, whith- \nersoever his steed might bear him, woidd still journey \nthrough a mist of brooding thought. He is a country \npreacher, going to labor at a protracted meeting. The \nnext object passing townward is a butcher's cart, can- \nopied with its arch of snow-white cotton. Behind \ncomes a \" sauceman,\" dri\\dng a wagon full of new po- \ntatoes, green ears of corn, beets, carrots, turnips, and \nsummer squashes; and next, two wrinkled, withered, \nwitch-looking old gossips, in an antediluvian chaise, \ndrawn by a horse of former generations, and going to \npeddle out a lot of huckleberries. See there, a man \ntrundling a wheelbarrow load of lobsters. And now \na milk cart rattles briskly onward, covered with green \ncanvas, and conveying the contributions of a whole \nherd of cows in large tin canisters. But let all these \npay their toll and pass. Here comes a spectacle that \ncauses the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if \nthe travellers brought sunshine with them and lav- \nished its gladsome influence all along the road. \n\nIt is a barouche of the newest style, the varnished \npanels of which reflect the whole moving panorama \nof the landscape, and show a picture, likcsvise, of our \nfriend, \\vith his visage broadened, so that his medita- \n\n\n238 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ntive smile is transformed to grotesque merriment. \nWithin, sits a youth, fresh as the siunmer morn, and \nbeside him a young lady in white, with white gloves \nupon he» slender hands, and a white veil flowing do\\Mi \nover her face. But methinks her blushing cheek bums \nthrough the snowy veil. Another white-robed virgin \nsits in front. And who are these, on whom, and on \nall that appertains to them, the dust of earth seems \nnever to have settled ? Two lovers, whom the priest \nhas blessed this blessed morn, and sent them forth, \nwith one of the bridemaids, on the matrimonial tour. \nTake my blessing too, ye happy ones ! May the sky \nnot frown upon you, nor clouds bedew you with their \nchill and sidlen rain ! May the hot sun Idndle no \nfever in your hearts ! May your whole life's pilgrim- \nage be as blissful as this first day's journey, and its \nclose be gladdened with even brighter anticipations \nthan those which hallow your bridal night ! \n\nThey pass ; and ere the reflection of their joy has \nfaded from his face, another spectacle throws a melan- \ncholy shadow over the spirit of the observing man. In \na close carriage sits a fragile figure, muffled carefully, \nand shrinking even from the mild breath of smnmer. \nShe leans against a manly form, and his arm enfolds \nher, as if to guard his treasure from some enemy. Let \nbut a few weeks pass, and when he shall strive to em- \nbrace that loved one, he will press only desolation to \nhis heart. \n\nAnd now has morning gathered up her dewy pearls \nand fled away. The sun rolls blazing through the sky, \nand cannot find a cloud to cool liis face with. The \nhorses toil sluggislily along the bridge, and heave their \nglistening sides in short quick pantings, when the reins \nare tightened at the toll-house. Glisten, too, the faces \n\n\nTHE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY. 239 \n\nof the travellers. Their garments are thickly bestrewn \nwith dust ; tlieir whiskers and hair look hoary ; their \nthroats are choked with the dusty atmosphere which \nthey have left behind them. No air is stirring on the \nroad. Nature dares draw no breath, lest she should \ninhale a stifling cloud of dust. \"A hot and dusty \nday ! \" cry the poor pilgrims, as they wipe their be- \ngrimed foreheads, and woo the doubtful breeze which \nthe river bears along with it. \" Awful hot I Dreadful \ndusty ! \" answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer. They \nstart again to pass through the fiery furnace, whUe he \nreenters Ms cool hermitage, and besprinkles it with a \npail of briny water from the stream beneath. He \nthinks witliin himself that the sun is not so fierce here \nas elsewhere, and that the gentle air does not forget \nhim in these sultry days. Yes, old friend ; and a quiet \nheart will make a dog-day temperate. He hears a \nweary footstep, and perceives a traveller with pack and \nstaff, who sits down upon the hospitable bench, and re- \nmoves the hat from his wet brow. The toll-gatherer \nadministers a cup of cold water, and discovering his \nguest to be a man of homely sense, he engages him in \nprofitable talk, uttering the maxims of a philosophy \nwhich he has found in his own soul, but knows not \nhow it came there. And as the wayfarer makes ready \nto resume his journey, he tells him a sovereign remedy \nfor blistered feet. \n\nNow comes the noontide hour — of all the hours \nnearest akin to midnight ; for each has its own calm- \nness and repose. Soon, however, the world begins to \nturn again upon its axis, and it seems the busiest \nepoch of the day ; when an accident impedes the march \nof sublunary things. The draw being lifted to permit \nthe passage of a schooner, laden with wood from the \n\n\n240 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\neastern forests, she sticks immovably, right athwart \nthe bridge ! Meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm, \na throng of impatient travellers fret and fmne. Here \nare two sailors in a gig, with the top thrown back, both \npuffing cigars, and swearing all sorts of forecastle \noaths ; there, in a smart chaise, a dashingly dressed \ngentleman and lady, he from a tailor's shopboard and \nshe from a milliner's back room — the aristocrats of \na simimer afternoon. And what are the haughtiest of \nns but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer's day ? \nHere is a tin pedlar, whose glittering ware bedazzles \nall beholders, like a travelling meteor or opposition \nsun ; and on the other side a seller of spruce beer, \nwhich brisk liquor is confined in several dozen of stone \nbottles. Here comes a party of ladies on horseback, \nin green riding habits, and gentlemen attendant ; and \nthere a flock of sheep for the market, pattering over \nthe bridge with a multitudinous clatter of their little \nhoofs. Here a Frenchman, with a hand organ on his \nshoulder ; and there an itinerant Swiss jeweller. On \nthis side, heralded by a blast of clarions and bugles, \nappears a train of wagons, conveying all the wild beasts \nof a caravan ; and on that, a company of summer sol- \ndiers, marching from village to village on a festival \ncampaign, attended by the '\" Brass band.\" Now look \nat the scene, and it presents an emblem of the myste- \nrious confusion, the apparently insolvable riddle, in \nwhich individuals, or the great world itself, seem often \nto be involved. What miracle shall set all thino'S \nright again ? \n\nBut see ! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcass \nthrough the chasm ; the draw descends ; horse and \nfoot pass onward, and leave the bridge vacant from \nend to end. \"And thus,\" muses the toU-gatherer, \n\n\nTHE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY. 241 \n\n\n\" have I found it watli all stoppages, even though the \nuniverse seemed to be at a stand.\" The sage old man ! \nFar westward now the reddening sun throws a broad \nsheet of splendor across the flood, and to the eyes of \ndistant boatmen gleams brightly among the timbers of \nthe bridge. Strollers come from the town to quaff the \nfreshening breeze. One or two let down long lines, \nand havd up flapping flounders, or cunners, or small \ncod, or perhaps an eel. Others, and fair girls among \nthem, w'ith the flush of the hot day still on their \ncheeks, bend over the railing and watch the heaps of \nseaweed floating upward with the flowing tide. The \nhorses now tramp heavdy along the bridge, and wist- \nfully bethink them of their stables. Rest, rest, thou \nweary world ! for to-morrow's round of toil and pleas- \nure will be as wearisome as to-day's has been ; yet \nboth shall bear thee onward a day's march of eternity. \nNow the old toll-gatherer looks seaward, and discerns \nthe light-house kindling on a far island, and the stars, \ntoo, kindling in the sky, as if but a little way beyond ; \nand ming-ling: reveries of heaven Nvith remembrances \nof earth, the whole procession of mortal travellers, all \nthe dusty pilgrimage which he has witnessed, seems \nlike a flitting show of phantoms for his thoughtful soul \nto muse upon. \n\nVOL. I. 16 \n\n\nTHE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. \n\nAt fifteen I became a resident in a country village, \nmore than a hmidred miles from home. The morning \nafter my arrival — a September morning, but warm \nand bright as any in July — I rambled into a wood of \noaks, with a few wahiut-trees intermixed, forming the \nclosest shade above my head. The groimd was rocky, \nmieven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of yoimg \nsaplings, and traversed only by cattle paths. The \ntrack which I chanced to follow led me to a crystal \nspring, with a border of grass as freshly green as on \nMay morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a \ngreat oak. One solitary sunbeam found its way down, \nand played like a goldfish in the water. \n\nFrom my childhood I have loved to gaze into a \nspring. The water filled a circidar basin, small but \ndeep, and set roimd with stones, some of which were \ncovered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of \nvariegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. The bot- \ntom was covered with coarse sand, wliich sparkled \nin the lonely smibeam, and seemed to illuminate the \nspring with an unborrowed light. In one spot the \ngush of the water violently agitated the sand, but with- \nout obscuring the fountain, or breaking the glassiness \nof its surface. It appeared as if some living creature \nwere about to emerge — the Naiad of the spring, per- \nhaps — in the shape of a beautiful yoimg woman, with \na gown of filmy water moss, a belt of rainbow drops, \nand a cold, pure, passionless countenance. How would \n\n\nTHE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 243 \n\nthe beholder shiver, pleasantly yet fearfully, to see \nher sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white \nfeet in the ripples, and throwing up water to sparkle \nin the sun ! Wherever she laid her hands on gi-ass \nand flowers, they woidd immediately be moist as with \nmorning dew. Then woidd she set about her labors, \nlike a careful housewife, to clear the fountain of with- \nered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old acorns \nfrom the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle \nin drinking, till the bright sand, in the bright water, \nwas like a ti'easury of diamonds. But, shoidd the in- \ntruder approach too near, he would find only the drops \nof a svunmer shower glistening about the spot where he \nhad seen her. \n\nReclining on the border of grass, where the dewy- \ngoddess should have been, I bent forward, and a pair \nof eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They \nwere the reflection of my own. I looked again, and \nlo ! another face, deeper in the fountain than my own \nimage, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as \nthought. The vision had the aspect of a fair young \ngirl, with locks of paly gold. A mirthfid expression \nlaughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shad- \no^vy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain \nwould be, if, while dancing merrily into the sunsliine, \nit shoidd assume the shape of woman. Through the \ndim rosiness of the cheeks I could see the brown \nleaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and the sparkling \nsand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the \ngolden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, \nand became a glory round that head so beautiful ! \n\nMy description can give no idea how suddenly the \nfountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left \ndesolate. I breathed, and there was the face I I held \n\n\n244 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmy breath, and it was gone ! Had it passed away, \nor faded into nothing? I doubted whether it had ever \nbeen. \n\nMy sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious \nhour did I spend, where tliat vision found and left \nme ! For a long time I sat perfectly still, waiting \ntill it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest \nmotion, or even the flutter of my breath, might \nfrighten it away. Thus have I often started from a \npleasant dream, and then kept quiet in hopes to wliile \nit back. Deep were my musings, as to the race and \nattributes of that ethereal being. Had I created her ? \nWas she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those \nstrange shapes wliich peep under the lids of children's \neyes ? And did her beauty gladden me, for that \none moment, and then die ? Or was she a water \nnymph within the fountain, or fairy, or woodland \ngoddess, peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost \nof some forsaken maid who had drowned herself \nfor love ? Or, in good truth, had a lovely girl, with \na warm heart and lips that woidd bear pressiu-e, sto- \nlen softly behind me, and thrown her image into the \nspring ? \n\nI watched and waited, but no vision came again. \nI departed, but with a spell upon me which drew me \nback, that same afternoon, to the hamited spring. \nThere was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, \nand the sunbeam glimmermg. There the vision was \nnot, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, \nwho immediately withdrew his speckled snout and \nmade himself in\\dsible, all except a pair of long \nlegs, beneath a stone. Methought he had a devilish \nlook ! I cotdd have slain him as an enchanter \nwho kept the mysterious beauty imprisoned in the \nfovmtain. \n\n\nTHE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 245 \n\nSad and heavy, I was returning to the \\allage. \nBetween me and the church spire rose a little hill, \nand on its summit a group of trees, insulated from aU \nthe rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance \nhovering on them from the west, and their own solitary- \nshadow falling to the east. The afternoon being far \ndeclined, the sunshine was almost pensive, and the \nshade almost cheerfid ; glory and gloom were mingled \nin the placid light ; as if the spirits of the Day and \nEvening had met in friendship under those trees, and \nfound themselves akin. I was admiring the picture, \nwhen the shape of a yoimg girl emerged from behind \nthe clump of oaks. My heart knew her ; it was the \nVision ; but so distant and ethereal did she seem, so \nunmixed with earth, so unbued with the pensive glory \nof the spot where she was standing, that my spirit \nsimk within me, sadder than before. How could I \never reach her ? \n\nWhile I gazed, a sudden shower came pattering \ndowTi upon the leaves. In a moment the air was full \nof brightness, each raindrop catching a portion of \nsunlight as it feU, and the whole gentle shower ap- \npearing like a mist, just substantial enough to bear the \nburden of radiance. A rainbow, vivid as Niagara's, \nwas painted in the air. Its southern limb came down \nbefore the group of trees, and enveloped the fair \nVision, as if the hues of heaven were the only gar- \nment for her beauty. When the rainbow vanished, \nshe, who had seemed a part of it, was no longer \nthere. Was her existence absorbed in nature's love- \nliest phenomenon, and did her pure frame dissolve \naway in the varied light ? Yet, I woidd not despair \nof her return ; for, robed in the rainbow, she was the \nemblem of Hope. \n\n\n246 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nThus did the \\dsion leave me ; and many a doleful \nday succeeded to the parting moment. By the spring, \nand in the wood, and on the hill, and through the vil- \nlage ; at dewy simrise, biu'ning noon, and at that \nmagic hour of sunset when she had vanished from my \nsight, I sought her, but in vain, Weeks came and \nwent, months rolled away, and she appeared not in \nthem. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered \nto and fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught \na glimpse of heaven, and coidd take no more joy on \nearth. I withdrew into an inner world, where my \nthoughts Kved and breathed, and the Vision in the \nmidst of them. Without intending it, I became at \nonce the author and hero of a romance, conjuring up \nrivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my \nown, and experiencing every change of passion, till \njealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had \nI the biu-ning fancy of my early youth, with man- \nhood's colder gift, the power of expression, your \nhearts, sweet ladies, shoidd flutter at my tale I \n\nIn the middle of Januaiy I was summoned home. \nThe day before my departiu'e, ^dsiting the spots which \nhad been hallowed by the Vision, I foiuid that the \nspring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow \nand a glare of winter sunshine on the liill of the rain- \nbow. \" Let me hope,\" thought I, \" or my heart will be \nas icy as the foimtain, and the whole world as desolate \nas this snowy hill.\" Most of the day was spent in \npreparing for the journey, which was to commence at \nfour o'clock the next morning. About an hour after \nsupper, when all was in readiness, I descended from \nmy chamber to the sitting-room, to take leave of the \nold clergyman and his family with whom I had been \nan inmate. A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I \npassed through the entry. \n\n\nTHE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 247 \n\nAccording to their invariable custom, so pleasant a \none when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were \nsitting in the parlor, with no other light than what \ncame from the hearth. As the good clergjTnan's \nscanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts of econ- \nomy, the foundation of his fires was always a large \nheap of tan, or ground bark, which would smoulder \naway, from morning till night, with a didl warmth \nand no flame. This evening the heap of tan was \nnewly put on, and surmounted with three sticks of red \noak, fidl of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine, \nthat had not yet kindled. There was no light, except \nthe little that came sullenly from two half-burned \nbrands, wdthout even glimmering on the andirons. \nBut I knew the position of the old minister's arm- \nchair, and also where his wife sat, with her knitting- \nwork, and how to avoid his two daughters, one a stout \ncoimtry lass, and the other a consmnptive girl. Grop- \ning through the gloom, I found my own place next to \nthat of the son, a learned collegian, who had come \nhome to keep school in the village during the winter \nvacation. I noticed that there was less room than \nusual, to-night, between the collegian's chair and \nmine. \n\nAs people are always taciturn in the dark, not a \nword was said for some time after my entrance. Noth- \ning broke the stillness but the regular click of the \nmatron's knitting-needles. At times, the fire threw \nout a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the \nold man's glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our \ncircle, but was far too faint to j)ortray the individuals \nwho composed it. Were we not like ghosts ? Dreamy \nas the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode \nin which departed people, who had known and loved \n\n\n248 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\neach other here, would hold communion in eternity ? \nWe were aware of each other's presence, not by sight, \nnor sound, nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. \nWould it not be so among the dead ? \n\nThe silence was interrupted by the consmnptive \ndaughter, addressing a remark to some one in the \ncircle whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and \ndecayed accents were answered by a single word, but \nin a voice that made me start, and bend towards the \nspot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard that \nsweet, low tone ? If not, why did it rouse up so many \nold recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of \nthings familiar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with \nconfused images of her features who had spoken, \nthough buried in the gloom of the parlor? Whom \nhad my heart recognized, that it throbbed so ? I \nlistened to catch her gentle breatliing, and strove, by \nthe intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape \nwhere none was visible. \n\nSuddenly the dry pine caught ; the fire blazed up \nwith a ruddy glow ; and where the darkness had been, \nthere was she — the Vision of the Fountain ! A spirit \nof radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow, \nand appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker \nwith the blaze, and be gone. Yet, her cheek was rosy \nand life-like, and her features, in the bright warmth of \nthe room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my \nrecollection of them. She knew me ! The mirtlif ul \nexpression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled \nover her comitenance, when I beheld her faint beauty \nin the fountain, was laughing and dimpling there now. \nOne moment our glance mingled — the next, down \nrolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood — and \ndarkness snatched away the Daughter of the Light, \nand gave her back to me no more ! \n\n\nTHE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 249 \n\nFair laclies, there is nothing more to tell. Must \nthe siinjile mystery be revealed, then, that Rachel was \nthe daughter of the village squire, and had left home \nfor a boarding-school, the morning after I arrived \nand retiu-ned the day before my departure ? If I \ntransformed her to an angel, it is what every youth- \nfid lover does for his mistress. Therein consists the \nessence of my story. But slight the change, sweet \nmaids, to make angels of youi-selves ! \n\n\nFANCY'S SHOW BOX. \n\nA MORALITY. \n\nWhat is Guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it \nis a point of vast interest whether the soul may con- \ntract such stains, in all their depth and flagrancy, \nfrom deeds which may have been plotted and resolved \nupon, but wliich, physically, have never had existence. \nMust the fleshly hand and visible frame of man set \nits seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give \nthem their entire validity against the sinner ? Or, \nwhile none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable be- \nfore an earthly tribunal, will giiilty thoughts — of \nwhich guilty deeds are no more than shadows — wall \nthese draw down the fidl, weight of a condemning \nsentence, in the supreme court of eternity ? In the \nsolitude of a midnight chamber or in a desert, afar \nfrom men or in a church, while the body is kneeling, \nthe soul may pollute itseK even with those crimes \nwhich we are accustomed to deem altogether carnal. \nIf tliis be true, it is a fearfid truth. \n\nLet us illustrate the subject by an imaginary exam- \nple. A venerable gentleman, one Mr. Smith, who had \nlong been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence, \nwas warming his aged blood with a glass or two of \ngenerous wine. His children being gone forth about \ntheir worldly business, and his grandchildren at school, \nhe sat alone, in a deep, luxurious arm-chair, with his \nfeet beneath a richly-carved mahogany table. Some \n\n\nFANCY'S SHOW BOX. 251 \n\nold people have a dread of solitude, and when better \ncompany may not be had, rejoice even to hear the \nquiet breatliing of a babe, asleep upon the carpet. \nBut Mr. Smith, whose silver hair was the bright sym- \nbol of a life unstained, except by such spots as are \ninseparable from human nature, had no need of a \nbabe to protect him by its purity, nor of a grown per- \nson to stand between him and his own soul. Never- \ntheless, either Manhood must converse with Age, or \nWomanhood must soothe him with gentle cares, or \nInfancy must sport aromid his chair, or his thoughts \nw411 stray into the misty region of the past, and the \nold man be cliill and sad. Wine ^\\all not always cheer \nhim. Such might have been the case with Mr. Smith, \nwhen, through the brilliant medium of his glass of old \nMadeira, he beheld three figures entering the room. \nThese were Fancy, who had assumed the garb and as- \npect of an itinerant showman, mth a box of pictures \non her back ; and Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, \nwith a pen behind her ear, an inkhorn at her button- \nhole, and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm ; \nand lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in \na dvisky mantle, which concealed both face and form. \nBut Mr. Smith had a shrewd idea that it was Con- \nscience. \n\nHow kind of Fancy, Memory, and Conscience to \nvisit the old gentleman, just as he was beginning to \nimagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle \nnor so excellent a flavor as when himself and the \nliquor were less aged I Through the dim leng-th of the \napartment, where crimson curtains muffled the glare \nof sunshine and created a rich obscurit\\% the three \nguests drew near the silver-haired old man. Memory, \nwith a finger between the leaves of her huge volume, \n\n\n252 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nplaced herself at his right hand. Conscience, with her \nface still liidden in the dusky mantle, took her station \non the left, so as to be next his heart ; while Fancy set \ndown her picture box upon the table, with the magni- \nfying glass convenient to his eye. We can sketch \nmerely the outlines of two or three out of the many \npictures which, at the pulling of a string, successively \npeopled the box with the semblances of li\\dng scenes. \nOne was a moonlight picture : in the background, \na lowly dwelling; and in front, partly shadowed by a \ntree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two youth- \nful figures, male and female. The yoimg man stood \nwith folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip, and a \ngleam of triumph in his eye, as he glanced do^vnward \nat the kneeling girl. She was almost prostrate at his \nfeet, evidently sinking imder a weight of shame and \nanguish, wliich hardly allowed her to lift her clasped \nhands in supplication. Her eyes she could not lift. \nBut neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which \nit was depicted, nor the slender grace of the form \nwhich it convulsed, appeared to soften the obduracy of \nthe young man. He was the personification of trium- \nphant scorn. Now, strange to say, as old Mr. Smith \npeeped through the magnifying glass, wliich made the \nobjects start out from the canvas with magical decep- \ntion, he began to recognize the farm-house, the tree, \nand both the figures of the picture. The young man, \nin times long past, had often met his gaze mthin the \nlooking-glass ; the girl was the very image of his first \nlove — his cottage love — his Martha Burroughs ! Mr. \nSmith was scandalized. \" O vile and slanderous pict- \nure ! \" he exclaims. \" When have I triumphed over \nruined innocence ? Was not Martha wedded, in her \nteens, to David Tomkins, who won her gii-Ksh love, \n\n\nFANCY'S SHOW BOX. 253 \n\nand long enjoyed her affection as a wife ? And ever \nsince liis death she has lived a reputable widow ! \" \nMeantime, Memory was turning over the leaves of her \nvolmne, rustling them to and fro with imcertain fingers, \nmitil, among the earlier pages, she found one which \nhad reference to this picture. She reads it, close to \nthe old gentleman's ear ; it is a record merely of sin- \nfid thought, wliich never was embodied in an act; but \nwhile Memory is reading. Conscience vmveils her face, \nand strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith. \nThough not a death-blow, the toi-ture was extreme. \n\nThe exhibition proceeded. One after another, \nFancy displayed her pictures, all of which appeared \nto have been painted by some malicious artist on pur- \npose to vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof coidd \nhave been adduced, in any earthly court, that he was \nguilty of the slightest of those sins which were thus \nmade to stare him in the face. In one scene there \nwas a table set out, with several bottles, and glasses \nhalf filled with wine, wliich threw back the dull ray of \nan expiring lamp. There had been mirth and rev- \nelry, imtil the hand of the clock stood just at mid- \nnight, when murder stepped bet^'een the boon com- \npanions. A young man had fallen on the floor, and \nlay stone dead, with a ghastly wound crushed into his \ntemple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled \nrage and horror in his coimtenance, stood the yovith- \nfid likeness of Mr. Smith. The murdered youth wore \nthe featiires of Edward Spencer ! \" What does this \nrascal of a painter mean?\" cries Mr. Smith, pro- \nvoked beyond all patience. \"Edward Spencer was \nmy earliest and dearest friend, true to me as I to him, \nthrough more than half a century. Neither I, nor any \nother, ever murdered liim. Was he not alive \\Nithin \n\n\n254 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nfive years, and did he not, in token of onr long friend- \nship, bequeath me liis gokl-headed cane and a mourn- \ning ring?\" Again had Memory been turning over \nher volume, and fixed at length upon so confused a \npage that she surely must have scribbled it when she \nwas tipsy. The j)urport was, however, that while Mr. \nSmith and Edward Spencer were heating their young \nblood with wine, a quarrel had flashed up between \nthem, and Mr. Smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a \nbottle at Spencer's head. True, it missed its aim, \nand merely smashed a looking-glass; and the next \nmorning, when the incident was imperfectly remem- \nbered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. \nYet, again, while Memory was reading. Conscience \nunveiled her face, struck a dagger to the heart of Mr. \nSmith, and quelled his remonstrance with her iron \nfrown. The pain was quite excruciating. \n\nSome of the pictures had been painted with so \ndoubtfid a touch, and in colors so faint and pale, that \nthe subjects could barely be conjectured. A dull, \nsemi-transparent mist had been thrown over the sur- \nface of the canvas, into which the figures seemed to \nvanish, while the eye sought most earnestly to fix \nthem. But in every scene, however dubiously por- \ntrayed, Mr. Smith was invariably hamited by his own \nlineaments, at various ages, as in a dusty mirror. Af- \nter poring several minutes over one of these blurred \nand almost indistinguishable pictures, he began to see \nthat the painter had intended to represent him, now \nin the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the \nbacks of three half-starved cliildren. \" Really, this \npuzzles me!\" quoth Mr. Smith, with the irony of \nconscious rectitude. \" Asking pardon of the painter, \nI pronounce liim a fool, as well as a scandalous loiave \n\n\nFANCY'S SHOW BOX. 255 \n\nA man of my standing in the world to be robbing \nlittle children of their clothes I Ridiculous ! \" But \nwhile he spoke, Memory had searched her fatal vol- \nvune, and foimd a page, which, with her sad, calm \nvoice, she poured into his ear. It was not altogether \ninapplicable to the misty scene. It told how Mr. \nSmith had been grievously tempted by many devilish \nsophistries, on the ground of a legal quibble, to com- \nmence a lawsuit against three orphan children, joint \nheirs to a considerable estate. Fortunately, before he \nwas quite decided, his claims had turned out nearly \nas devoid of law as justice. As Memory ceased to \nread. Conscience again thrust aside her mantle, and \nwould have struck her victim with the envenomed \ndagger, only that he struggled and clasped liis hands \nbefore his heart. Even then, however, he sustained \nan ugly gash. \n\nWhy shoidd we follow Fancy through the whole \nseries of those awful pictures ? Painted by an artist \nof wondrous power, and terrible acquaintance with \nthe secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the \nnever perpetrated sins that had glided through the \nlifetime of Mr. Smith. And could such beings of \ncloudy fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid \nevidence against him at the day of judgment ? Be \nthat the case or not, there is reason to believe that \none truly penitential tear would have washed away \neach hateful picture, and left the canvas white as \nsnow. But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too \nkeen to be endured, bellowed aloud, with impatient \nagony, and suddenly discovered that his three guests \nwere gone. There he sat alone, a silver-haired and \nhighly-venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the \ncriiuson-curtained room, with no box of pictures on \n\n\n256 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthe table, but only a decanter of most excellent Ma- \ndeira, Yet lois heart still seemed to fester with the \nvenom of the dagger. \n\nNevertheless, the mifortnnate old gentleman might \nhave argued the matter with Conscience, and alleged \nmany reasons wherefore she shoidd not smite him so \npitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should \nbe somewhat in the following fashion : A scheme of \nguilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a \ntrain of incidents in a projected tale. The latter, in \norder to produce a sense of reality in the reader's \nmind, must be conceived with such proportionate \nstrength by the author as to seem, in the glow of \nfancy, more like truth, j^ast, jiresent, or to come, than \npurely fiction. The prospective sinner, on the other \nhand, weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never \nfeels a perfect certainty that it will be executed. \nThere is a dreaminess diffused about liis thoughts ; \nin a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow \ninto his victim's heart, and starts to find an indelible \nblood-stain on his hand. Thus a novel writer or a \ndramatist, in creating a villain of romance and fitting \nhim with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life, in \nprojecting crimes that will be perj^etrated, may almost \nmeet each other half-way between reality and fancy. \nIt is not until the crime is accomplished that guilt \nclinches its gripe upon the guilty heart, and claims it \nfor its own. Then, and not before, sin is actually felt \nand acknowledged, and, if luiaccompanied by repent- \nance, grows a thousand-fold more \\drulent by its self- \nconsciousness. Be it considered, also, that men often \nover-estimate their capacity for evil. At a distance, \nwhile its attendant circumstances do not press upon \ntheir notice, and its results are dimly seen, they can \n\n\nFANCY'S SHOW BOX. 257 \n\nbear to contemplate it. They may take the steps \nwhich lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of \nmental action as in working out a mathematical prob- \nlem, yet be powerless with compvmction at the final \nmoment. They knew not what deed it was that they \ndeemed themselves resolved to do. In truth, there is \nno such thing in man's nature as a settled and full \nresolve, either for good or evil, except at the very mo- \nment of execution. Let us hope, therefore, that all \nthe dreadfid consequences of sin will not be incurred, \nimless the act have set its seal upon the thought. \n\nYet, with the slight fancy work which we have \nframed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven. \nMan must not disclaim his brotherhood, even with the \nguiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, liis heart \nhas surely been poUuted by the flitting phantoms of \niniqiuty. He must feel that, when he shall knock at \nthe gate of heaven, no semblance of an unspotted life \ncan entitle him to entrance there. 'Penitence must \nkneel, and Mercy come from the footstool of the \nthrone, or that golden gate will never open ! \n\nVOL. L 17 \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. \n\nThat very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once \ninvited four venerable friends to meet him in his \nstudy. There were three white-bearded gentlemen, \nMr. Medboume, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gas- \ncoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was \nthe Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old \ncreatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose \ngreatest misfortune it was that they were not long \nago in their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of \nhis age, had been a prosperous merchant, but had lost \nhis all by a frantic speculation, and was now little bet- \nter than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted \nhis best years, and his health and substance, in the \npursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth to \na brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other \ntorments of soid and body, Mr. Gascoigne was a \nruined politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had \nbeen so till time had buried him from the knowledge \nof the present generation, and made him obscure in- \nstead of infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, \ntradition tells us that she was a great beauty in her \nday ; but, for a long while past, she had lived in deep \nseclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories \nwhich had prejudiced the gentry of the town against \nher. It is a circumstance worth mentioning that each \nof these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colo- \nnel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers \nof the Widow Wycherly, and had once been on the \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 259 \n\npoint of eiitting each other's throats for her sake. And, \nbefore proceecLmg further, I will merely hint that Dr. \nHeidegger and all his four guests were sometimes \nthought to be a little beside themselves, — as is not \nunfrequently the ease with old people, when worried \neither by present troubles or wofid recollections. \n\n\" My dear old friends,\" said Dr. Heidegger, motion- \ning them to be seated, \" I am desirous of your assist- \nance in one of those little experiments with which I \namuse myself here in my study.\" \n\nIf all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must \nhave been a very curious place. It was a dim, old- \nfashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and be- \nsprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood \nseveral oaken bookcases, the 'lower shelves of which \nwere filled with rows of gigantic folios and black- \nletter quartos, and the upper with little parchment- \ncovered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was \na bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according \nto some authorities. Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to \nhold considtations in all difficidt cases of his practice. \nIn the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and \nnarrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which \ndoubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the \nbookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high \nand dusty plate \\vithin a tarnished gilt frame. Among \nmany wonderfid stories related of this mirror, it was \nfabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased \npatients dwelt within its verge, and woidd stare him \nin the face whenever he looked thitherward. The op- \nposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the \nfull-length portrait of a yoimg lady, arrayed in the \nfaded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and \nwith a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a \n\n\n260 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncentury ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of \nmarriage with tliis yoimg lady ; but, being affected \nwith some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of \nher lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal even- \ning. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to \nbe mentioned ; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound \nin black leather, with massive silver clasps. There \nwere no letters on the back, and nobody coidd tell the \ntitle of the book. But it was well known to be a book \nof magic ; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted \nit, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had \nrattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had \nstepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly \nfaces had peeped forth from the mirror ; while the \nbrazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said, — \" For- \nbear ! \" \n\nSuch was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer \nafternoon of our tale a small round table, as black as \nebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a \ncut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate work- \nmanship. The sunshine came through the window, \nbetween the heavy festoons of two faded damask cur- \ntains, and fell directly across this vase ; so that a mild \nsplendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of \nthe five old people who sat around. Four chamioagne \nglasses were also on the table. \n\n\" My dear old friends,\" repeated Dr. Heidegger, \n\" may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceed- \ningly curious experiment ? \" \n\nNow Dr. Heidegger w^as a very strange old gentle- \nman, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus foi \na thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to \nmy shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back \nto my own veracious self ; and if any passages of the \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 261 \n\npresent tale should startle the reader's faith, I must \nbe content to bear the stigma of a fiction monger. \n\nWhen the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his \nproposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more \nwonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air pump, \nor the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or \nsome similar nonsense, with which he was constantly \nin the habit of pestering his intimates. But without \nwaiting for a reply. Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the \nchamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, \nboimd in black leather, which common report affirmed \nto be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he \nopened the volume, and took from among its black- \nletter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though \nnow the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed \none brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed \nready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. \n\n\" This rose,\" said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, \" this \nsame withered and crmnblmg flower, blossomed five \nand fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, \nwhose portrait hangs yonder ; and I meant to wear it \nin my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it \nhas been treasured between the leaves of this old vol- \nume. Now, would you deem it possible that this rose \nof half a century coidd ever bloom again ? \" \n\n\" Nonsense ! \" said the Widow Wycherly, with a \npeevish toss of her head. \" You might as well ask \nwhether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever \nbloom again.\" \n\n\" See ! \" answered Dr. Heidegger. \n\nHe uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose \ninto the w^ater which it contained. At first, it lay \nlightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to im- \nbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular \n\n\n262 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nchange began to be visible. The crushed and dried \npetals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crim- \nson, as if the flower were reviving from a deatiilike \nslumber ; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage be- \ncame green ; and there was the rose of half a century, \nlooking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given \nit to her lover. It was scarcely f idl blown ; for some \nof its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its \nmoist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops \nwere sparkling. \n\n\" That is certainly a very pretty deception,\" said \nthe doctor's friends ; carelessly, however, for they had \nwitnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show ; \" pray \nhow was it effected ? \" \n\n\" Did you never hear of the ' Foimtain of Youth? ' \" \nasked Dr. Heidegger, \" which Ponce De Leon, the \nSj)anish adventurer, went in search of two or three \ncenturies ago ? \" \n\n\" But did Ponce De Leon ever find it ? \" said the \nWidow Wycherly. \n\n\" No,\" answered Dr. Heidegger, \" for he never \nsought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of \nYouth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the \nsouthern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from \nLake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several \ngigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centu- \nries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the vir- \ntues of tliis wonderful water. An acquaintance of \nmine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent \nme what you see in the vase.\" \n\n\" Ahem ! \" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not \na word of the doctor's story ; \" and what may be the \neffect of this fluid on the human frame ? \" \n\n\" You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,\" \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 263 \n\nreplied Dr. Heidegger ; \" and all of you, my respected \nfriends, are welcome to so much of this admirable \nfluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For \nmy own part, having had much trouble in growing \nold, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With \nyour permission, therefore, I will merely watch the \nprogress of the experiment.\" \n\nWhile he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the \nfour champagne glasses with the water of the Fount- \nain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with \nan effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually \nasceading from the depths of the glasses, and burst- \ning in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor dif- \nfused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not \nthat it possessed cordial and comfortable properties ; \nand though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, \nthey were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. \nHeidegger besought them to stay a moment. \n\n\" Before you drink, my respectable old friends,\" \nsaid he, \" it would be well that, with the experience \nof a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few \ngeneral rules for your guidance, in passing a second \ntime through the perils of youth. Think what a sin \nand shame it would be, if, with your pecidiar advan- \ntages, you should not become patterns of virtue and \nwisdom to all the young people of the age ! \" \n\nThe doctor's four venerable friends made him no \nanswer, except by a feeble and tremidous laugh ; so \nvery ridicidous was the idea that, knowing how closely \nrepentance treads behind the steps of error, they \nshoidd ever go astray again. \n\n\" Drink, then,\" said the doctor, bo'sving : \" I re- \njoice that I have so well selected the subjects of my \nexperiment.\" \n\n\n264 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nWith palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their \nlips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as \nDr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been \nbestowed on four human beings who needed it more \nwofully. They looked as if they had never known \nwhat youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring \nof Nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sap- \nless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round \nthe doctor's table, without life enough in their souls \nor bodies to be animated even by the prospect of grow- \ning young again. They drank off the water, and re- \nplaced their glasses on the table. \n\nAssuredly there was an almost immediate improve- \nment in the aspect of the party, not milike what might \nhave been produced by a glass of generous wine, to- \ngether with a sudden glow of cheerful smisliine bright- \nening over all their visages at once. There was a \nhealtliful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the \nashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. \nThey gazed at one another, and fancied that some \nmagic power had really begim to smooth away the \ndeep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been \nso long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wych- \nerly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman \nagain. \n\n\" Give us more of this wondrous water ! \" cried \nthey, eagerly. \" We are younger — but we are still \ntoo old ! Quick — give us more ! \" \n\n\" Patience, patience ! \" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who \nsat watching the experiment with philosophic cool- \nness. \" You have been a long tune growing old. \nSurely, you might be content to grow young in half \nan hour ! But the water is at your service.\" \n\nAgain he filled their glasses with the liquor of \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 265 \n\nyouth, enough of which still remained in the vase to \nturn half the old people in the city to the age of \ntheir own grandchildren. While the bubbles were \nyet sparkling on the brim, the doctor's four guests \nsnatched their glasses from the table, and swallovved \nthe contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion ? even \nwhile the draught was passing down their throats, it \nseemed to have wrought a change on their whole sys- \ntems. Their eyes grew clear and bright ; a dark \nshade deepened among their silvery locks, they sat \naround the table, three gentlemen of middle age, and \na woman, hardly beyond her buxom pi-ime. \n\n\" My dear widow, you are charming ! \" cried Colonel \nKilligrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, \nwhile the shadows of age were flitting from it like \ndarkness from the crunson daybreak. \n\nThe fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killi- \ngrew's compliments were not always measured by \nsober truth ; so she started up and ran to the mirror, \nstill dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman \nwould meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentle- \nmen behaved in such a manner as proved that the \nwater of the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxi- \ncating qualities ; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of \nspirits were merely a lightsome dizziness caused by \nthe sudden removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gas- \ncoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, but \nwhether relating to the past, present, or future, could \nnot easily be determined, since the same ideas and \nphrases have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he \nrattled forth fidl-throated sentences about patriotism, \nnational glory, and the people's right ; now he mut- \ntered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubt- \nful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience \n\n\n266 TWICE -r OLD TALES. \n\ncoiild scarcely catch the secret ; and now, again, he \nspoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential \ntone, as if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned \nperiods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been \ntrolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass \nin symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered \ntoward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly, \nOn the other side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was \ninvolved in a calcidation of dollars and cents, wdth \nwhich was strangely intermingled a project for sup- \nplying the East Indies with ice, by harnessing a team \nof whales to the polar icebergs. \n\nAs for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the \nmirror courtesying and simpering to her own image, \nand greeting it as the friend whom she loved better \nthan all the world beside. She thrust her face close \nto the glass, to see whether some long-remembered \nwrinkle or crow's foot had indeed vanished. She ex- \namined whether the snow had so entirely melted from \nher hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown \naside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a \nsort of dancing step to the table. \n\n\" My dear old doctor,\" cried she, \" pray favor me \nwith another glass ! \" \n\n\" Certainly, my dear madam, certainly ! \" replied \nthe complaisant doctor ; \" see ! I have already filled \nthe glasses.\" \n\nThere, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this \nwonderfid water, the delicate spray of which, as it \neffervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous \nglitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset \nthat the chamber had grown duskier than ever ; but \na mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within \nthe vase, and rested alike on the four guests and on \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 267 \n\nHie doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a high- \nbacked, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a \ngray dignity of aspect that might have well befitted \nthat very Father Time, whose power had never been \ndisputed, save by this fortunate company. Even \nwhile quaffing the third draught of the Foimtain of \nYouth, they were almost awed by the expression of \nhis mysterious visage. \n\nBut, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of \nyoung life shot through their veins. They were \nnow in the hapjiy prime of youth. Age, with its \nmiserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, \nwas remembered only as the trouble of a dream, from \nwhich they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of \nthe sold, so early lost, and without which the world's \nsuccessive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pict- \nures, again threw its enchantment over all their pros- \npects. They felt like new-created beings in a new- \ncreated mii verse. \n\n\" We are yomig ! We are young ! \" they cried \nexultingly. \n\nYouth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the \nstrongly-marked characteristics of middle life, and \nmutually assimilated them all. They were a group \nof merry youngsters, almost maddened with the ex- \nuberant frolicsomeness of their years. The most sin- \ngular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock \nthe infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so \nlately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their \nold-fashioned attire, the ^vide-skirted coats and flapped \nwaistcoats of the young men, and the ancient cap and \ngown of the blooming girl. One lunped across the \nfloor like a gouty grandfather ; one set a pair of spec- \ntacles astride of his nose, and pretended to pore over \n\n\n268 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthe black-letter pages of the book of magic ; a third \nseated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate \nthe venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all \nshouted mirthfully, and leaped about the room. The \nWidow Wycherly — if so fresh a damsel could be \ncalled a widow — tripped up to the docter's chair, \nwith a mischievous merriment in her rosy face. \n\n\" Doctor, you dear old soul,\" cried she, \" get up and \ndance with me ! \" And then the four yoimg people \nlaughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure \nthe poor old doctor would cut. \n\n\" Pray excuse me,\" answered the doctor quietly. \n\"I am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days \nwere over long ago. But either of these gay \nyomig gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a part- \nner.\" \n\n\" Dance with me, Clara ! \" cried Colonel Killigrew. \n\n\" No, no, I will be her partner ! \" shouted Mr. \nGascoigne. \n\n\" She promised me her hand, fifty years ago ! \" \nexclaimed Mr. Medbourne. \n\nThey all gathered round her. One caught both \nher hands in his passionate grasp — another threw \nhis arm about her waist — the third buried liis hand \namong the glossy curls that clustered beneath the \nwidow's cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, \nlaughing, her warm breath fanning each of their \nfaces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet \nstill remained in their triple embrace. Never was \nthere a livelier picture of youthfid rivalship, with \nbewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange \ndeception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, \nand the antique dresses which they still wore, the \ntall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 269 \n\nthe three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously \ncontending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled \ngrandam. \n\nBut they were yoiuig : their burning passions \nproved them so. Inflamed to madness by the co- \nquetry of the girl-widow, wlio neither granted nor \nquite %\\itlilield her favors, the three rivals began to \ninterchange threatening glances. Still keeping hold \nof the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one an- \nother's throats. As they struggled to and fro, the \ntable was overturned, and the vase dashed into a thou- \nsand fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed \nin a bright stream across the floor, moistening the \nwings of a butterfly, which, growai old in the decline \nof summer, had alighted there to die. The insect flut- \ntered lightly through the chamber, and settled on the \nsno%vy head of Dr. Heidegger. \n\n\" Come, come, gentlemen ! — come. Madam Wych- \nerly,\" exclaimed the doctor, \" I really must protest \nagainst this riot.\" \n\nThey stood still and shivered; for it seemed as if \ngray Time were calling them back from their sunny \nyouth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of \nyears. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in \nhis carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a cent- \nury, which he had rescued from among the fragments \nof the shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the \nfour rioters resumed their seats ; the more readily, be- \ncause their violent exertions had wearied them, youth- \nful though they were. \n\n\" My poor Syh^ia's rose ! \" ejaculated Dr. Heideg- \nger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds ; \" it \nappears to be fading again.\" \n\nAnd so it was. Even while the party were looking \n\n\n270 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nat it, the flower eoutinuecl to shrivel up, till it became \nas dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown \nit into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moist- \nure which cltmg to its petals. \n\n\" I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness,\" \nobserved he, pressing the withered rose to his with- \nered lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered \ndown from the doctor's sno^vy head, and fell upon the \nfloor. \n\nHis guests shivered again. A strange chillness, \nwhether of the body or spirit they coidd not tell, was \ncreeping gradually over them all. They gazed at \none another, and fancied that each fleeting moment \nsnatched away a charm, and left a deepening furrow \nwhere none had been before. Was it an illusion? \nHad the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so \nbrief a space, and were they now four aged people, \nsitting with their old friend. Dr. Heidegger ? \n\n\"Are we grown old again, so soon?\" cried they, \ndolefully. \n\nIn truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed \nmerely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The \ndelirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes ! \nthey were old again. With a shuddering impulse, \nthat showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her \nskinny hands before her face, and wished that the \ncof&n lid were over it, since it could be no longer \nbeautiful. \n\n\" Yes, friends, ye are old again,\" said Dr. Heideg- \nger, \" and lo ! the Water of Youth is all lavished on \nthe groimd. Well — I bemoan it not; for if the foimt- \nain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to \nbathe my lips in it — no, though its delirium were for \nyears instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have \ntaught me ! \" \n\n\nDR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 271 \n\nBut the doctor's four friends had taught no such \nlesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to \nmake a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, \nnoon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth. \n\nNote. — In an English review, not long since, I have been accused \nof plagiarizing the idea of this story from a chapter in one of the nov- \nels of Alexandre Dumas. There has undoubtedly been a plagiarism \non one side or the other; but as my story was written a good deal \nmore than twenty years ago, and as the novel is of considerably more \nrecent date, I take pleasure in thinking that M. Dumas has done me \nthe honor to appropriate one of the fanciful conceptions of my earlier \ndays. He is heartily welcome to it ; nor is it the only instance, by \nmany, in which the great French romancer has exercised the privi- \nlege of commanding genius by confiscating the intellectual property \nof less famous people to his own use and behoof. \n\nSeptember, 1860. \n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. \n\nI. \nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. \n\nOne afternoon, last summer, wliile walking along \nWashington Street, my eye was attracted by a sign- \nboard protruding over a narrow archway, nearly oppo- \nsite the Old South Church. The sign represented the \nfront of a stately edifice, which was designated as the \n*' Old Province House, kept by Thomas Waite.\" \nI was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long en- \ntertained, of visiting and rambling over the' mansion \nof the old royal governors of Massachusetts ; and en- \ntering the arched passage, which penetrated through \nthe middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps trans- \nported me from the busy heart of modern Boston \ninto a small and secluded court-yard. One side of \nthis space was occupied by the square front of the \nProvince House, three stories liigh, and surmounted \nby a cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was \ndiscernible, with his bow bent and his arrow on the \nstring, as if aiming at the weathercock on the spire \nof the Old South. The figaire has kept this attitude \nfor seventy years or more, ever since good Deacon \nDrowTie, a cunning carver of wood, first stationed him \non his long sentinel's watch over the city. \n\nThe Province House is constructed of brick, which \nseems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of \nUght-colored paint. A flight of red freestone steps, \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 273 \n\nfenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron, \nascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch, \nover which is a balcony, with an iron balustrade of \nsimilar pattern and workmanship to that beneath. \nThese letters and figures — 16 P. S. 79 — are wrought \ninto the iron work of the balcony, and probably ex- \npress the date of the edifice, with the initials of its \nfoimder's name. A wide door with double leaves ad- \nmitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of which \nis the entrance to the bar-room. \n\nIt was in this apartment, I presume, that the an- \ncient governors held their levees, with vice-regal pomp, \nsurroimded by the military men, the councillors, the \njudges, and other officers of the crown, while all the \nloyalty of the province thronged to do them honor. \nBut the room, in its present condition, cannot boast \neven of faded magnificence. The panelled wainscot \nis covered with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier \nhue from the deep shadow into which the Province \nHouse is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in \nfrom Washington Street. A ray of sunshine never \nvisits this apartment any more than the glare of the \nfestal torches, which have been extinguished from the \nera of the Revolution. The most venerable and orna- \nmental object is a cliimney-piece set round with Dutch \ntiles of blue-figured China, representing scenes from \nScripture ; and, for aught I know% the lady of Pownall \nor Bernard may have sat beside this fire-place, and \ntold her children the story of each blue tile. A bar \nin modern stjde, well replenished with decanters, bot- \ntles, cigar boxes, and net-work bags of lemons, and \nprov-ided with a beer pump and a soda fount, extends \nalong one side of the room. At my entrance, an eld- \nerly person was smacking his lips with a zest which \n\nVOL. I. 18 \n\n\n274 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsatisfied me that the cellars of the Province Hovise \nstiU hold good liquor, though doubtless of other vint- \nages than were quaffed by the old governors. After \nsippmg a glass of port sangaree, prepared by the skil- \nful hands of Mr. Thomas AVaite, I besought that wor- \nthy successor and representative of so many historic \npersonages to conduct me over their time honored \nmansion. \n\nHe readily complied; but, to confess the truth, I \nwas forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination, \nin order to find aught that was interesting in a house \nwhich, without its historic associations, would have \nseemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by \nthe custom of decent city boarders, and old-fashioned \ncountry gentlemen. The chambers, which were prob- \nably spacious in former times, are now cut up by \npartitions, and subdivided into little nooks, each af- \nfording scanty room for the narrow bed and chair \nand dressing-table of a single lodger. The great \nstaircase, however, may be termed, without much \nhyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence. \nIt winds through the midst of the house by flights of \nbroad steps, each flight terminating in a square land- \ning-place, whence the ascent is continued towards the \ncupola. A carved balustrade, freshly painted in the \nlower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, bor- \nders the staircase with its quaintly twisted and inter- \ntwined pillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs the \nmilitary boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many \na governor have trodden, as the wearers moimted to \nthe cupola, which afforded them so wide a view over \ntheir metropolis and the surrounding country. The \ncupola is an octagon, with several windows, and a door \nopening upon the roof. From this station, as I pleased \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 275 \n\nmyself with imagining, Gage may have beheld his dis- \nastrous victory on Bmiker llill (unless one of the tri- \nmountains intervened), and Howe have marked the \nappi'oaches of Wasliington's besieging army ; although \nthe buildings since erected in the vicinity have shut \nout almost every object, save the steeple of the Old \nSouth, wliich seems almost witliin arm's length. De- \nscending from the cupola, I paused in the garret to \nobserve the ponderous white-oak framework, so much \nmore massive than the frames of modem houses, and \nthereby resembling an antique skeleton. The brick \nwalls, the materials of which were imported from \nHolland, and the timbers of the mansion, are still as \nsound as ever ; but the floors and other interior parts \nbeing greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the \nwhole, and build a new house within the ancient frame \nand brick work. Among other inconveniences of the \npresent edifice, mine host mentioned that any jar or \nmotion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of \nthe ceiling of one chamber upon the floor of that be- \nneath it. \n\nWe stepped forth from the great front window into \nthe balcony, where, in old times, it was doubtless the \ncustom of the king's representative to show himself to \na loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up \nhats with stately bendings of his dignified person. In \nthose days the front of the Province House looked \nupon the street ; and the whole site now occupied by \nthe brick range of stores, as well as the present court- \nyard, was laid out in grass plats, overshadowed by \ntrees and bordered by a wi-ought-iron fence. Now, \nthe old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage \nbehind an upstart modern building ; at one of the back \nwindows I observed some pretty tailoresses, sewing \n\n\n276 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand chatting and laugiiing\", with now and then a care- \nless glance towards the balcony. Descending thence, \nwe again entered the bar-room, where the elderly gen- \ntleman above mentioned, the smack of whose lij)s had \nspoken so favorably for Mr. Waite's good liquor, was \nstill lounging in his chair. He seemed to be, if not a \nlodger, at least a faniihar \"visitor of the house, who \nmight be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, \nhis summer seat at the open window, and his prescrip- \ntive corner at the winter's fireside. Being of a socia- \nble aspect, I ventured to address him with a remark \ncalculated to draw forth his historical reminiscences, \nif any such were in his mind ; and it gratified me to \ndiscover, that, between memory and tradition, the old \ngentleman was really possessed of some very pleasant \ngossip about the Province House. The portion of his \ntalk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the \nfollowing legend. He professed to have received it at \none or two removes from an eye-witness ; but this de- \nrivation, together with the lapse of time, must have \nafforded opportunities for many variations of the nar- \nrative ; so that despairmg of literal and absolute truth, \nI have not scrupled to make such further changes as \nseemed conducive to the reader's profit and delight. \n\n\nAt one of the entertainments given at the Province \nHouse, during the latter part of the siege of Boston, \nthere passed a scene which has never yet been satis- \nfactorily explained. The officers of the British army, \nand the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom \nwere collected within the beleaguered town, had been \ninvited to a masked ball ; for it was the policy of Sir \nWilliam Howe to hide the distress and danger of th« \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 277 \n\nperiod, and the desperate aspect of the siege, under \nan ostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this even- \ning, if the oldest members of the provincial court cir- \ncle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous \naifair that had occurred in the annals of the gov- \nernment. The brilliantly-lighted apartments were \nthronged with figures that seemed to have stepped \nfrom the dark canvas of historic portraits, or to have \nflitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or at \nleast to have flow^i hither from one of the London \ntheatres, without a change of garments. Steeled \nknights of the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen \nElizabeth, and high-ruffled ladies of her court, were \nmingled with characters of comedy, such as a party- \ncolored Merry Andrew, jingling his cap and bells ; a \nFalstaff, almost as provocative of laughter as his pro- \ntot}\"}3e ; and a Don Quixote, with a bean pole for a \nlance, and a pot lid for a shield. \n\nBut the broadest merriment was excited by a group \nof figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals, \nwhich seemed to have been purchased at a military \nrag fair, or j^ilfered from some receptacle of the cast- \noff clothes of both the French and British armies. \nPortions of their attire had probably been worn at the \nsiege of Louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut \nmight have been rent and tattered by sword, ball, or \nbayonet, as long ago as Wolfe's victory. One of \nthese worthies — a tall, lank figure, brandishing a \nrusty sword of immense longitude — purported to be \nno less a personage than General George Washing- \nton ; and the other principal officers of the American \narmy, such as Gates, Lee, Putnam, Schuyler, Ward \nand Heath, were represented by similar scarecrows. \nAn interview in the mock heroic style, between the \n\n\n278 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nrebel warriors and the British commander-in-chief, \nwas received with immense applause, which came \nloudest of all from the loyalists of the colony. There \nwas one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eye- \ning these antics sternly and scornfully, at once with a \nfrown and a bitter smile. \n\nIt was an old man, formerly of high station and \ngreat repute in the province, and who had been a very \nfamous soldier m his day. Some surpi-ise had been \nexpressed that a person of Colonel Joliffe's known \nwhig principles, though now too old to take an active \npart in the contest, should have remained in Boston \nduring the siege, and especially that he should consent \nto show himself in the mansion of Sir William Howe. \nBut thither he had come, with a fair granddaughter \nunder his arm ; and there, amid all the mirth and \nbuffoonery, stood this stern old figure, the best sus- \ntained character in the masquerade, because so well \nrepresenting the antique spirit of his native land. \nThe other guests affirmed that Colonel Joliffe's black \npuritanical scowl threw a shadow round about him ; \nalthough in spite of his sombre influence their gayety \ncontinued to blaze higher, like — (an ominous com- \nparison) — the flickering brilliancy of a lamp which \nhas but a little while to burn. Eleven strokes, full \nhalf an hour ago, had pealed from the clock of the \nOld South, when a rumor was circulated among the \ncompany that some new spectacle or pageant was \nabout to be exhibited, which should put a fitting close \nto the splendid festivities of the night. \n\n\" What new jest has your Excellency in hand ? \" \nasked the Rev. Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian \nscruples had not kept liim from the entertainment, \n\"Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 279 \n\nbeseems my cloth at your Homeric confabulation with \nyonder ragamuffin General of the rebels. One other \nsuch fit of merriment, and I must throw off my cler- \nical wig and band.\" \n\n\" Not so, good Doctor Byles,\" answered Sir Wil- \nliam Howe ; \" if mirth were a crime, you had never \ngained your doctorate in divinity. As to this new \nfoolery, I know no more about it than yourself ; per- \nhaps not so much. Honestly now. Doctor, have you \nnot stirred up the sober brains of some of your coim- \ntrjTuen to enact a scene in our masquerade ? \" \n\n\" Perhaps,\" slyly remarked the granddaughter of \nColonel Joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by \nmany taunts against New England, — \" perhaps we \nare to have a mask of allegorical figures. Victory, \nwith trophies from Lexington and Bunker Hill — \nPlenty, with her overflowing horn, to tj^ify the pres- \nent abundance in this good town — and Glory, with a \nWT^eath for his Excellency's brow.\" \n\nSir William Howe smiled at words which he would \nhave answered with one of his darkest frowns had \nthey been uttered by lips that wore a beard. He was \nspared the necessity of a retort, by a singular inter- \nruption. A soimd of music was heard withoiit the \nhouse, as if proceeding from a full band of military \ninstruments stationed in the street, playing not such a \nfestal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slow \nfimeral march. The drmns appeared to be muffled, \nand the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath, which \nat once hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling \nall wdth wonder, and some with apprehension. The \nidea occurred to many that either the fimeral proces« \nsion of some great personage had halted in front of \nthe Province House, or that a corpse, in a velvet* \n\n\n280 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncovered and gorgeously-decorated coffin, was about to \nbe borne from the portal. After listening a moment, \nSir William Howe called, in a stern voice, to the \nleader of the musicians, who had liitherto enlivened \nthe entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. \nThe man was drum-major to one of the British regi- \nments. \n\n\" Dighton,\" demanded the general, \" what means \nthis foolery ? Bid your band silence that dead march \n— or, by my word, they shall have sufficient cause for \ntheir lugubrious strains ! Silence it, sirrah ! \" \n\n\"Please your honor,\" answered the drum-major, \nwhose rubicund visage had lost all its color, \" the fault \nis none of mine. I and my band are all here together, \nand I question whether there be a man of us that could \nplay that march without book. I never heard it but \nonce before, and that was at the funeral of his late \nMajesty, King George the Second.\" \n\n\" Well, well ! \" said Sir William Howe, recovering \nhis composure — \" it is the prelude to some masquer- \nading antic. Let it pass.\" \n\nA figure now presented itself, but among the many \nfantastic masks that were dispersed through the apart- \nments none could tell precisely from whence it came. \nIt was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black serge, \nand having the aspect of a steward or principal do- \nmestic in the household of a nobleman or great Eng- \nlish landholder. This figure advanced to the outer \ndoor of the mansion, and throwing both its leaves \nwide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked \nback towards the grand staircase as if expecting some \nperson to descend. At the same time the music in \nthe street sounded a loud and doleful summons. The \neyes of Sir William Howe and his guests being di \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 281 \n\nrected to the staircase, there appeared, on the lapper- \nmost lauding-place that was discernible from the bot- \ntom, several personages descending towards the door. \nThe foremost was a man of stern visage, wearing a \nsteeple-crowned hat and a sknll-cap beneath it ; a dark \ncloak, and huge wi-inlded boots that came half-way up \nhis legs. Under his arm was a rolled-up banner, \nwhich seemed to be the banner of England, but \nstrangely rent and torn ; he had a sword in his right \nhand, and grasped a Bible in his left. The next figure \nwas of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a \nbroad rufp, over which descended a beard, a gown of \nwrought velvet, and a doublet and hose of black satin. \nHe carried a roll of manuscript in his hand. Close \nbehind these two came a young man of very strildng \ncountenance and demeanor, with deep thought and \ncontemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of en- \nthusiasm in his eye. His garb, like that of his prede- \nsessors, was of an antique fashion, and there was a \nstain of blood upon his ruff. In the same group with \nthese were three or four others, all men of dignity and \nevident command, and bearing themselves like person- \nages who were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. \nIt was the idea of the beholders that these figures \nwent to join the mysterious funeral that had halted in \nfront of the Province House ; yet that supposition \nseemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph with \nwhich they waved their hands, as they crossed the \nthreshold and vanished through the portal. \n\n\" In the devil's name what is this ? \" muttered Sir \nWilliam Howe to a gentleman beside him ; \" a pro- \ncession of the regicide judges of King Charles the \nmartyr ? \" \n\n\" These,\" said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence al \n\n\n282 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmost for the first time that evening, — \" these, if I In- \nterpret them aright, are the Puritan governors — the \nrulers of the old original Democracy of Massachusetts. \nEndicott, with the banner from which he had torn the \nsjonbol of subjection, and Winthrop, and Sir Henry \nVane, and Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham, and Lev- \nerett.\" \n\n\" Why had that young man a stain of blood upon \nhis ruff ? \" asked Miss Joliffe. \n\n\" Because, in after years,\" answered her grand- \nfather, \"he laid down the wisest head in England \nupon the block for the principles of liberty.\" \n\n\" Will not your Excellency order out the guard ? \" \nwhispered Lord Percy, who, with other British officers, \nhad now assembled round the General. \" There may \nbe a plot mider this mummery.\" \n\n\" Tush ! we have nothing to fear,\" carelessly replied \nSir William Howe. \" There can be no worse treason \nin the matter than a jest, and that somewhat of the \ndullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best \npolicy would be to laugh it off. See — here come \nmore of these gentry.\" \n\nAnother group of characters had now partly de- \nscended the staircase. The first was a venerable and \nwhite-bearded patriarch, who cautiously felt his way \ndownward with a staff. Treading hastily beliind him, \nand stretching foi'th his gauntleted hand as if to grasp \nthe old man's shoulder, came a tall, soldier-like figure, \nequipped with a plmned cap of steel, a bright breast- \nplate, and a long sword, which rattled against the \nstairs. Next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich \nand courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his \ngait had the swinging motion of a seaman's walk; \nand chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 283 \n\n^ew wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. He \nwas followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled \nwig, such as are represented in the portraits of Queen \nAnne's time and earlier ; and the breast of his coat \nwas decorated mth an embroidered star. While ad- \nvancing to the door, he bowed to the right hand and \nto the left, in a very gracious and insinuating style ; \nbut as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early Puri- \ntan governors, he seemed to wring his hands with \nsorrow. \n\n\" Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Doctor \nByles,\" said Sir William Howe. \" What worthies are \nthese?\" \n\n\" If it please your Excellency they lived somewhat \nbefore my day,\" answered the doctor ; \" but doubtless \nour friend, the Colonel, has been hand and glove wdth \nthem.\" \n\n\" Their living faces I never looked upon,\" said \nColonel Joliffe, gravely ; \" although I have spoken \nface to face with many rulers of this land, and shall \ngreet yet another with an old man's blessing ere I die. \nBut we talk of these figures. I take the venerable \npatriarch to be Bradstreet, the last of the Pm^itans, \nwho was governor at ninety, or thereabouts. The next \nis Sir Edmmid Andros, a tjTant, as any New England \nschool-boy will tell you ; and therefore the people cast \nhim dow^i from his high seat into a dmigeon. Then \ncomes Sir William Phipps, shepherd, cooper, sea-cap- \ntain, and governor — may many of liis countiymen rise \nas high from as low an origin I Lastly, you saw the \ngracious Earl of Bellamont, who ruled us under King \nWiUiam.\" \n\n\"But what is the meaning of it all?\" asked Lord \nPercy. \n\n\n284 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\"Now, were I a rebel,\" said Miss Joliffe, half \naloud, \" I might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient \ngovernors had been summoned to form the funeral \nprocession of royal authority in New England.\" \n\nSeveral other figures were now seen at the turn of \nthe staircase. The one in advance had a thoughtful, \nanxious, and somewhat crafty expression of face, and \nin spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently \nthe result both of an ambitious spirit and of long con- \ntinuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable of \ncringing to a greater than himself. A few steps be- \nhind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered uni- \nform, cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn \nby the Duke of Marlborough. His nose had a rubi- \ncund tinge, which, together with the twinkle of his \neye, might have marked him as a lover of the wine \ncup and good fellowship ; notwithstanding which to- \nkens he appeared ill at ease, and often glanced aroimd \nhim as if apprehensive of some secret mischief. Next \ncame a portly gentleman, wearing a coat of shaggy \ncloth, lined with silken velvet ; he had sense, shrewd- \nness, and humor in his face, and a folio volume under \nhis arm ; but his aspect was that of a man vexed and \ntormented beyond all patience, and harassed almost \nto death. He went hastily down, and was followed \nby a dignified person, dressed in a purple velvet suit, \nwith very rich embroidery ; his demeanor would have \npossessed much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of \nthe gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair, \nwith contortions of face and body. When Dr. Bjdes \nbeheld this figure on the staircase, he shivered as with \nan ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly, untii \nthe gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made \na gesture of anguish and despair, and vanished into \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 285 \n\nthe outer gloom, whither the funeral music summoned \nhun. \n\n\" Governor Belcher ! — my old patron ! — in his \nvery shape and dress ! \" gasped Doctor Byles. \" This \nis an awful mockery ! \" \n\n\" A tedious foolery, rather,\" said Sir William Howe, \nwith an air of indifFerence. \" But who were the three \nthat preceded him? \" \n\n\"Governor Dudley, a cunning politician — yet his \ncraft once brought him to a prison,\" replied Colonel \nJoliffe. \" Governor Shute, formerly a Colonel under \nMarlborough, and whom the people frightened out of \nthe province; and learned Governor Burnet, whom \nthe legislature tormented into a mortal fever.\" \n\n\"Methinks they were miserable men, these royal \ngovernors of Massachusetts,\" observed Miss Joliffe. \n\" Heavens, how dim the light grows ! \" \n\nIt was certainly a fact that the large lamp which \nilluminated the staircase now burned dim and dusk- \nily : so that several figures, which passed hastily down \nthe stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared \nrather like shadows than persons of fleslily substance. \nSir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors \nof the contiguous apartments, watching the progress \nof this singidar pageant, with various emotions of \nanger, contempt, or half-acknowledged fear, but still \nwith an anxious curiosity. The shapes which now \nseemed hastening to join the mysterious procession \nw^ere recognized rather by striking peculiarities of \ndress, or broad characteristics of manner, than by any \nperceptible resemblance of features to their proto- \ntypes. Their faces, indeed, were invariably kept in \ndeep shadow. But Doctor Byles, and other gentle- \nmen who had long been familiar with the successive \n\n\n286 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nriilers of the province, were heard to whisper the \nnames of Shirley, of Pownall, of Sir Francis Bernard, \nand of the well-remembered Hutchinson ; thereby con- \nfessing that the actors, whoever they might be, in this \nspectral march of governors, had succeeded in putting \non some distant portraiture of the real personages. \nAs they vanished from the door, still did these shad- \nows toss their arms into the gloom of night, with a \n» dread expression of woe. Following the mimic repre- \nsentative of Hutchinson came a military figure, hold- \ning before his face the cocked hat wliicli he had taken \nfrom his powdered head ; but his epaidettes and other \ninsignia of rank were those of a general officer, and \nsomething in his mien reminded the beholders of one \nwho had recently been master of the Province House, \nand chief of all the land. \n\n\" The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass,\" \nexclaimed Lord Percy, turning pale. \n\n\"No, surely,\" cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysteric- \nally ; \" it could not be Gage, or Sir William would \nhave greeted his old comrade in arms ! Perhaps he \nwill not suffer the next to pass imchallenged.\" \n\n\"Of that be assured, young lady,\" answered Sir \nWilliam Howe, fixing his eyes, with a very marked \nexpression, upon the immovable visage of her grand- \nfather. \" I have long enough delayed to pay the cere- \nmonies of a host to these departing guests. The next \nthat takes liis leave shall receive due coui'tesy.\" \n\nA wild and dreary burst of music came through the \nopen door. It seemed as if the procession, which had \nbeen gradually filling vip its ranks, were now about to \nmove, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets, \nand roll of the muffled drums, were a call to some \nloiterer to make haste. Many eyes, by an ii-resistible \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 287 \n\nimpulse, were turned upon Sir William Howe, as if \nit were he whom the dreary music summoned to the \nfuneral of departed j)ower. \n\n\" See ! — here comes the last ! \" whispered Miss \nJoliffe, pointing her tremidous finger to the staircase. \n\nA figure had come into view as if descending the \nstairs ; although so dusky was the region whence it \nemerged, some of the spectators fancied that they had \nseen this hmnan shape suddenly moidding itself amid \nthe gloom. DowTiward the figure came, with a stately \nand martial tread, and reaching the lowest stair was \nobserved to be a tail man, booted and wrapped in a \nmilitary cloak, which was drawn up arovmd the face \nso as to meet the flapped brim of a laced hat. The \nfeatures, therefore, were completely hidden. But the \nBritish officers deemed that they had seen that mili- \ntary cloak before, and even recognized the frayed em- \nbroidery on the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard \nof a sword which protruded from the folds of the \ncloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam of light. Apart \nfrom these trifling particulars, there were characteris- \ntics of gait and bearing which impelled the wondering \nguests to glance from the shrouded figure to Sir Wil- \nliam Howe, as if to satisfy themselves that their host \nhad not suddenly vanished from the midst of them. \n\nWith a dark flush of wTath upon his brow they saw \nthe General draw his sword and advance to meet the \nfigure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one \npace upon the floor. \n\n\" Villain, immuffle yourself ! \" cried he. \" You pass \nno farther ! \" \n\nThe figure, without blenching a hair's breadth from \nthe sword which was pointed at his breast, made a \nBolemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from \n\n\n288 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nabout his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators \nto catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had \nevidently seen enough. The sternness of his counte- \nnance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not \nhorror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, \nand let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial \nshape again drew the cloak about his features and \npassed on; but reaching the threshold, with his back \ntowards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot \nand shake his clinched hands in the air. It was after- \nwards affirmed that Sir William Howe had repeated \nthat selfsame gesture of rage and sorrow, when, for \nthe last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed \nthrough the portal of the Province House. \n\n\" Hark I — the procession moves,\" said Miss Joliffe. \n\nThe music was djdng away along the street, and its \ndismal strains were mingled with the knell of mid- \nnight from the steeple of the Old South, and with the \nroar of artillery, wdiich announced that the beleaguer- \ning army of Washington had intrenched itself upon \na nearer height than before. As the deep boom of the \ncannon smote upon his ear. Colonel JolifPe raised him- \nself to the full height of his aged form, and smiled \nsternly on the British General. \n\n\" Would your Excellency inquire further into the \nmystery of the pageant ? \" said he. \n\n\" Take care of your gray head I \" cried Sir William \nHowe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip. \" It has \nstood too long on a traitor's shoulders ! \" \n\n\"You must make haste to chop it off, then,\" calmly \nreplied the Colonel ; \" for a few hours longer, and not \nall the power of Sir William Howe, nor of lus master, \nshall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. The em- \npire of Britain in this ancient province is at its last \n\n\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE. 289 \n\ngasp to-niglit ; — almost while I speak it is a dead \neoi-jise ; — and methinks the shadows of the old gov- \nernors are fit mourners at its fimeral ! \" \n\nAVith these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, \nand dravsing his granddaughter's arm within his own. \nretii'ed from the last festival that a British ruler ever \nheld in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It \nwas supposed that the Colonel and the youn^ lady \npossessed some secret intelligence in regard to the \nmysterious pageant of that night. However this might \nbe. such knowledge has never become general. The \nactors in the scene have vanished into deeper obscur- \nity than even that wild Indian band who scattered the \ncargoes of the tea ships on the waves, and gained a \nplace in history', yet left no names. But superstition, \namong other legends of this mansion, repeats the won- \ndrous tale, that on the anniversary night of Britain's \ndiscomfiture the ghosts of the ancient governors of \n^lassachusetts still glide through the portal of the \nProvince House. And. last of all, comes a figure \nshrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clinched \nhands into the air. and stamping liis iron-shod boots \nupon the broad freestone steps, with a semblance of \nfeverish despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp. \n\n\nTVhen the truth-telling accents of the elderlv gentle- \nman were hushed. I drew a long breath and looked \nroimd the room, striving, with the best energy of my \nimagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic \ngrandeur over the realities of the scene. But my \nnostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar smoke, clouds of \nwhich the narrator had emitted by way of visible em- \nblem. I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. \n\nvol- I 19 \n\n\n290 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nMoreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofuUy dis- \nturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of \nwhiskey punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was min- \ngling for a customer. Nor did it add to the pictur- \nesque appearance of the panelled walls that the slate \nof the Brookline stage was suspended against them, \ninstead of the armorial escutcheon of some far-de- \nscended governor. A stage-driver sat at one of the \nwindows, reading a penny paper of the day — the \nBoston Times — and presenting a figure which could \nnowise be brought into any picture of \" Times in Bos- \nton \" seventy or a himdred years ago. On the win- \ndow seat lay a bundle, neatly done up in brown paper, \nthe direction of which 1 had the idle curiosity to read. \n\" Miss Susan Huggins, at the Province House.\" \nA pretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is des- \nperately hard work, when we attempt to throw the \nspell of hoar antiquity over localities with which the \nliving world, and the day that is passing over us, have \naught to do. Yet, as I glanced at the stately stair- \ncase down which the procession of the old governors \nhad descended, and as I emerged through the vener- \nable portal whence their figures had preceded me, it \ngladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. \nThen, diving through the narrow archway, a few \nstrides transported me into the densest throng of \nWashington Street. \n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. \n\nn. \n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. \n\nThe old legendary giiest of the Province House \nabode in my remembrance from midsiunmer till Janu- \nary. One idle evening last winter, confident that he \nwoidd be found in the snuggest corner of the bar- \nroom, I resolved to pay him another ^dsit, hoping to \ndeserve well of my coimtry by snatching from oblivion \nsome else luiheard-of fact of history. The night was \nchill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a \ngale of wdnd, which whistled along Washington Street, \ncausing the gas-lights to flare and flicker within the \nlamps. As I hurried onward, my fancy was busy with \na comparison between the present aspect of the street \nand that which it probably wore when the British gov- \nernors inhabited the mansion whither I was now going. \nBrick edifices in those times were few, till a succession \nof destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the \nwooden dwellings and warehouses from the most pop \nulous quarters of the town. The buildings stood in- \nsidated and independent, not, as now, merging their \nseparate existences into connected ranges, with a front \nof tiresome identity, — but each possessing f eatiu-es of \nits own, as if the OAivTier's indi\\ndual taste had shaped \nit, — and the whole presenting a picturesque irregular- \nity, the absence of which is hardly compensated by any \nbeauties of our modern architecture. Such a scene, \n\n\n292 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ndimly vanishing from the eye by the ray of here and \nthere a tallow candle, glimmering through the small \npanes of scattered windows, would form a sombre con- \ntrast to the street as I beheld it, with the gas-lights \nblazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops, \nand throwing a noonday brightness through the huge \nplates of glass. \n\nBut the black, lowering sky, as I turned, my eyes \nupward, wore, doubtless, the same \\dsage as when it \nfrowned upon the ante-revolutionary New Englanders. \nThe wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar \nto their ears. The Old South Church, too, still pointed \nits antique spire into the darkness, and was lost be- \ntween earth and heaven ; and as I passed, its clock, \nwhich had warned so many generations how transitory \nwas their lifetime, spoke hea\\'ily and slow^ the same \nvmregarded moral to myself. \" Only seven o'clock,\" \nthought I. \" My old friend's legends will scarcely \nkill the hours 'twixt this and bedtime.\" \n\nPassing through the narrow arch, I crossed the court- \nyard, the confined precincts of which were made -vdsi- \nble by a lantern over the portal of the Pro\\'ince House. \nOn entering the bar-room, I found, as I expected, the \nold tradition monger seated by a special good fire of \nanthracite, compelling clouds of smoke from a corpu- \nlent cigar. He recognized me \\\\ith evident pleasure ; \nfor my rare properties as a patient listener invariably \nmake me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies \nof narrative propensities. Drawing a chair to the fire, \nI desired mine host to favor us with a glass apiece of \nwhiskey punch, which was sj)eedily prepared, steaming \nhot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark-red \nstratum of port wine upon the surface, and a sprink- \nling of nutmeg strewn over all. As we touched oui \n\n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 293 \n\nglasses together, my legendary friend made himself \nknown to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany ; and I rejoiced at \nthe oddity of the name, because it gave his image and \ncharacter a sort of individuality in my conception. \nThe old gentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon \nhis memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions, \nanecdotes of famous dead people, and traits of ancient \nmanners, some of which were childish as a nurse's lul- \nlaby, while others might have been worth the notice of \nthe gTave historian. Nothmg impressed me more than \na story of a black mysterious pictiu-e, which used to \nhang in one of the chambers of the Province House, \ndirectly above the room where we were now sitting. \nThe folloAving is as correct a version of the fact as the \nreader would be likely to obtain from any other source, \nalthough, assuredly, it has a tinge of romance approach- \ning to the marvellous. \n\n\nIn one of the apartments of the Province House \nthere was long preserved an ancient picture, the frame \nof wliicli was as black as ebony, and the canvas itself \nso dark with age, damp, and smoke, that not a touch \nof the painter's art could be discerned. Time had \nthrown an unpenetrable veil over it, and left to tradi- \ntion and fable and conjecture to say what had once \nbeen there portrayed. During the rule of many suc- \ncessive governors, it had hiuig, by prescrij)tive and \nundisputed right, over the mantel-piece of the same \nchamber ; and it still kept its place when Lieutenant- \nGovernor Hutchinson assiuned the administration of \nthe pro\\dnce, on the departure of Sir Francis Bernard. \n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor sat, one afternoon, resting \nhis head against the carved back of his stately arm- \n\n\n294 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nchair, and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness \nof the pictuie. It was scarcely a time for such inactive \nmusing, when affairs of the deepest moment required \nthe ruler's decision ; for, within that very hour Hutch- \ninson had received intelligence of the arrival of a \nBritish fleet, bringing three regiments from Halifax \nto overawe the insubordination of the peoj^le. These \ntroops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of \nCastle William, and the town itself. Yet, instead of \naffixing his signature to an official order, there sat the \nLieutenant-Governor, so carefidly scrutinizing the black \nwaste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the notice \nof two yoimg persons who attended hmi. One, wearing \na military dress of buff, was his kinsman, Francis Lin- \ncoln, the Provincial Captain of Castle William ; the \nother, who sat on a low stool beside his chair, was \nAlice Vane, his favorite niece. \n\nShe was clad entirely in white, a pale, ethereal \ncreature, who, though a native of New England, had \nbeen educated abroad, and seemed not merely a stranger \nfrom another clime, but almost a being from another \nworld. For several years, until left an orphan, she had \ndwelt with her father in sminy Italy, and there had ac- \nquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and paint- \ning which she found few opportunities of gratifying \nin the imdecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. \nIt was said that the early productions of her own pen- \ncil exhibited no inferior genius, though, perhaps, the \nrude atmosphere of New England had cramped her \nhand, and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. \nBut observing her uncle's steadfast gaze, which ap- \npeared to search through the mist of j^ears to discover \nthe subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited. \n\n\" Is it known, my dear uncle,\" inquired she, \" what \n\n\ny \n\n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 295 \n\nthis old picture once represented ? Possibly, coidd it \nbe made visible, it might prove a masterpiece of some \ngreat artist — else, why has it so long held such a con- \nspicuous place ? \" \n\nAs her uncle, contrary to his usual custom (for he \nwas as attentive to all the humors and caprices of \nAlice as if she had been his own best-beloved child), \ndid not immediately reply, the young Captain of Cas- \ntle William took that office upon himself. \n\n\" This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin,\" \nsaid he, \" has been an heirloom in the Province House \nfrom time immemorial. As to the painter, I can tell \nyou nothing ; but, if half the stories told of it be true, \nnot one of the great Italian masters has ever produced \nso marvellous a piece of work as that before you.\" \n\nCaptain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the \nstrange fables and fantasies which, as it was imj)ossi- \nble to refute them by ocidar demonstration, had grown \nto be articles of 23opular belief, in reference to this \nold picture. One of the wildest, and at the same time \nthe best accredited, accounts, stated it to be an origi- \nnal and authentic portrait of the Evil One, taken at a \nwitch meeting near Salem ; and that its strong and \nterrible resemblance had been confirmed by several of \nthe confessing wizards and witches, at their trial, m \nopen court. It was likewise affirmed that a familiar \nspirit or demon abode behind the blackness of the \npicture, and had shown himself, at seasons of public \ncalamity, to more than one of the royal governors. \nShirley, for instance, had beheld this ominous appari- \ntioxx, on the eve of General Abercrombie's shameful \nand bloody defeat rmder the walls of Ticonderoga. \nMany of the servants of the Province House had \ncaught glimpses of a visage frowning dowa upon them, \n\n\n296 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nat morning or evening twilight, — or in the depths of \nnight, while raking up the fire that glimmered on the \nhearth beneath ; although, if any were bold enough to \nhold a torch before the picture, it would appear as \nblack and undistinguishable as ever. The oldest in- \nhabitant of Boston recollected that his father, in whose \ndays the portrait had not wholly faded out of sight, \nhad once looked upon it, but woidd never suffer him- \nself to be questioned as to the face which was there \nrepresented. In connection with such stories, it was \nremarkable that over the top of the frame there were \nsome ragged remnants of black silk, indicating that a \nveil had formerly hung down before the picture, imtil \nthe duskiness of time had so effectually concealed it. \nBut, after all, it was the most singidar part of the \naffair that so many of the pompous governors of Mas- \nsachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to re- \nmain in the state chamber of the Pro^dnce House. \n\n\" Some of these fables are really awful,\" observed \nAlice Vane, who had occasionally shuddered, as well \nas smiled, while her cousin sj)oke. \" It wovdd be al- \nmost worth while to wipe away the black surface of \nthe canvas, since the origmal picture can hardly be so \nformidable as those which fancy paints instead of it.\" \n\n\" But would it be possible,\" inquired her cousin, \n\" to restore this dark picture to its pristine hues ? \" \n\n\" Such arts are known in Italy,\" said Alice. \n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor had roused himself from \nhis abstracted mood, and listened with a smile to the \nconversation of his young relatives. Yet his voice \nhad something pecidiar in its tones when he under- \ntook the explanation of the mystery. \n\n\"I\" am sorry, Alice, to desti'oy your faith in the \nlegends of which you are so fond,\" remarked he ; \" but \n\n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 297 \n\nmy antiquarian researches have long since made me \nacquainted with the subject of tliis pictiire — if picture \nit can be called — which is no more visible, nor ever \nwill be, than the face of the long buried man whom \nit once represented. It was the portrait of Edward \nRandolph, the founder of this house, a person famous \nin the liistory of New England.\" \n\n\" Of that Edward Randolph,\" exclaimed Captain \nLincoln, \" who obtained the repeal of the first pro- \nvincial charter, imder which our forefathers had en- \njoyed ahnost democratic privileges ! He that was \nstyled the arch-enemy of New England, and whose \nmemory is still held in detestation as the destroyer of \noiu* liberties ! \" \n\n\"It was the same Randolph,\" answered Hutchin- \nson, moving uneasily in his chair. \" It was his lot to \ntaste the bitteraess of popidar odium.\" \n\n\" Our annals tell us,\" continued the Captain of \nCastle William, \" that the curse of the people fol- \nlowed this Randolph where he went, and wrought evil \nin all the subsequent events of his life, and that its \neffect was seen likewise in the manner of his death. \nThey say, too, that the inward misery of that curse \nworked itself outward, and was visible on the wretched \nman's countenance, making it too horrible to be looked \nupon. If so, and if this picture truly represented his \naspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness \nhas gathered over it.\" \n\n\" These traditions are folly to one who has proved, \nas I have, how little of historic truth lies at the bot- \ntom,\" said the Lieutenant-Governor. \" As regards \nthe life and character of Edward Randolph, too im- \nplicit credence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, \nwho — I must say it, though some of his blood runs \n\n\n298 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nin my veins — has filled our early history with old \nwomen's tales, as fancifid and extravagant as those of \nGreece or Rome.\" \n\n\" And yet,\" whispered Alice Vane, \" may not such \nfables have a moral ? And, methinks, if the ^dsage \nof this portrait be so dreadful, it is not without a \ncause that it has himg so long in a chamber of the \nProvince House. When the rulers feel themselves \nirresponsible, it were well that they should be re- \nminded of the aAvful weight of a jDeojjle's curse.\" \n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor started, and gazed for a \nmoment at his niece, as if her girlish fantasies had \nstruck upon some feeling in his own breast, which all \nhis policy or principles could not entirely subdue. \nHe knew, indeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign \neducation, retained the native sympathies of a New \nEngland girl. \n\n\" Peace, silly child,\" cried he, at last, more harshly \nthan he had ever before addressed the gentle Alice. \n\" The rebuke of a Idng is more to be dreaded than \nthe clamor of a wild, misguided multitude. Captain \nLincoln, it is decided. The fortress of Castle Wil- \nliam must be occupied by the royal troops. The two \nremaining regiments shaU be billeted in the town, or \nencamped upon the Common. It is time, after years \nof tumult, and almost rebellion, that liis majesty's gov- \nernment should have a wall of strength about it.\" \n\n\"■ Trust, sir — trust yet awhile to the loyalty of the \npeople,\" said Captam Lincohi ; \" nor teach them that' \nthey can ever be on other terms with British soldiers \nthan those of brotherhood, as when they fought side \nby side through the French W^ar. Do not convert the \nstreets of your native town into a camp. Think twice \nbefore you give up old Castle William, the key of \n\n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 299 \n\nthe pro\\anee, into other keeping than that of true-born \nNew Englanclers.\" \n\n\" Young man, it is decided,\" repeated Ilutcliinson, \nrisinir from his chair. \" A British officer will be in \nattendance this evening, to receive the necessary in- \nstructions for the disposal of the troops. Your pres- \nence also ^\\^ll be required. Till then, farewell.\" \n\nWith these words the Lieutenant-Governor hastily \nleft the room, while Alice and her cousin more slowly \nfollowed, whispering together, and once pausing to \nglance back at the mysterious picture. The Captain \nof Castle William fancied that the girl's air and mien \nwere such as might have belonged to one of those \nspirits of fable — fairies, or creatures of a more antique \nmythology — who sometimes mingled their agency \nwith mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensi- \nbility to human weal or woe. As he held the door for \nher to pass, Alice beckoned to the picture and smiled. \n\n\" Come forth, dark and evil Shape I \" cried she. \n\" It is thine hour ! \" \n\nIn the evening, Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson \nsat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene \nhad occurred, surromided by several persons whose \nvarious interests had summoned them together. There \nwere the Selectmen of Boston, plain, patriarchal fa- \nthers of the people, excellent representatives of the \nold puritanical founders, whose sombre strength had \nstamped so deep an impress upon the New England \ncharacter. Contrasting with these were one or two \nmembers of Comieil, richly dressed in the white wigs, \nthe embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of \nthe time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display \nof courtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, \nwas a major of the British army, awaiting the Lieu- \n\n\n300 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ntenant-Governor's orders for tlie landing of the troops, \nwhich still remained on board the transports. The \nCaptain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson's \nchair with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at \nthe British officer, by whom he was soon to be super- \nseded in his command. On a table, in the centre of \nthe chamber, stood a branched silver candlestick, \nthrowing down the glow of half a dozen wax-lights \nupon a paper apparently ready for the Lieutenant- \nGovernor's signature. \n\nPartly shi'ouded in the voluminous folds of one of \nthe window curtains, which fell from the ceiling to \nthe floor, was seen the white drapery of a lady's robe. \nIt may appear strange that Alice Vane should have \nbeen there at such a time ; but there was something \nso childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, so \napart from ordinary rides, that her presence did not \nsurprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the chair- \nman of the Selectmen was addressing to the Lieuten- \nant-Governor a long and solemn protest against the \nreception of the British troops into the town. \n\n\" And if your Honor,\" concluded this excellent but \nsomewhat prosy old gentleman, \" shall see fit to per- \nsist in bringing these mercenary sworders and mus- \nketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the \nresponsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, \nthat if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be \nan eternal stain upon your Honor's memory. You, \nsir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our \nforefathers. The more to be desired is it, therefore, \nthat yourself should deserve honorable mention, as a \ntrue patriot and upi-ight ruler, w hen your own doings \nshall be written down in history.\" \n\n\" I am not insensible, my good sir, to the uatiu-al \n\n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 301 \n\ndesire to stand well in the annals of my country,'^ \nreplied Hutchinson, controlling liis impatience into \ncourtesy, \" nor know I any better method of attaining \nthat end than by withstanding the merely temporary \nspirit of mischief, which, with your pardon, seems to \nhave infected elder men than myseK. Woidd you \nhave me wait till the mob shall sack the Province \nHouse, as they did my private mansion ? Trust me, \nsir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee \nfor protection to the king's banner, the raising of \nwhich is now so distastefid to you.\" \n\n\" Yes,\" said the British major, who was impatiently \nexpecting the Lieutenant-Governor's orders. \"The \ndemagogues of this Pro\\Tnce have raised the devil \nand cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him, \nin God's name and the king's.\" \n\n\"If you meddle with the de\\Tl, take care of his \nclaws ! \" answered the Captain of Castle William, \nstirred by the taimt against his comitrymen. \n\n\"Cra\\dng your pardon, yoimg sir,\" said the ven- \nerable Selectman, \" let not an evil spirit enter into \nyour words. We will strive against the oppressor \nwith prayer and fasting, as our forefathers woidd have \ndone. Like them, moreover, we will submit to what- \never lot a wise Pro\\ddence may send us, — always, af- \nter our own best exertions to amend it.\" \n\n\" And there peep forth the de\\al's claws ! \" muttered \nHutchinson, who well imderstood the nature of Puri- \ntan submission. \"This matter shall be expedited \nforthwith. AVhen there shall be a sentinel at every \ncorner, and a court of gaiard before the town house, a \nloyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. What \nto me is the outcry of a mob, in this remote province \nof the realm ? The king is my master, and England \n\n\n302 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nis my country ! Upheld by their armed strength, I \nset my foot upon the rabble, and defy them ! \" \n\nHe snatched a pen, and was about to affix his sig- \nnature to the paper that lay on the table, when the \nCaptain of Castle William placed his hand upon his \nshoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to \nthe ceremonious respect which was then considered \ndue to rank and dignity, awakened general surprise. \nand in none more than in the Lieutenant-Governor \nhimself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his \nyoung relative was pointing his finger to the opposite \nwall. Hutchinson's eye followed the signal ; and he \nsaw, what had hitherto been miobserved, that a black \nsilk curtain was suspended before the mysterious pict- \nure, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts im- \nmediately recurred to the scene of the preceding af- \nternoon ; and, in his surprise, confused by indistinct \nemotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had \nan agency in tliis phenomenon, he called loudly upon \nher. \n\n\" Alice ! — come hither, Alice ! \" \n\nNo sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided \nfrom her station, and pressing one hand across her \neyes, with the other snatched away the sable curtain \nthat concealed the portrait. An exclamation of sur- \nprise burst from every beholder ; but the Lieutenant- \nGovernor's voice had a tone of horror. \n\n\" By Heaven ! \" said he, in a low, inward murmur, \nspeaking rather to himself than to those around him, \n\" if the spirit of Edward Randolph were to appear \namong us from the place of torment, he could not \nwear more of the terrors of hell upon his face ! \" \n\n\" For some wise end,\" said the aged Selectman, sol- \nemnly, \"hath Providence scattered away the mist of \n\n\nI \n\n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 303 \n\nyears that had so long hid this dreadful effigy. Until \nthis hour no living man hath seen what we behold I \" \n\nWithin the antique frame, which so recently had \ninclosed a sable waste of canvas, now appeared a visi- \nble picture, still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, \nbut thrown forward in strong relief. It was a half- \nlength figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old- \nfashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad \nruff and a beard, and wearing a hat, the brim of wliich \novershadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud the \neyes had a peculiar glare, which was almost lifelike. \nThe whole portrait started so distinctly out of the \nbackgTound, that it had the effect of a person look- \ning dowD. from the wall at the astonished and awe- \nstricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any \nwords can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch \ndetected in some hideous guilt, and exposed to the \nbitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a \nvast surrounding multitude. There was the struggle of \ndefiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crush- \ning weight of ignominy. The torture of the soul had \ncome forth upon the countenance. It seemed as if \nthe picture, while hidden behind the cloud of imme- \nmorial years, had been all the time acquiring an in- \ntenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it \ngloomed forth again, and threw its evil omen over the \npresent hour. Such, if the vnld legend may be cred- \nited, was the portrait of Edward Randolph, as he ap- \npeared when a people's curse had wrought its influence \nupon his nature. \n\n\" 'T would drive me mad — that awful face! *' said \nHutchinson, who seemed fascinated by the contempla- \ntion of it. \n\n\" Be warned, then ! \" whispered Alice. \" He tram- \n\n\n304 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\npled on a people's rights. Behold his punishment — \nand avoid a crime like his I \" \n\nThe Lieutenant-Governor actually trembled for an \ninstant : but, exerting his energy — which was not, \nhowever, liis most characteristic feature — he strove to \nshake off the spell of Randolph's countenance. \n\n\" Girl ! \" cried he, laughing bitterly as he turned \nto Alice, \" have you brought hither your painter's art \n— your Italian spirit of intrigue — your tricks of \nstage effect — and think to influence the councils of \nnders and the affairs of nations by such shallow con- \nti'ivances ? See here ! \" \n\n\" Stay yet a while,\" said the Selectman, as Hutch- \ninson again snatched the pen ; \" for if ever mortal \nman received a warning from a tormented soul, your \nHonor is that man ! \" \n\n\" Away ! \" answered Hutchinson fiercely. \" Though \nyonder senseless picture cried ' Forbear ! ' — it should \nnot move me ! \" \n\nCasting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face \n(which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror \nof its miserable and wicked look), he scrawled on the \npaper, in characters that betokened it a deed of des- \nperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it \nis said, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted \naway his salvation. \n\n\"It is done,\" said he; and placed his hand upon his \nbrow. \n\n\" May Heaven forgive the deed,\" said the soft, sad \naccents of Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit \nflittmg away. \n\nWhen morning came there was a stifled whisper \nthrough the household, and spreading thence al^out \nthe town, that the dark, mysterious picture had stai'ted \n\n\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 305 \n\nfrom the wall, and spoken face to face with Lieutenant- \nGovernor Hutchinson. If such a miracle had been \nwrought, however, no traces of it remained beliind, for \nwithin the antique frame notliing could be discerned \nsave the impenetrable cloud, which had covered the \ncanvas since the memory of man. If the figure had, \nindeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at \nthe daydawn, and hidden itself behind a centiuy's ob- \nscurity. The truth probably was, that Alice Vane's \nsecret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely \neffected a temporary renovation. But those who, in \nthat brief interval, had beheld the awful visage of Ed- \nward Randolph, desired no second glance, and ever \nafterwards trembled at the recollection of the scene, \nas if an e\\Tl spirit had appeared visibly among them. \nAnd as for Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his \ndjdng hour drew on, he gasped for breath, and com- \nplained that he was choking with the blood of the \nBoston Massacre ; and Francis Lincoln, the former \nCaptain of Castle William, who was standing at liis \nbedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to \nthat of Edward Randolph. Did liis broken spirit feel, \nat that dread hour, the tremendous burden of a Peo- \nple's cm*se? \n\n\nAt the conclusion of this miraculous legend, I in- \nquired of mine host whether the picture still remained \nin the chamber over our heads ; but Mr. Tiffany in- \nformed me that it had long since been removed, and \nwas supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way cor- \nner of the New England Museum. Perchance some \ncurious antiquary may light upon it there, and, with \n\nthe assistance of Mr. Howorth, the pictui-e cleaner, \nVOL. I. 20 \n\n\n306 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmay supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity \nof the facts here set down. During the progress of \nthe story a storm had been gathering abroad, and rag- \ning and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the \nProvince House, that it seemed as if all the old gov- \nernors and great men were running riot above stairs \nwhile Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below. In \nthe course of generations, when many people have \nlived and died in an ancient house, the whistling of \nthe wind through its crannies, and the creaking of its \nbeams and rafters, become strangely like the tones of \nthe human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy \nfootsteps treading the deserted chambers. It is as if \nthe echoes of half a century were revived. Such were \nthe ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our \nears when I took leave of the circle round the fireside \nof the Province House, and plunging down the door \nsteps, fought my way homeward against a drifting \nsnow-storm. \n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. \n\nin. \n\nLADY ELEANORE'S IVIANTLE. \n\nMine excellent friend, the landlord of the Province \nHouse, was pleased, the other evening, to invite Mr. \nTiffany and myself to an oyster supper. This slight \nmark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely ob- \nserved, was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and \nI, the humble note-taker of his narratives, had fairly \nearned, by the public notice which our joint lucubra- \ntions had attracted to his establishment. Many a \ncigar had been smoked witliin his premises — many \na glass of wine, or more potent aqua vitae, had been \nquaffed — many a dinner had been eaten by curious \nstrangers, who, save for the fortimate conjimction \nof Mr. Tiffany and me, woidd never have ventured \nthrough that darksome avenue which gives access to \nthe historic precincts of the Province House. In \nshort, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances \nof Mr. Thomas Waite, we had brought liis forgotten \nmansion almost as effectually into public view as if we \nhad thrown down tlie vidgar range of shoe shops and \ndry goods stores, which hides its aristocratic front \nfrom Washington Street. It may be imadvisable, \nhowever, to speak too loudly of the increased custom \nof the house, lest Mr. Waite shoidd find it difficult to \nrenew the lease on so favorable terms as heretofore. \n\nBeing thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. \n\n\n308 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nTiffany nor myself felt any scruple in doing full jus- \ntice to the good things that were set before us. If the \nfeast were less magnificent than those same panelled \nwalls had witnessed in a by -gone century, — if mine \nhost presided with somewhat less of state than might \nhave befitted a successor of the royal Governors, — if \nthe guests made a less imposing show than the be- \nwigged and powdered and embroided dignitaries, who \nerst banqueted at the gubernatorial table, and now \nsleep, within their armorial tombs on Copp's Hill, or \nround King's Chapel, — yet never, I may boldly say, \ndid a more comfortable little party assemble in the \nProvince House, from Queen Anne's days to the \nRevolution. The occasion was rendered more inter- \nesting by the presence of a venerable personage, whose \nown actual reminiscences went back to the epoch of \nGage and Howe, and even supplied him with a doubt- \nful anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was one of \nthat small, and now all but extinguished, class, whose \nattachment to royalty, and to the colonial institutions \nand customs that were connected with it, had never \nyielded to the democratic heresies of after times. The \nyoung queen of Britain has not a more loyal subject \nin her realm — perhaps not one who would kneel be- \nfore her throne with such reverential love — as this \nold grandsire, whose head has whitened beneath the \nmild sway of the Republic, which still, in his mel- \nlower moments, he terms a usurpation. Yet prej- \nudices so obstinate have not made him an ungentle \nor impracticable companion. If the truth must be \ntold, the life of the aged loyalist has been of such a \nscrambling and unsettled character, — he has had so \nlittle choice of friends and been so often destitute of \nany, — that I doubt whether he would refuse a cup of \n\n\nLADY ELEANOBE'S MANTLE. 309 \n\nkindness with either Oliver Cromwell or John Han- \ncock, — to say nothing of any democrat now uj^on the \nstage. In another paper of this series I may perhaps, \ngive the reader a closer glimpse of liis portrait. \n\nOur host, in due season, uncorked a bottle of Ma- \ndeira, of such exquisite perfume and admirable flavor \nthat he surely must have discovered it in an ancient \nbin, down deep beneath the deepest cellar, where some \njolly old butler stored away the Governor's choicest \nwine, and forgot to reveal the secret on his death-bed. \nPeace to liis red-nosed ghost, and a libation to his \nmemory ! This precious liquor was imbibed by Mr. \nTiffany with peculiar zest ; and after sipping the tliird \nglass, it was his pleasure to give us one of the oddest \nlegends which he had yet raked from the storehouse \nwhere he keeps such matters. With some suitable \nadornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as \nfollows. \n\n\nNot long after Colonel Shute had assumed the gov- \nernment of Massachusetts Bay, now nearly a hundred \nand twenty years ago, a young lady of rank and for- \ntune arrived from England, to claun his protection as \nher guardian. He was her distant relative, but the \nnearest who had survived the gradual extinction of her \nfamily ; so that no more eligible shelter could be found \nfor the rich and high-born Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe \nthan within the Province House of a transatlantic \ncolony. The consort of Governor Shute, moreover, \nhad been as a mother to her childhood, and was now \nanxious to receive her, in the hope that a beautifid \nyoung woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril \nfrom the primitive society of New England than amid \n\n\n310 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthe artifices and corruptions of a court. If either the \nGovernor or his lady had especially consulted their \nown comfort, they would probably have sought to de- \nvolve the responsibility on other hands ; since, with \nsome noble and splendid traits of character, Lady El- \neanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, \na haughty consciousness of her hereditary and per- \nsonal advantages, which made her almost incapable of \ncontrol. Judging from many traditionary anecdotes, \nthis peculiar temper was hardly less than a mono- \nmania ; or, if the acts wliich it inspired were those of \na sane person, it seemed due from Providence that \npride so sinful should be followed by as severe a \nretribution. That tinge of the marvellous, which is \nthrown over so many of these half-forgotten legends, \nhas probably imparted an additional wildness to the \nstrange story of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. \n\nThe ship in which she came passenger had arrived \nat Newport, whence Lady Eleanore was conveyed to \nBoston in the Governor's coach, attended by a small \nescort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous \nequipage, with its four black horses, attracted much \nnotice as it rimibled through Cornliill, surrounded by \nthe prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers, with \nswords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their \nholsters. Through the large glass windows of the \ncoach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the \nfigure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining an al- \nmost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a \nmaiden in her teens. A singular tale had gone abi^oad \namong the ladies of the province, that their fair rival \nwas indebted for much of the irresistible charm of her \nappearance to a certain article of dress — an embroid- \nered mantle — which had been wrought by the most \n\n\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 311 \n\nskilfiil artist in London, and possessed even magical \nproperties of adornment. On the present occasion, \nhowever, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress, \nbeing clad in a riding habit of velvet, wliich would \nhave appeared stiff and imgracefid on any other form. \n\nThe coachman reined in his four black steeds, and \nthe whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the \ncontorted iron balustrade that fenced the Pro\\Tnce \nHouse from the public street. It was an awkward \ncoincidence that the bell of the Old South was just \nthen tolling for a funeral ; so that, instead of a glad- \nsome peal with which it was customary to annomice \nthe arrival of distinguished strangers. Lady Eleanore \nRochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calam- \nity had come embodied in her beautifid person. \n\n\" A very great disrespect ! \" exclamied Captain \nLang-ford, an English officer, who had recently \nbrought dispatches to Governor Shute. \"The fu- \nneral should have been deferred, lest Lady Eleanore's \nspirits be affected by such a dismal welcome.\" \n\n\" With your pardon, sir,\" replied Doctor Clarke, \na physician, and a famous champion of the popular \nparty, \" whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead beg- \ngar must have precedence of a living queen. King \nDeath confers high privileges.\" \n\nThese remarks were interchanged while the speak- \ners waited a passage through the crowd, which had \ngathered on each side of the gateway, leaving an open \navenue to the portal of the Province House. A black \nslave in livery now leaped from behind the coach, and \nthrew open the door ; wliile at the same moment Gov- \nernor Shute descended the flight of steps from his \nmansion, to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting. But \nthe Governor's stately approach was anticijjated in a \n\n\n312 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmanner tliat excited general astonishment. A pale \nyomig man, with his black hair all in disorder, rushed \nfi'om the throng, and prostrated himself beside the \ncoach, thus offering his person as a footstool for Lady \nEleanore Rochcliffe to tread upon. She held back an \ninstant, yet with an expression as if doubtmg whether \nthe young man were worthy to bear the weight of her \nfootstep, rather than dissatisfied to receive such awful \nreverence from a fellow-mortal. \n\n\" Up, sir,\" said the Governor, sternly, at the same \ntime lifting his cane over the intruder. \" What means \nthe Bedlamite by this freak ? \" \n\n\" Nay,\" answered lady Eleanore plaj^ully, but with \nmore scorn than pity in her tone, \" your Excellency \nshall not strike him. When men seek only to be \ntrampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so \neasily granted — and so well deserved ! \" \n\nThen, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, \nshe placed her foot upon the cowering form, and ex- \ntended her hand to meet that of the Governor. There \nwas a brief interval, during which Lady Eleanore \nretained this attitude ; and never, surely, was there an \napter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary pride \ntrampling on human sympathies and the kindred of \nnature, than these two figures presented at that mo- \nment. Yet the spectators were so smitten wdth her \nbeauty, and so essential did pride seem to the exist- \nence of such a creature, that they gave a simultaneous \nacclamation of apj^lause. \n\n\"Who is this insolent young fellow?\" inquired \nCaptain Langford, who still remained beside Doctor \nClarke. \"If he be in his senses, his impertinence \ndemands the bastinado. If mad. Lady Eleanore \nshould be secured from further inconvenience, by his \nconfinement.\" \n\n\nLADY ELE AN ORE'S MANTLE. 313 \n\n\"His name is Jervase Helwjse,\" answered the Doc- \ntor ; \" a youth of no birth or fortune, or other advan- \ntages, save the mind and soul that nature gave him ; \nand being secretary to our colonial agent in London, \nit was his misfortune to meet tliis Lady Eleanore \nivochcliiTe. He loved her — and her scorn has driven \nhim mad.\" \n\n\" He was mad so to aspire,\" observed the English \nofficer. \n\n•' It may be so,\" said Doctor Clarke, frowaiing as he \nspoke. \" Bi;t I tell you, sir, I coidd weU-nigh doubt \nthe justice of the Heaven above us if no signal hmnili- \nation overtake this lady, who now treads so haughtily \ninto yonder mansion. She seeks to place herself above \nthe sjTnpathies of our common natvn^e, which envelops \nall human soids. See, if that nature do not assert its \nclaim over her in some mode that shall bring her level \n^^■ith the lowest ! \" \n\n\" Never ! \" cried Captain Langf ord indignantly — \n'•neither in life, nor when they lay her with her \nancestors.\" \n\nNot many days afterwards the Governor gave a ball \nin honor of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. The principal \ngentry of the colony received invitations, which were \ndistributed to their residences, far and near, by mes- \nsengers on horseback, bearing missives sealed with all \nthe formality of official dispatches. In obedience to \nthe smnmons, there was a general gathering of rank, \nwealth, and beauty ; and the wide door of the Province \nHouse had seldom given admittance to more numerous \nand honorable guests than on the evening of Lady \nEleanore's bail. Without mixch extravagance of eu- \nlogy, the spectacle might even be termed splendid ; \nfor, according to the fashion of the tunes, the ladies \n\n\n814 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nslione in rich silks and satins, outspread over wide-- \nJD rejecting hoops ; and the gentlemen glittered in gold \nembroidery, laid unsparingly upon the purple, or scar- \nlet, or sky-blue velvet, which was the material of their \ncoats and waistcoats. The latter article of dress was \nof gi'eat importance, since it enveloped the wearer's \nbody nearly to the knees, and was perhaps bedizened \nwith the amount of his whole year's income, in golden \nflowers and foliage. The altered taste of the present \nday — a taste symbolic of a deep change in the whole \nsystem of society — would look upon almost any of \nthose gorgeous figures as ridiculous ; although that \nevening the guests sought their reflections in the pier- \nglasses, and rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid \nthe glittering crowd. What a pity that one of the \nstately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the \nscene, which, by the very traits that were so transi- \ntory, might have taught us much that would be worth \nknowing and remembering! \n\nWould, at least, that either painter or mirror could \nconvey to us some faint idea of a garment, already \nnoticed in this legend, — the Lady Eleanore's embroid- \nered mantle, — which the gossips whispered was in \nvested with magic properties, so as to lend a new and \nuntried grace to her figure each time that she put it \non ! Idle fancy as it is, this mysterious mantle has \nthroAvn an awe around my image of her, partly from \nits fabled virtues, and partly because it was the handi- \nwork of a dying woman, and, perchance, owed the fan- \ntastic grace of its conception to the delirium of ap- \nproaching death. \n\nAfter the ceremonial greetings had been paid. Lady \nEleanore Rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of \nguests, insulating herself within a small and distin- \n\n\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 315 \n\nguislied circle, to whom she accorded a more cordial \nfavor than to the general throng. The waxen torches \nthrew their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing \nout its brilliant points in strong relief ; but she gazed \ncarelessly, and with now and then an expression of \nweariness or scorn, tempered with such feminine grace \nthat her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deform- \nity of wliich it was the utterance. She beheld the \nspectacle not with \\T.dgar ridicide, as disdaining to be \npleased with the provincial mockery of a court festival, \nbut with the deeper scorn of one whose spirit held it- \nself too high to participate in the enjoyment of other \nhmnan soids. Whether or no the recollections of \nthose who saw her that evening were influenced by \nthe strange events with which she was subsequently \nconnected, so it was that her figure ever after recurred \nto them as marked by something wild and minatural, — \nalthough, at the time, the general whisper was of her \nexceeding beauty, and of the indescribable charm \nwhich her mantle threw around her. Some close ob- \nservers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate \npaleness of coimtenance, with a corresponding flow and \nrevulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painfid and \nhelpless betrayal of lassitude, as if she were on the \npoint of sinking to the ground. Then, with, a nervous \nshudder, she seemed to arouse her energies and threw \nsome bright and playful yet half-wicked sarcasm into \nthe conversation. There was so strange a character- \nistic in her manners and sentiments that it astonished \nevery right-minded listener , till lookmg in her face, a \nlurking and incompi-ehensible glance and smile per- \nplexed them with doubts both as to her seriousness \nand sanity. Gradually, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe's \ncircle grew smaller, till only four gentlemen remained \n\n\n816 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nin it. These were Captain Langforcl, the English \nofficer before mentioned ; a Virginian planter, who had \ncome to Massachusetts on some political errand ; a \nyomig Ej)iscopal clergjnnan, the grandson of a British \nearl ; and, lastly, the private secretary of Governor \nShute, whose obsequiousness had won a sort of toler- \nance from Lady Eleanore. \n\nAt different periods of the evening the liveried \nservants of the Province House passed among the \nguests, bearing huge trays of refreshments and French \nand Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, who \nrefused to wet her beautif id lips even with a bubble of \nChampagne, had simk back into a large damask chair, \napparently overwearied either with the excitement of \nthe scene or its tedium, and while, for an instant, she \nwas unconscious of voices, laughter and music, a \nyoung man stole forward, and knelt down at her feet. \nHe bore a salver in his hand, on which was a chased \nsilver goblet, filled to the brim with wane, wliich he \noffered as reverentially as to a crowned queen, or \nrather with the awfid devotion of a priest doing \nsacrifice to his idol. Conscious that some one touched \nher robe, Lady Eleanore started, and unclosed her \neyes upon the i)ale, wild features and dishevelled hair \nof Jervase Helwyse. \n\n\" Why do you hamit me thus ? \" said she, in a lan- \nguid tone, but with a kindlier feeling than she ordina- \nrily permitted herself to express. \" They tell me that \nI have done you harm.\" \n\n\" Heaven knows if that be so,\" replied the young \nman solemnly. \"But, Lady Eleanore, in requital of \nthat harm, if such there be, and for your own earthly \nand heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip of \nthis holy wine, and then to pass the goblet roimd \n\n\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 317 \n\namong the guests. And this shall be a symbol that \nyou have not sought to withdraw yourself from the \nchain of hvunan sympathies — which whoso would \nshake off must keep company with fallen angels.\" \n\n\" Where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental \nvessel ? \" exclaimed the Episcopal clergyman. \n\nThis question drew the notice of the guests to the \nsilver cup, which was recognized as appertaining to \nthe communion plate of the Old South Church; and, \nfor aught that could be known, it was brimming over \nwith the consecrated wine. \n\n\" Perhaps it is poisoned,\" half whispered the Gov- \nernor's secretary. \n\n\" Pour it down the villain's throat ! \" cried the Vir- \nginian fiercely. \n\n\" Turn him out of the house ! \" cried Captain Lang- \nford, seizing Jervase Helwyse so roughly by the \nshoulder that the sacramental cup was overturned, \nand its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore's \nmantle. \" Whether knave, fool, or Bedlamite, it is \nintolerable that the fellow shoidd go at large.\" \n\n\" Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm,\" \nsaid Lady Eleanore, with a faint and weary smile. \n\" Take him out of my sight, if such be your pleasure ; \nfor I can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at \nhim ; whereas, in all decency and conscience, it would \nbecome me to weep for the mischief I have wrought ! \" \n\nBut while the by-standers were attempting to lead \naway the unfortunate yoimg man, he broke from them, \nand with a A\\ild, impassioned earnestness, offered a \nnew and equally strange petition to Lady Eleanore. It \nwas no other than that she should throw off the mantle, \nwhich, while he pressed the silver cup of wine upon \nher, she had drawn more closely around her form, so \nas almost to shroud herself within it. \n\n\n318 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" Cast it from you ! \" exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, \nclasping his hands in an agony of entreaty. '* It may \nnot yet be too late ! Give the accursed garment to \nthe flames ! \" \n\nBut Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the \nrich folds of the embroidered mantle over her head, in \nsuch a fashion as to give a completely new aspect to \nher beautiful face, which — half hidden, half revealed \n— seemed to belong to some being of mysterious char- \nacter and purposes. \n\n\" Farewell, Jervase Helwyse ! \" said she. \" Keep \nmy image in yoiu* remembrj^nce, as you behold it \nnow.\" \n\n\" Alas, lady ! \" he replied, in a tone no longer wild, \nbut sad as a funeral bell. \" We must meet shortly, \nwhen your face may wear another aspect — and that \nshall be the image that must abide within me.\" \n\nHe made no more resistance to the violent efforts of \nthe gentlemen and servants, who almost dragged him \nout of the apartment, and dismissed him roughly from \nthe iron gate of the Province House. Captain Lang- \nford, who had been very active in this affair, was re- \nturning to the presence of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, \nwhen he encountered the physician. Doctor Clarke, \nwith whom he had held some casual talk on the day of \nher arrival. The Doctor stood apart, separated from \nLady Eleanore by the width of the room, but eying \nher v/ith such keen sagacity that Captain Langford \ninvolimtarily gave him credit for the discovery of some \ndeep secret. \n\n\" You appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms \nof this queenly maiden,\" said he, hoping thus to draw \nforth the physician's hidden knowledge. \n\n\" God forbid ! \" answered Doctor Clarke, with a grave \n\n\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 319 \n\nsmile ; \" and if you be wise jou will put up the same \nprayer for yourself. Woe to those who shall be smit- \nten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore ! But yonder \nstands the Governor — and I have a word or two for \nhis private ear. Good night ! \" \n\nHe accordingly advanced to Governor Shute, and \naddressed him in so low a tone that none of the \nby-standers could catch a word of what he said, al- \nthough the sudden change of his Excellency's hitherto \ncheerful visage betokened that the communication \ncould be of no agreeable import. A very few moments \nafterwards it was announced to the guests that an mi- \nforeseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a \npremature close to the festival. \n\nThe ball at the Province House supplied a topic of \nconversation for the colonial metropolis for some days \nafter its occurrence, and might still longer have been \nthe general theme, only that a subject of all-engTossing \ninterest thrust it, for a time, from the public recollec- \ntion. This was the appearance of a dreadf id epidemic, \nwhich, in that age and long before and afterwards, \n•was wont to slay its hundreds and thousands on both \nsides of the Atlantic. On the occasion of which we \nspeak, it was distinguished by a peculiar \\aridence, in- \nsomuch that it has left its traces — its pit-marks, to use \nan appropriate figure — on the history of the country, \nthe affairs of wliich were throwTi into confusion by \nits ravages. At first, unlike its ordinary course, the \ndisease seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of \nsociety, selecting its victims from among the proud, \nthe well-born, and the wealthy, entering unabashed into \nstately chambers, and lying do\"\\\\'n with the slimiberers \nin silken beds. Some of the most distinguished guests \nof the Province House — even those whom the haughty \n\n\nS20 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nLady Eleanore Rochcliffe had deemed not unworthy \nof her favor — were stricken by this fatal scourge. It \nwas noticed, with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling, \nthat the four gentlemen — the Virginian, the British \nofficer, the yomig clergyman, and the Governor's se- \ncretary— who had been her most devoted attendants \non the evening of the ball, were the foremost on whom \nthe plague stroke fell. But the disease, pursuing its \nonward progress, soon ceased to be exclusively a pre- \nrogative of aristocracy. Its red brand was no longer \nconferred like a noble's star, or an order of knight- \nhood. It threaded its way through the narrow and \ncrooked streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome \ndwellings, and laid its hand of death upon the artisans \nand laboring classes of the town. It compelled rich \nand poor to feel themselves brethren then ; and stalk- \ning to and fro across the Three Hills, with a fierceness \nwhich made it almost a new pestilence, there was that \nmighty conqueror — that scourge and horror of our \nforefathers — the Small-Pox ! \n\nWe cannot estimate the affright which this plague \ninspired of yore, by contemplating it as the fangiess \nmonster of the present day. We must remember, \nrather, with what awe we watched the gigantic foot- \nsteps of the Asiatic cholera, striding from shore to \nshore of the Atlantic, and marching like destiny upon \ncities far remote which flight had already half depopu- \nlated. There is no other fear so horrible and unhu- \nmanizins as that which makes man dread to breathe \nheaven's vital air lest it be poison, or to grasp the \nhand of a brother or friend lest the gripe of the pes- \ntilence should clutch him. Such was the dismay that \nnow followed in the track of the disease, or ran before \nit throughout the town. Graves were hastily dug, and \n\n\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 321 \n\nthe pestilential relics as hastily covered, because the \ndead were enemies of the living, and strove to draw \nthem headlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. \nThe public coimcils were suspended, as if mortal wis- \ndom might relinquish its devices, now that an im- \nearthly usurper had found his way into the nder's \nmansion. Had an enemy's fleet been hovering on the \ncoast, or his armies trampling on our soil, the people \nwould probably have committed their defence to that \nsame direful conqueror who had wrought their own \ncalamity, and would permit no interference mth his \nsway. This conqueror had a symbol of his trimnphs. \nIt was a blood-red flag, that fluttered in the tainted \nair, over the door of every dwelling into which the \nSmall-Pox had entered. \n\nSuch a banner was long since waving over the \nportal of the Province House ; for thence, as was \nproved by tracking its footsteps back, had all this \ndreadfid mischief issued. It had been traced back to \na lady's luxurious chamber — to the proudest of the \nproud — to her that was so delicate, and hardly owned \nherself of earthly mould — to the haughty one, who \ntook her stand above hmnan sympathies — to Lady \nEleanore ! There remained no room for doubt that \nthe contagion had lurked in that gorgeous mantle, \nwhich threw so strange a grace aroimd her at the \nfestival. Its fantastic splendor had been conceived in \nthe delirious brain of a woman on her death-bed, and \nwas the last toil of her stiffening fingers, which had \ninterwoven fate and misery with its golden threads. \nThis dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited \nfar and wide. The people raved against the Lady \nEleanore, and cried out that her pride and scorn had \nevoked a fiend, and that, between them both, this \n\nvox,. I. 21 \n\n\n322 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmonstrous evil had been born. At times, their rage \nand despair took the semblance of grinning mirth ; \nand whenever the red flag of the pestilence was hoisted \nover another and yet another door, they clapped their \nhands and shouted through the streets, in bitter mock- \nery : \" Behold a new triimiph for the Lady Eleanore ! \" \n\nOne day, in the midst of these dismal times, a wild \nfigure approached the portal of the Province House, \nand folding liis arms, stood contemplating the scarlet \nbanner which a passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to \nfling abroad the contagion that it typified. At length, \nclimbing one of the pillars by means of the iron bal- \nustrade, he took down the flag and entered the man- \nsion, waving it above his head. At the foot of the \nstaircase he met the Governor, booted and spurred, \nwith his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the \npoint of setting forth upon a journey. \n\n\" Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here ? \" ex- \nclaimed Shute, extending his cane to guard himseK \nfrom contact. \" There is nothing here but Death. \nBack — or you will meet him I \" \n\n\" Death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the \npestilence ! \" cried Jervase Helwyse, shaking the red \nflag aloft. \" Death, and the Pestilence, who wears \nthe aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk through \nthe streets to-night, and I must march before them \nwith this banner ! \" \n\n\" Why do I waste words on the fellow ? \" muttered \nthe Governor, drawing his cloak across his mouth. \n\" What matters his miserable life, when none of us \nare sure of twelve hours' breath ? On, fool, to your \nown destruction ! \" \n\nHe made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immedi- \nately ascended the staircase, but, on the first landing \n\n\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 323 \n\nplace, was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon \nhis shoidder. Looking fiercely up, with a madman's \nimpulse to struggle with and rend asunder his oppo- \nnent, he found himself powerless beneath a calm, stern \neye, which possessed the mysterious property of quell- \ning frenzy at its height. The person whom he had \nnow encoimtered was the physician, Doctor Clarke, \nthe duties of whose sad profession had led him to the \nPro\\dnce House, where he was an infrequent guest in \nmore prosperous times. \n\n\"• Young man, what is your purpose ? \" demanded \nhe. \n\n\" I seek the Lady Eleanore,\" answered Jervase \nHelwyse, submissively. \n\n\" All have fled from her,\" said the physician. \n\" Why do you seek her now ? I tell you, youth, her \nnurse fell death-stricken on the threshold of that fatal \nchamber. Know ye not, that never came such a curse \nto our shores as this lovely Lady Eleanore ? — that \nher breath has filled the air with poison ? — that she \nhas shaken pestilence and death upon the land, from \nthe folds of her accursed mantle ? \" \n\n'' Let me look upon her I \" rejoined the mad youth, \nmore wildly. \" Let me behold her, in her awful \nbeauty, clad in the regal garments of the pestilence ! \nShe and Death sit on a throne together. Let me \nkneel down before them I \" \n\n\" Poor youth ! \" said Doctor Clarke ; and, moved \nby a deep sense of human weakness, a smile of caus- \ntic humor curled his lijj even then. \" Wilt thou still \nworship the destroyer and surround her image with \nfantasies the more magnificent, the more evil she has \nwrought ? Thus man doth ever to his tyrants. Ap- \nproach, then I Madness, as I have noted, has that \n\n\n324 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ngood efficacy, that it will guard you from contagion — \nand perchance its own cure may be foimd in yonder \nchamber.\" \n\nAscending another flight of stairs, he threw open a \ndoor and signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should \nenter. The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cher- \nished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in state, \nunharmed herself by the pestilential inflvience, which, \nas by enchantment, she scattered round about her. \nHe dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was not \ndimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. \nWith such anticipations, he stole reverentially to the \ndoor at which the physician stood, but paused upon \nthe threshold, gazing fearfidly into the gloom of the \ndarkened chamber. \n\n\" Where is the Lady Eleanore ? \" whispered he. \n\n\" Call her,\" replied the phj'sician. \n\n\" Lady Eleanore ! — Princess ! — Queen of Death ! \" \ncried Jervase Helwyse, advancing three stejDS into the \nchamber. \" She is not here ! There, on yonder table, \nI behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she \nwore upon her bosom. There\" — and he shuddered \n— \" there hangs her mantle, on which a dead woman \nembroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But where \nis the Lady Eleanore ? \" \n\nSomething stirred within the silken curtains of a \ncanopied bed ; and a low moan was uttered, which, \nlistening intently, Jervase Helwyse began to distin- \nguish as a woman's voice, complaining dolefully of \nthirst. He fancied, even, that he recognized its tones. \n\n\" My throat ! — my throat is scorched,\" murmured \nthe voice. \" A drop of water ! \" \n\n\"What thing art thou?\" said the brain-stricken \nyouth, di-awing near the bed and tearing asunder its \n\n\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 325 \n\ncurtains. \" Whose voice hast thou stolen for thy mur- \nmurs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore \ncoidd be conscious of mortal infirmity ? Fie ! Heap \nof diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my lady's \nchamber ? \" \n\n\" O Jervase Heh^'yse,\" said the voice — and as it \nsix)ke the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its \nblasted face — \"look not now on the woman you once \nloved ! The curse of Heaven hath stricken me, be- \ncause I woidd not call man my brother, nor woman \nsister. I wrapped myself in pkide as in a mantle, \nand scorned the sympathies of nature ; and therefore \nhas nature made this wretched body the medium of a \ndreadf id sympathy. You are avenged — they are all \navenged — Nature is avenged — for I am Eleanore \nRocheliffe ! \" \n\nThe malice of his mental disease, the bitterness \nlurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for \na blighted and ruined life, and love that had been paid \nwith cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase \nHelwyse. He shook his finger at the wretched girl, \nand the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed were \nshaken, with his outburst of insane merriment. \n\n\" Another trimnph for the Lady Eleanore ! \" he \ncried. \" All have been her victims ! Who so worthy \nto be the final victim as herself ? \" \n\nImpelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intel- \nlect, he snatched the fatal mantle and rushed from \nthe chamber and the house. That night a procession \npassed, by torchlight, through the streets, bearing in \nthe midst the figure of a woman, enveloped with a \nrichly embroidered mantle ; while in advance stalked \nJervase Helwyse, wa^dng the red flag of the pestilence. \nArriving opposite the Province House, the mob burned \n\n\n82G TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthe effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away \nthe ashes. It was said that, from that very hour, the \npestilence abated, as if its sway had some mysterious \nconnection, from the first plague stroke to the last, \nwith Lady Eleanore's Mantle. A remarkable uncer- \ntainty broods over that unhapj)y lady's fate. There is \na belief, however, that in a certain chamber of this \nmansion a female form may sometimes be duskily dis- \ncerned, shrinking* into the darkest corner and muf- \nfling her face within an embroidered mantle. Suppos- \ning the legend true, can this be other than the once \nproud Lady Eleanore ? \n\n\nMine host and the old loyalist and I bestowed no \nlittle warmth of applause upon this narrative, in which \nwe had all been deeply interested ; for the reader can \nscarcely conceive how mispeakably the effect of such \na tale is heightened when, as in the present case, we \nmay repose perfect confidence m the veracity of him \nwho tells it. For my own part, knowing how scrupu- \nlous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the foundation of his facts, \nI could not have believed him one whit the more faith- \nfully had he professed liimseK an eye-witness of the \ndoings and sufferings of poor Lady Eleanore. Some \nsceptics, it is true, might demand documentary evi- \ndence, or even require him to produce the embroidered \nmantle, f orgettmg that — Heaven be praised — it was \nconsumed to ashes. But now the old loyalist, whose \nblood was warmed by the good cheer, began to talk, in \nhis turn, about the traditions of the Province House, \nand hinted that he, if it were agreeable, might add a \nfew reminiscences to our legendary stock. Mr. Tiffany, \nhaving no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought \n\n\nLADY ELE AN ORE'S MANTLE. 327 \n\nhim to favor us with a specimen ; my own entreaties, \nof course, were urged to the same effect ; and our \nvenerable guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, \nawaited only the return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who \nhad been summoned forth to provide accommodations \nfor several new arrivals. Perchance the public — but \nbe this as its own caprice and ours shall settle the \nmatter — may read the result in another Tale of the \nProvince House. \n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. \n\nIV. \n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. \n\nOur host having resumed the chair, he, as well as \nMr. Tiffany and myself, expressed much eagerness to \nbe made acquainted with the story to which the loyal- \nist had alluded. That venerable man first of all saw \nfit to moisten his throat with another glass of wine, \nand then, turning his face towards our coal fire, looked \nsteadfastly for a few moments into the depths of its \ncheerful glow. Finally, he poured forth a great flu- \nency of speech. The generous liquid that he had im- \nbibed, while it warmed his age-chilled blood, like\\vdse \ntook off the chill from his heart and mind, and gave \nhim an energy to think and feel, which we could \nhardly have expected to find beneath the snows of \nfourscore winters. His feelings, indeed, appeared to \nme more excitable than those of a younger man ; or at \nleast, the same degree of feeling manifested itself by \nmore visible effects than if his judgment and will had \npossessed the potency of meridian life. At the pa- \nthetic passages of his narrative he readily melted into \ntears. When a breath of indignation swept across his \nspirit the blood flushed his withered visage even to the \nroots of his white hair; and he shook his clinched fist \nat the trio of peacefid auditors, seeming to fancy ene- \nmies in those who felt very kindly towards the deso- \nlate old soul. But ever and anon, sometimes in the \n\n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 329 \n\nmidst of his most earnest talk, this ancient person's \nintellect would wander vaguely, losing its hold of the \nmatter in hand, and groping for it amid misty shad- \nows. Then woidd he cackle forth a feeble laugh, and \nexpress a doubt whether his wits — for by that phrase \nit pleased our ancient friend to signify his mental \npowers — were not getting a little the Avorse for wear. \nUnder these disadvantages, the old loyalist's story \nrequired more revision to render it fit for the public \neye than those of the series which have preceded it ; \nnor should it be concealed that the sentiment and tone \nof the affair may have imdergone some slight, or per- \nchance more than sKght, metamorphosis, in its trans- \nmission to the reader through the medium of a thor- \nough-going democrat. The tale itself is a mere sketch, \nwat\\i no involution of plot, nor any great interest of \nevents, yet possessing, if I have rehearsed it aright, \nthat pensive influence over the mind which the shadow \nof the old Province House flings upon the loiterer ia \nits court-yard. \n\n\nThe hour had come — the hour of defeat and hu- \nmiliation — when Sir William Howe was to pass over \nthe threshold of the Province House, and embark, vdih \nno such triimiphal ceremonies as he once jjromised \nhunseK, on board the British fleet. He bade his ser- \nvants and military attendants go before him, and lin- \ngered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to \nquell the fierce emotions that struggled in liis bosom \nas with a death throb. Preferable, then, would he \nhave deemed his fate, had a warrior's death left him \na claim to the narrow territory of a gTave within the \nsoil which the King had given him to defend. With \n\n\n330 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nan ominous perception that, as his departing footsteps \nechoed adown the staircase, the sway of Britain was \npassing forever from New England, he smote his \nclinched hand on liis brow, and ciu'sed the destiny \nthat had flmig the shame of a dismembered empire \nupon him. \n\n\" Would to God,\" cried he, hardly repressing his \ntears of rage, \" that the rebels were even now at the \ndoorstep ! A blood-stain upon the floor should then \nbear testimony that the last British ruler was faithful \nto his trust.\" \n\nThe tremulous voice of a woman replied to his ex- \nclamation. \n\n\" Heaven's cause and the King's are one,\" it said. \n\" Go forth. Sir William Howe, and trust in Heaven \nto bring back a Royal Governor in triumph.\" \n\nSubduing, at once, the passion to which he had \nyielded only in the faith that it was imwitnessed. Sir \nWilliam Howe became conscious that an aged woman, \nleaning on a gold-headed staff, was standing betwixt \nhim and the door. It was old Esther Dudley, who \nhad dwelt almost immemorial years in this mansion, \nxmtil her jjresence seemed as inseparable from it as \nthe recollections of its history. She was the daughter \nof an ancient and once eminent family, which had \nfallen into poverty and decay, and left its last de- \nscendant no resource save the bounty of the King, nor \nany shelter except witliin the walls of the Province \nHouse. An office in the household, with merely nom- \ninal duties, had been assigned to her as a pretext for \nthe payment of a small pension, the greater part of \nwhich she expended in adorning herself with an an- \ntique magnificence of attire. The claims of Esther \nDudley's gentle blood were acknowledged by all tha \n\n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 331 \n\nsuccessive Governors ; and they treated her with the \npunctilious courtesy wliich it was her foible to dejnand, \nnot always with success, from a neglectful world. The \nonly actual share which she assumed in the business \nof the mansion was to glide through its passages and \npublic chambers, late at night, to see that the servants \nhad dropped no fire from their flaring torches, nor \nleft embers crackling and blazing on the hearths. \nPerhaps it was this invariable custom of walking her \nrounds in the hush of midnight that caused the super- \nstition of the times to invest the old woman with at- \ntributes of awe and mystery ; fabling that she had en- \ntered the portal of the Province House, none knew \nwhence, in the train of the first Royal Governor, and \nthat it was her fate to dwell there till the last should \nhave departed. But Sir William Howe, if he ever \nheard this legend, had forgotten it. \n\n\" Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here ? \" \nasked he, with some severity of tone. \" It is my \npleasure to be the last in this mansion of the King.\" \n\n\" Not so, if it please your Excellency,\" answered \nthe time-stricken woman. \" This roof has sheltered \nme long. I will not pass from it until they bear me \nto the tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is \nthere for old Esther Dudley, save the Province House \nor the grave ? \" \n\n\" Now Heaven forgive me ! \" said Sir William \nHowe to himself. \" I was about to leave this wretched \nold creature to starve or beg. Take this, good Mis- \ntress Dudley,\" he added, putting a purse into her \nhands. \" King George's head on these golden guineas \nis sterling yet, and will continue so, I warrant you, \neven should the rebels croN\\ai John Hancock their \nking. That purse will buy a better shelter than the \nProvince House can now afford.\" \n\n\n332 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" While the burden of life remains upon me, I will \nhave no other shelter than this roof,\" persisted Esther \nDudley, striking- her staff upon the floor with a gest- \nure that expressed immovable resolve. \" And when \nyour Excellency returns in triumph, I will totter into \nthe porch to welcome you.\" \n\n\" My poor old friend ! \" answered the British Gen \neral, — and all Ms manly and martial pride could no \nlonger restrain a gush of bitter tears. \" This is an \nevil hour for you and me. The Province which the \nKing intrusted to my charge is lost. I go hence in \nmisfortune — perchance in disgrace — to return no \nmore. And you, whose present being is incorporated \nwith the past — who have seen Governor after Gov- \nernor, in stately pageantry, ascend these steps — whose \nwhole life has been an observance of majestic cere- \nmonies, and a worship of the King — how will you \nendure the change ? Come with us ! Bid farewell to \na land that has shaken off its allegiance, and live still \nunder a royal government, at Halifax.\" \n\n\" Never, never ! \" said the pertinacious old dame. \n\" Here will I abide ; and King George shall still have \none true subject in his disloyal Province.\" \n\n\" Beshrew the old fool ! \" muttered Sir William \nHowe, growing impatient of her obstinacy, and \nashamed of the emotion into which he had been \nbetrayed. \" She is the very moral of old-fashioned \nprejudice, and could exist nowhere but in this musty \nedifice. Well, then, Mistress Dudley, since you will \nneeds tarry, I give the Province House in charge to \nyou. Take this key, and keep it safe until myself, or \nsome other Royal Governor, shall demand it of you.\" \n\nSmiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the \nheavy key of the Province House, and delivering it \n\n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 333 \n\ninto the old lady's hands, drew liis cloak around him \nfor departure. As the General glanced back at Es- \nther Dudley's antique figure, he deemed her well fitted \nfor such a charge, as being so perfect a representative \nof the decayed past — of an age gone by, with its \nmanners, opinions, faith and feelings, all fallen into \noblivion or scorn — of what had once been a reality, \nbut was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. \nThen Sir William Howe strode forth, smiting his \nclinched hands together, in the fierce anguish of liis \nspirit ; and old Esther Dudley was left to keep watch \nin the lonely Province House, dwelling there with \nmemory ; and if Hope ever seemed to flit aroimd her, \nstill was it Memory in disguise. \n\nThe total change of affairs that ensued on the de- \nparture of the British troops did not drive the vener- \nable lady from her stronghold. There was not, for \nmany years afterwards, a Governor of Massachusetts ; \nand the magistrates, who had charge of such matters, \nsaw no objection to Esther Dudley's residence in the \nProvince House, especially as they must otherwise \nhave paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, \nwhich with her was a labor of love. And so they left \nher the tmdisturbed mistress of the old historic edifice. \nMany and strange were the fables which the gossips \nwhispered about her, in all the chimney corners of the \ntown. Among the time-worn articles of furniture that \nhad been left in the mansion there w^as a tall, antique \nmirror, which was well worthy of a tale by itself, and \nperhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. The gold \nof its heavily-wrought frame was tarnished, and its \nsurface so blurred, that the old woman's figure, when- \never she paused before it, looked indistinct and ghost- \nlike. But it was the general belief that Esther could \n\n\n334 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncause the Governors of the overthrown dynasty, with \nthe beautiful ladies who had once adorned their festi- \nvals, the Indian chiefs who had come uj) to the Prov- \nince House to hold council or swear allegiance, the \ngrim Provincial warriors, the severe clergymen — in \nshort, all the pageantry of gone days — all the fig*ures \nthat ever swept across the broad plate of glass in \nformer times — she coidd cause the whole to reappear, \nand people the inner world of the mirror with shadows \nof old life. Such legends as these, together with the \nsingvdarity of her isolated existence, her age, and the \ninfirmity that each added winter flimg upon her, made \nMistress Dudley the object both of fear and pity ; and \nit was partly the result of either sentiment that, amid \nall the angry license of the times, neither wrong nor \ninsult ever fell upon her unprotected head. Indeed, \nthere was so much haughtiness in her demeanor to- \nwards intruders, among whom she reckoned all per- \nsons acting under the new authorities, that it was \nreally an affair of no small nerve to look her in the \nface. And to do the people justice, stern republicans \nas they had now become, they were well content that \nthe old gentlewoman, in her hoop petticoat and faded \nembroidery, shoidd still haunt the jaalace of ruined \npride and overthrown power, the sjmibol of a departed \nsystem, embodying a history in her person. So Esther \nDudley dwelt year after year in the Pro\\dnce House, \nstill reverencing all that others had flung aside, still \nfaithful to her King, who, so long as the venerable \ndame yet held her post, might be said to retain one \ntrue subject in New England, and one spot of the em- \npire that had been wrested from him. \n\nAnd did she dwell there in utter loneliness ? Rumoi \nsaid, not so. Whenever her chill and withered heart \n\n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 335 \n\ndesired warmth, she was wont to summon a black slave \nof Governor Shirlej^'s from the blurred mirror, and \nsend him in search of guests who had long ago been \nfamiliar in those deserted chambers. Forth went the \nsable messenger, with the starlight or the moonsliine \ngleaming through him, and did his errand in the burial \nground, knocking at the iron doors of tombs, or upon \nthe marble slabs that covered them, and whispering to \nthose within : \" My mistress, old Esther Dudley, bids \nyou to the Province House at midnight.\" And punct- \nually as the clock of the Old South told twelve came \nthe shadows of the Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the Dud- \nleys, all the grandees of a by-gone generation, gliding \nbeneath the portal into the well-known mansion, where \nEsther mingled with them as if she likewise were a \nshade. Without vouching for the truth of such tradi- \ntions, it is certain that Mistress Dudley sometimes as- \nsembled a few of the stanch, though crestfallen, old \ntories, who had lingered in the rebel town during those \ndays of wrath and tribidation. Out of a cobwebbed \nbottle, containing liquor that a royal Governor might \nhave smacked his lips over, they quaffed healths to \nthe King, and babbled treason to the Republic, feel- \ning as if the protecting shadow of the throne were still \nflung around them. But, draining the last drops of \ntheir liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and an- \nswered not again if the rude mob reviled them in the \nstreet. \n\nYet Esther Dudley's most frequent and favored \nguests were the children of the town. Towards them \nshe was never stem. A kindly and loving nature, \nhindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand \nrocky prejudices, lavished itseK upon these little ones. \nBy bribes of gingerbread of her own making, stamped \n\n\n336 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwith a royal crown, she tempted their sunny sportive- \nness beneath the gloomy portal of the Province House, \nand woidd often beguile them to spend a whole play- \nday there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her \nhoop petticoat, greedily attentive to her stories of a \ndead world. And when these Kttle boys and girls \nstole forth again from the dark, mysterious mansion, \nthey went bewildered, full of old feelings that graver \npeople had long ago forgotten, rubbing their eyes at \nthe world around them as if they had gone astray into \nancient times, and become children of the past. At \nhome, when their parents asked where they had loi- \ntered such a weary while, and with whom they had \nbeen at play, the children would talk of all the de- \nparted worthies of the Province, as far back as Gov- \nernor Belcher and the haughty dame of Sir William \nPliipps. It woidd seem as though they had been sit- \nting on the knees of these famous personages, whom \nthe grave had hidden for half a century, and had toyed \nwith the embroidery of their rich waistcoats, or rogu- \nishly pulled the long curls of their flowing wigs. \n\" But Governor Belcher has been dead this many a \nyear,\"' woidd the mother say to her little boy. \" And \ndid you really see him at the Province House ? \" \" Oh \nyes, dear mother ! yes ! \" the half -dreaming child woidd \nanswer. \" But when old Esther had done speaking \nabout him he faded away out of his chair.\" Thus, \nwithout affrighting her little guests, she led them by \nthe hand into the chambers of her o^vn desolate heart, \nand made childhood's fancv discern the ghosts that \nhaunted there. \n\nLiving so continually in her own circle of ideas, and \nnever regulating her mind by a proper reference to \npresent things, Esther Dudley appears to have grown \n\n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 337 \n\npartially crazed. It was found that she had no right \nsense of the process and true state of the Revohition- \nary War, but held a constant faith that the armies of \nBritain were victorious on every field, and destined \nto be idtimately triumphant. Whenever the town re- \njoiced for a battle won by Washington, or Gates, or \nMorgan, or Greene, the news, in passing through the \ndoor of the Province House, as through the ivory gate \nof dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale \nof the prowess of Howe, Clinton, or Cornwallis. \nSooner or later it was her invincible belief the colo- \nnies would be prostrate at the footstool of the King. \nSometimes she seemed to take for granted that such \nwas already the case. On one occasion, she startled \nthe to^\\^ls-people by a brilliant illiunination of the \nProvince House, with candles at every pane of glass, \nand a transparency of the King's initials and a crowTi \nof light in the great balcony window. The figure of \nthe aged woman in the most gorgeous of her mildewed \nvelvets and brocades was seen passing from casement \nto casement, imtil she paused before the balcony, and \nflourished a huge key above her head. Her wrinkled \n\\dsage actually gleamed with triiunph, as if the soid \nwithin her were a festal lamp. \n\n\" What means this blaze of light ? What does old \nEsther's joy portend ? \" wliispered a spectator. \" It \nis frightful to see her gliding about the chambers, and \nrejoicing there without a soul to bear her company.\" \n\n\" It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,'* \nsaid another. \n\n\" Pshaw ! It is no such mystery,\" observed an old \nman, after some brief exercise of memory. \" Mis- \ntress Dudley is keeping jubilee for the King of Eng- \nland's birthday.\" \n\nVOL. I. 22 \n\n\n338 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nThen the people laughed aloud, and would have \nthrown mud against the blazing transparency of the \nKing's crown and mitials, only that they pitied the \npoor old dame, who was so dismally triumphant amid \nthe wreck and ruin of the system to which she apper- \ntained. \n\nOftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary \nstaircase that wound upward to the cupola, and thence \nstrain her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward, \nwatching for a British fleet, or for the march of a \ngrand procession, with the King's banner floating over \nit. The passengers in the street below would discern \nher anxious visage, and send up a shout, \" When the \ngolden Indian on the Province House shall shoot liis \narrow, and when the cock on the Old South spire \nshall crow, then look for a Royal Governor again ! \" \n— for this had grown a byword through the town. \nAnd at last, after long, long years, old Esther Dudley \nknew, or perchance she only dreamed, that a Eoyal \nGovernor was on the eve of returning to the Province \nHouse, to receive the heavy key which Sir William \nHowe had committed to her charge. Now it was the \nfact that intelligence bearing some faint analogy to \nEsther's version of it was current among the towns- \npeople. She set the mansion in the best order that \nher means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and \ntarnished gold, stood long before the blurred mirror \nto admire her own magiaiiicence. As she gazed, the \ngray and withered lady moved her ashen lips, mur- \nmuring half aloud, talking to shapes that she saw \nwithin the mirror, to shadows of her own fantasies, to \nthe household friends of memory, and bidding them \nrejoice with her and come forth to meet the Governor. \nAnd while absorbed in this communion, Mistress Dud- \n\n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 339 \n\nley heard the tramp of many footsteps in the street, \nand, looking- out at the window, beheld what she con- \nstrued as the Royal Governor's arrival. \n\n\" O happy day ! O blessed, blessed hour! \" she ex- \nclaimed. \" Let me but bid him welcome within the \nportal, and my task in the Pro\\dnce House, and on \nearth, is done ! \" \n\nThen with tottering feet, which age and tremulous \njoy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand \nstaircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went, \nso that the soimd was as if a train of spectral courtiers \nwere thronging from the dim mirror. And Esther \nDudley fancied that as soon as the wide door shoidd \nbe flung open, all the pomp and sj3lendor of by-gone \ntimes woidd pace majestically into the Province House, \nand the gilded tapestry of the past would be bright- \nened by the simshine of the present. She turned the \nkey — withdrew it from the lock — unclosed the door \n— and stepped across the threshold. Advancing up \nthe court-yard appeared a person of most dignified \nmien, with tokens, as Esther interpreted them, of gen- \ntle blood, high rank, and long-accustomed authority, \neven in his walk and every gesture. He was richly \ndressed, but wore a gouty shoe, which, however, did \nnot lessen the stateliness of his gait. Around and \nbehind liim were people in plain civic dresses, and two \nor three war-worn veterans, evidently officers of rank, \narrayed in a uniform of blue and buff. But Esther \nDudley, firm in the belief that had fastened its roots \nabout her heart, beheld only the principal personage, \nand never doubted that this was the long-looked-for \nGovernor, to whom she was to surrender up her \ncharge. As he approached, she iuA^oluntary sank down \non her knees and tremblingly held forth the heavy \nkey. \n\n\n840 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" Receive my trust I take it qmckly ! \" cried she ; \n\" for metliinks Death is striving to snatch away my \ntrimnph. But he comes too late. Thank Heaven for \nthis blessed hour ! God save King George I \" \n\n\" That, Madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up \nat such a moment,\" replied the unknown guest of the \nProvince House, and courteously removing his hat, he \noffered his arm to raise the aged woman. \" Yet, in \nreverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith, \nHeaven forbid that any here shoidd say you nay. \nOver the realms which still acknowledge his sceptre, \nGod save King George! \" \n\nEsther Dudley started to her feet, and hastily \nclutching back the key, gazed with fearful earnestness \nat the stranger ; and dunly and doubtfully, as if sud- \ndenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes \nhalf recognized his face. Years ago she had known \nhim among the gentry of the province. But the ban \nof the King had fallen upon him ! How, then, came \nthe doomed victim here ? Proscribed, excluded from \nmercy, the monarch's most dreaded and hated foe, \nthis New England merchant had stood triumphantly \nagainst a kingdom's strength ; and his foot now trod \nupon humbled Royalty, as he ascended the steps of the \nProvince House, the people's chosen Governor of Mas- \nsachusetts. \n\n\" Wretch, wretch that I am ! \" muttered the old \nwoman, with such a heart-broken expression that the \ntears gushed from the stranger's eyes. \" Have I bid- \nden a traitor welcome ? Come, Death ! come quicldy ! \" \n\n\" Alas, venerable lady ! \" said Governor Hancock, \nlending her his support with all the reverence that a \ncourtier would have shown to a queen. \" Your life \nhas been prolonged until the world has changed \n\n\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 341 \n\naround you. You have treasured up all that time has \nrendered worthless — the principles, feelings, man- \nners, modes of being and acting, which another gen- \neration has flung aside — and you are a symbol of the \npast. And I, and these around me — we represent \na new race of men — living no longer in the jjast, \nscarcely in the present — but projecting our lives for- \nward into the future. Ceasing to model ourselves on \nancestral superstitions, it is our faith and jn-mciple to \npress onward, onward ! Yet,\" continued he, turning \nto his attendants, \" let us reverence, for the last time, \nthe stately and gorgeous prejudices of the tottering \nPast ! \" \n\nWhile the Republican Governor spoke, he had con- \ntinued to support the helpless form of Esther Dudley ; \nher weight grew heavier against his arm ; but at last, \nwith a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman \nsank do^ATi beside one of the pillars of the portal. \nThe key of the Province House fell from her grasp, \nand clanked against the stone. \n\n\" I have been faithful unto death,\" murmured she. \n\" God save the King I \" \n\n\" She hath done her office ! \" said Hancock solemnly. \n\" We will follow her reverently to the tomb of her an- \ncestors ; and then, my fellow-citizens, onward — on- \nward ! We are no longer children of the Past ! \" \n\n\nAs the old loyalist concluded his narrative, the en- \nthusiasm which had been fitfully flashing within his \nsimken eyes, and quivering across his wrinkled visage, \nfaded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul were \nextinguished. Just then, too, a lamp upon the man- \ntel-piece threw out a dying gleam, which vanished as \n\n\n342 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nspeedily as it shot upward, compelling oiir eyes to \ngrope for one another's features by the dim glow of \nthe hearth. With such a lingering fire, methought, \nwith such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient \nsystem vanished from the Province House, when the \nspirit of old Esther Dudley took its flight. And now, \nagain, the clock of the Old South threw its voice of \nages on the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the \nPast, crying out far and \\nde through the multitudi- \nnous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky \nchamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. In \nthat same mansion — in that very chamber — what a \nvolmne of history had been tokl off into hours, by the \nsame voice that was now trembling in the air. Many \na Governor had heard those midnight accents, and \nlonged to exchange his stately cares for slmnber. And \nas for mine host and Mr. Bela Tiffany and the old \nloyalist and me, we had babbled about dreams of the \npast, until we almost fancied that the clock was still \nstriking in a bygone century. Neither of us v;ould \nhave wondered, had a hoop-petticoated phantom of \nEsther Dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her \nrounds in the hush of midnight, as of yore, and mo- \ntioned us to quench the fading embers of the fire, and \nleave the historic precincts to herself and her kindred \nshades. But as no such vision was vouchsafed, I re- \ntired unbidden, and would advise Mr. Tiffany to lay \nhold of another auditor, being resolved not to show \nmy face in the Province House for a good while hence \n— if ever. \n\n\nTHE HAUNTED MIND. \n\nWhat a singular moment is the first one, when you \nhave hardly begun to recollect yourself, after starting \nfrom midnight sliunber ? By unclosing your eyes so \nsuddenly, you seem to have surprised the personages \nof your dream in full convocation round your bed, \nand catch one broad glance at them before they can \nflit into obscurity. Or, to vary the metaphor, you find \nyourself, for a single instant, wide awake in that realm \nof illusions, whither sleep has been the passport, and \nbehold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery, \nwith a perception of their strangeness such as you \nnever attain while the dream is undisturbed. The \ndistant sound of a church clock is borne faintly on the \nwind. You question with yourself, half seriously, \nwhether it has stolen to your waking ear from some \ngray tower that stood within the precincts of your \ndream. While yet in suspense, another clock flings \nits heavy clang over the slumbering town, with so full \nand distinct a sound, and such a long murmur in the \nneighboring air, that you are certain it must proceed \nfrom the steeple at the nearest corner. You count \nthe strokes — one — two, and there they cease, with a \nbooming somid, like the gathering of a third stroke \nwdthin the bell. \n\nIf you coidd choose an hour of wakefulness out of \nthe whole night, it would be this. Since your sober \nbedtime, at eleven, you have had rest enough to take \noff the pressure of yesterday's fatigue ; while before \n\n\n344 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nyou, till the sun comes from \" far Cathay \" to brighten \nyour window, there is almost the space of a siunmer \nnight ; one hour to be spent in thought, with the \nmind's eye half shut, and two in pleasant dreams, \nand two in that strangest of enjoyments, the forget- \nfulness alike of joy and woe. The moment of rising \nbelongs to another period of time, and appears so dis- \ntant that the plimge out of a warm bed into the frosty \nair cannot yet be anticipated with dismay. Yesterday \nhas already vanished among the shadows of the past ; \nto-morrow has not yet emerged from the future. You \nhave found an intermediate space, where the business \nof life does not intrude ; where the passing moment \nlingers, and becomes truly the present ; a spot where \nFather Time, when he thinks nobody is watching him, \nsits down by the wayside to take breath. Oh, that \nhe woidd fall asleep, and let mortals live on without \ngrowing older ! \n\nHitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the \nslightest motion would dissipate the fragments of your \nslumber. Now, being irrevocably awake, you peep \nthrough the half-drawn window curtain, and observe \nthat the glass is ornamented with fancifid defaces in \nfrostwork, and that each pane presents something like \na frozen dream. There will be time enough to trace \nout the analogy while waiting the summons to break- \nfast. Seen through the clear portion of the glass, \nwhere the silvery mountain peaks of the frost scenery \ndo not ascend, the most conspicuous object is the stee- \nple ; the white spire of which directs you to the wintry \nlustre of the firmament. You may almost distinguish \nthe figures on the clock that has just told the hour. \nSuch a frosty sky, and the snow-covered roofs, and the \nlong \\'ista of the frozen street, all white, and the dis- \n\n\nTHE HAUNTED MIND. 345 \n\ntant water hardened into rock, might make you shiver, \neven under four blankets and a woollen comforter. \nYet look at that one glorious star ! Its beams are dis- \ntinguishable from all the rest, and actually cast the \nshadow of the casement on the bed, with a radiance of \ndeeper hue than moonlight, though not so acciu-ate an \noutline. \n\nYou sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, \nshivering all the while, but less from bodily chill than \nthe bare idea of a polar atmosphere. It is too cold \neven for the thoughts to venture abroad. You specu- \nlate on the luxury of wearing out a whole existence in \nbed, like an oyster in its shell, content with the slug- \ngish ecstasy of inaction, and drowsily conscious of \nnothing but delicious warmth, such as you now feel \nagain. Ah ! that idea has brought a hideous one in \nits train. You think how the dead are lying in their \ncold shrouds and narrow coffins, through the drear \nwinter of the grave, and cannot persuade your fancy \nthat they neither shrink nor shiver, when the snow is \ndrifting over their little hillocks, and the bitter blast \nhowls against the door of the tomb. That gloomy \nthought will collect a gloomy midtitude, and throw its \ncomplexion over your wakefid hour. \n\nIn the depths of every heart there is a tomb and \na dimgeon, though the lights, the music, and revelry \nabove may cause us to forget their existence, and the \nburied ones, or prisoners, whom they hide. But some- \ntimes, and oftenest at midnight, these dark receptacles \nare flimg wide open. In an hour like this, when the \nriind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength; \nwhen the imagination is a mirror, imparting \\dvidness \nto all ideas, without the power of selecting or control- \nling them ; then pray that your griefs may slumber, \n\n\n346 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. \nIt is too late ! A funeral train comes gliding by your \nbed, in which Passion and Feeling assume bodily \nshape, and things of the mind become dim spectres to \nthe eye. There is your earliest Sorrow, a pale young \nmourner, wearing a sister's likeness to first love, sadly \nbeautifid, with a hallowed sweetness in her melan- \ncholy features, and grace in the flow of her sable robe. \nNext appears a shade of ruined loveliness, \\\\ith dust \namong her golden hair, and her bright garments all \nfaded and defaced, stealing from your glance with \ndrooping head, as fearful of reproach ; she was your \nfondest Hope, but a delusive one ; so call her Disap- \npointment now. A sterner form succeeds, with a brow \nof wrinkles, a look and gesture of iron authority; \nthere is no name for him unless it be Fatality, an em- \nblem of the evil influence that rules your fortunes ; a \ndemon to whom you subjected yourself by some error \nat the outset of life, and were boimd his slave forever, \nby once obeying him. See ! those fiendish lineaments \ngraven on the darkness, the writhed lip of scorn, the \nmockery of that living eye, the pointed finger, touch- \ning the sore place in your heart ! Do you remember \nany act of enormous folly at which you woidd blush, \neven in the remotest cavern of the earth ? Then rec- \nognize your Shame. \n\nPass, wretched band ! Well for the wakeful one, if, \nriotously miserable, a fiercer tribe do not surround \nhim, the devils of a guilty heart, that holds its hell \nwitliin itself. What if Remorse should assume the \nfeatures of an iajured friend? What if the fiend \nshould come in woman's garments, with a pale beauty \namid sin and desolation, and lie dowTi by yoiu' side ? \nWiat if he should stand at your bed's foot, in the \n\n\nTHE HAUNTED MIND. 347 \n\nlikeness of a corpse, with a bloody stain ujwn the \nshroud ? Sufficient, without such guilt, is this night- \nmare of the soul ; this heavy, heavy sinking of the \nS])irits ; this wintry gloom about the heart ; this indis- \ntinct horror of the mind, blending itself with the dark- \nness of the chamber. \n\nBy a desperate effort you start upright, breaking \nfrom a sort of conscious sleep, and gazing wildly \nround the bed, as if the fiends were anywhere but in \nyour hamited mind. At the same moment, the slum- \nbering embers on the hearth send forth a gleam which \npalely illimiinates the whole outer room, and flickers \nthrough the door of the bed-chamber, but cannot \nquite dispel its obscurity. Your eye searches for \nwhatever may remind you of the living world. With \neager minuteness you take note of the table near the \nfireplace, the book with an ivory knife between its \nleaves, the imfolded letter, the hat, and the fallen \nglove. Soon the flame vanishes, and with it the whole \nscene is gone, though its image remains an instant in \nyour mind's eye, when darkness has swallowed the \nreality. Throughout the chamber there is the same \nobscurity as before, but not the same gloom within \nyour breast. As your head falls back upon the pil- \nlow, you think — in a whisper be it spoken — how \npleasant, in these night solitudes, would be the rise \nand fall of a softer breathing than your own, the \nslight pressure of a tenderer bosom, the quiet throb \nof a purer heart, imparting its peacefidness to your \ntroubled one, as if the fond sleeper were involving \nyou in her dream. \n\nHer influence is over you, though she have no exist- \nence but in that momentary image. You sink down in \na flowery spot, on the borders of sleep and wakefid- \n\n\n348 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nness, while your thoughts rise before you in pictures, \nall disconnected, yet all assimilated by a pervading \ngladsomeness and beauty. The wheeling of gorgeous \nsquadrons that glitter in the sun is succeeded by the \nmerrhnent of cliildren round the door of a school- \nhouse, beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees, at \nthe corner of a rustic lane. You stand in the sunny \nrain of a smnmer shower, and wander among the sunny \ntrees of an autumnal wood, and look upward at the \nbrightest of all rainbows, overarching the unbroken \nsheet of snow, on the American side of Niagara. Your \nmind struggles pleasantly between the danemg radi- \nance round the hearth of a young man and his recent \nbride, and the twittering flight of birds in spring \nabout their new-made nest. You feel the merry bound- \ning of a ship before the breeze, and watch the tunefid \nfeet of rosy girls as thej^ twine their last and merriest \ndance in a splendid ball-room, and find yourself in the \nbrilliant circle of a crowded theatre as the curtain falls \nover a light and airy scene. \n\nWith an involuntary start you seize hold on con- \nsciousness, and prove yourself but half awake, by run- \nning a doubtfid parallel between hiunan life and the \nhour which has now elapsed. In both you emerge from \nmystery, pass through a vicissitude that you can but \nimperfectly control, and are borne onward to another \nmystery. Now comes the peal of the distant clock, \nwith fainter and famter strokes as you plunge farther \ninto the wilderness of sleep. It is the knell of a tem- \nporary death. Your spirit has departed, and strays, \nlike a free citizen, among the people of a shadowy \nworld, beholding strange sights, yet without wonder or \ndismay. So cahn, perhaps, will be the final change ; so \nimdisturbed, as if among familiar thmgs the entrance \nof the soul to its Eternal home ! \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE UNCLE. \n\nAN EVIAGINARY RETROSPECT. \n\nCome ! another log upon the hearth. True, our lit- \ntle parlor is comfortable, especially here, where the old \nman sits in his old arm-chair : but on Thankseivin» \nnight the blaze should dance higher up the chinmey \nand send a shower of sparks into the outer darkness. \nToss on an armful of those dry oak chips, the last rel- \nics of the Mermaid's knee timbers, the bones of your \nnamesake, Susan. Higher yet, and clearer be the \nblaze, till our cottage windows glow the ruddiest in \nthe village, and the light of our household mirth flash \nfar across the bay to Nahant. And now, come, Susan, \ncome, my children, draw yoiu* chairs round me, all of \nyou. There is a dimness over your figures ! You sit \nquivering indistinctly with each motion of the blaze, \nwhich eddies about you like a flood, so that you all \nhave the look of visions, or people that dwell only in the \nfirelight, and v/ill vanish from existence as completely \nas your own shadows when the flame shall sink among \nthe embers. Hark ! let me listen for the swell of the \nsurf; it should be audible a mile inland on a nio-ht \nlike this. Yes ; there I catch the sound, but only an \nuncertain murmur, as if a good way down over the \nbeach ; though, by the almanac, it is high tide at eight \no'clock, and the bUlows must now be dashing within \nthirty yards of our door. Ah I the old man's ears are \nfailing him ; and so is his eyesight, and perhaps his \n\n\n350 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nniind ; else you would not all be so shadowy in the \nblaze of his Thanksgiving fire. \n\nHow strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders \nof the present! To judge by my recollections, it is \nbut a few moments since I sat in another room ; yonder \nmodel of a vessel was not there, nor the old chest of \ndrawers, nor Susan's profile and nime, in that gilt \nframe ; nothing, in short, except this same fire, which \nglimmered on books, papers, and a picture, and half \ndiscovered my solitary figure in a looking-glass. But \nit was paler than my rugged old self, and younger, too, \nby almost half a century. Speak to me, Susan ; speak, \nmy beloved ones; for the scene is glimmering on my \nsight again, and as it brightens you fade away. Oh, \nI should be loath to lose my treasure of past happiness, \nand become once more what I was then ; a hermit in \nthe depths of my own mind ; sometimes yawning over \ndrowsy volumes, and anon a scribbler of wearier trash \nthan what I read ; a man who had wandered out of the \nreal world and got into its shadow, where his troubles, \njoys, and vicissitudes were of such slight stuff that he \nhardly knew whether he Kved, or only dreamed of liv- \ning. Thank Heaven, I am an old man now, and have \ndone with all such vanities. \n\nStill this dimness of mine eyes ! Come nearer, Susan, \nand stand before the fullest blaze of the hearth. Now \nI behold vou illuminated from head to foot, in vour \nclean cap and decent gown, with the dear lock of gray \nhair across your forehead, and a qiuet smile about your \nmouth, while the eyes alone are concealed by the red \ngleam of the fire upon yom* spectacles. There, jou \nmade me tremble agam \\ When the flame quivered, \nmy sweet Susan, you quivered with it, and grew indis- \ntinct, as if melting into the warm light, that my last \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE UNCLE. 351 \n\nglimpse of you might be as visionary as the first was, \nfull many a year since. Do you remember it ? You \nstood on the little bridge over the brook that runs \nacross King's Beach into the sea. It was twilight ; \nthe waves rolling in, the wind sweeping by, the crim- \nson clouds fading in the west, and the silver moon \nbrightening above the hill ; and on the bridge were \nyou, fluttering in the breeze like a sea-bird that might \nskim away at your pleasure. You seemed a daughter \nof the viewless wind, a creature of the ocean foam and \nthe crimson light, whose merry life was spent in dan- \ncing on the crests of the billows, that threw up their \nspray to support your footsteps. As I drew nearer I \nfancied you akin to the race of mermaids, and thought \nhow pleasant it would be to dwell with you among the \nquiet coves, in the shadow of the cliffs, and to roam \nalong secluded beaches of the purest sand ; and when \nour northern shores grew bleak, to havmt the islands, \ngi'een and lonely, far amid summer seas. And yet it \ngladdened me, after all this nonsense, to find you noth- \ning but a pretty young girl, sadly perplexed with the \nrude behavior of the wind about yoiu' petticoats. \n\nThus I did with Susan as with most other things in \nmy earlier days, dipping her image into my mind and \ncoloring it of a thousand fantastic hues, before I coidd \nsee her as she really was. Now, Susan, for a sober \npicture of our village ! It was a small collection of \ndwellings that seemed to have been cast up by the sea, \nwith the rockweed and marine plants that it vomits \nafter a storm, or to have come ashore among the pipe \nstaves and other lumber wliich had been washed from \nthe deck of an eastern schooner. There was just \nspace for the narrow and sandy street, between the \nbeach in front and a precipitous hill that lifted its \n\n\n352 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nrocky forehead in the rear, among a waste of juniper \nbushes and the wild growth of a broken pasture. The \n\\allage was picturesque in the variety of its edifices, \nthough all were rude. Here stood a little old hovel, \nbuilt perhaps of driftwood ; there a row of boat-houses ; \nand beyond them a two-story dwelling, of dark and \nweather-beaten asjject, the whole intermixed with one \nor two snug cottages, painted white, a sufficiency of \npigsties, and a shoemaker's shop. Two grocery stores \nstood opposite each other, in the centre of the village. \nThese were the places of resort, at their idle hours, of \na hardy throng of fishermen, in red baize shirts, oil- \ncloth trousers, and boots of brown leather covering the \nwhole leg ; true seven-league boots, but fitter to wade \nthe ocean than walk the earth. The wearers seemed \namphibious, as if they did but creep out of salt water \nto sun themselves ; nor would it have been wonderfid \nto see their lower limbs covered with clusters of little \nshell-fish, such as cling to rocks and old ship timber \nover which the tide ebbs and flows. When their fleet \nof boats was weather-bound, the butchers raised their \nprice, and the spit was busier than the frying'-pan : \nfor this was a place of fish, and known as such, to all \nthe country round about ; the very air was fishy, being- \nperfumed with dead sculpins, hardheads, and dogfish \nstre-wn ^plentifully on the beach. You see, children, \nthe village is but little changed since your mother \nand I were young. \n\nHow like a dream it was, when I bent over a pool \nof water one pleasant morning, and saw that the ocean \nhad dashed its spray over me and made me a fisher- \nman ! There were the tarpauling, the baize shirt, the \noil cloth trousers and seven-league boots, and there my \nown features, but so reddened with sunburn and sea- \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE UNCLE. ?53 \n\nbreezes, that methought I had another face, and on \nother shoidders too. The sea-gulls and the loons and \nI had now all one trade ; we skimmed the crested \nwaves and sought our prey beneath them, the man \nwith as keen enjoyment as the birds. Always, when \nthe east grew purple, I laimched my dory, my little \nflat-bottomed skiff, and rowed cross-handed to Point \nLedge, the Middle Ledge, or, perhaps beyond Egg \nRock ; often, too, did I anchor off Dread Ledge, a spot \nof peril to ships unpiloted ; and sometimes spread an \nadventurous sail and tracked across the bay to South \nShore, casting my lines m sight of Scituate. Ere \nnightfall, I hauled my skiff high and dry on the beach, \nladen with red rock cod, or the white-bellied ones of \ndeep water ; haddock, bearing the black marks of Saint \nPeter's fingers near the gills ; the long-bearded hake, \nwhose liver holds oil enough for a midnight lamp ; and \nnow and then a mighty halibut, with a back broad as \nmy boat. In the autimm, I tolled and caught those \nlovely fish, the mackerel. When the wind was high, \n— when the whale-boats, anchored off the Point, \nnodded their slender masts at each other, and the do- \nries pitched and tossed in the surf, — when Nahant \nBeach was thimdering three miles off, and the spray \nbroke a hundred feet in air round the distant base of \nEgg Rock, — when the brimful and boisterous sea \nthreatened to tumble over the street of our village, — \nthen I made a holiday on shore. \n\nMany such a day did I sit snugly in Mr. Bartlett's \nstore, attentive to the yarns of Uncle Parker ; uncle to \nthe whole village by right of seniority, but of southern \nblood, with no kindred in New England. His figure \nis before me now, enthroned upon a mackerel barrel : \na lean old man, of great height, but bent with years, \n\nVOL. I. 23 \n\n\n354 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand twisted into an uncouth shape by seven broken \nlimbs ; furrowed also, and weather-worn, as if every \ngale, for the better part of a century, had caught him \nsomewhere on the sea. lie looked like a harbinger \nof tempest ; a shipmate of the Flying Dutchman. \nAfter inniunerable voyages aboard men-of-war and \nmerchant-men, fishing schooners and chebacco boats, \nthe old salt had become master of a handcart, which \nhe daily trundled about the vicinity, and sometimes \nblew his fish-horn through the streets of Salem. One \nof Uncle Parker's eyes had been blown out with gim- \npowder, and the other did but glimmer in its socket. \nTurning it upward as he spoke, it was his delight to \ntell of cruises against the French, and battles with his \nown shipmates, when he and an antagonist used to be \nseated astride of a sailor's chest, each fastened down \nby a spike nail through his trousers, and there to \nfight it out. Sometimes he expatiated on the delicious \nflavor of the hagden, a greasy and goose-like fowl, \nwhich the sailors catch with hook and line on the \nGrand Banks. He dwelt with rapture on an inter- \nminable winter at the Isle of Sables, where he had \ngladdened himself, amid polar snows, with the rum \nand sugar saved from the wreck of a West India \nschooner. And wrathfully did he shake his fist, as \nhe related how a party of Cape Cod men had robbed \nhim and his companions of their la^vful spoil, and \nsailed away with every keg of old Jamaica, leaving \nhim not a drop to drown his sorrow. Villains they \nwere, and of that wicked brotherhood who are said to \ntie lanterns to horses' tails, to mislead the mariner \nalong the dangerous shores of the Cape. \n\nEven now, I seem to see the group of fishermen, \nwith that old salt in the midst. One fellow sits on \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE UNCLE. 355 \n\nthe coimter, a second bestrides an oil barrel, a tliird \nlolls at his length on a parcel of new cod lines, and \nanother has planted the tarry seat of his trousers on a \nheap of salt, which will shortly be sprinkled over a lot \nof fish. They are a likely set of men. Some have \nvoyaged to the East Indies or the Pacific, and most of \nthem have sailed in Marblehead schooners to New- \nfomidland ; a few have been no farther than the Mid- \ndle Banks, and one or two have always fished along \nthe shore ; but, as Uncle Parker used to say, they have \nall been christened in salt water, and know more than \nmen ever learn in the bushes. A curious figure, by \nway of contrast, is a fish dealer from far-up country, \nlistening with eyes wide open to narratives that might \nstartle Sinbad the Sailor. Be it well with you, my \nbrethren ! Ye are all gone, some to your graves ashore, \nand others to the depths of ocean ; but my faith is \nstrong that ye are haj^py ; for whenever I behold your \nforms, whether in dream or vision, each departed \nfriend is puffing his long nine, and a mug of the right \nblack strap goes round from lip to lip. \n\nBut where was the mermaid in those delightful \ntimes? At a certain window near the centre of the \nvillage appeared a pretty display of gmgerbread men \nand horses, pictvire-books and ballads, small fish- \nhooks, pins, needles, sugar-plums, and brass thimbles, \narticles on which the young fishermen used to expend \ntheir money from pure gallantry. What a picture was \nSusan behind the counter! A slender maiden, though \nthe child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of \nall waists, brown hair curling on her neck, and a com- \nplexion rather pale, except when the sea-breeze flushed \nit. A few freckles became beauty-spots beneath her \neyelids. Kow was it, Susan, that you talked and acted \n\n\n356 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nso carelessly, yet always for the best, doing whatever \nwas right in yonr own eyes, and never once doing \nwrong in mine, nor shocked a taste that had been mor- \nbidly sensitive till now ? And whence had you that \nhappiest gift of brightening every topic witli an im- \nsought gayety, quiet but irresistible, so that even \ngloomy spirits felt your sunshine, and did not shrink \nfrom it ? Nature wrought the charm. She made you \na frank, simple, kind-hearted, sensible, and mirtliful \ngirl. Obeying nature, you did free things without \nindelicacy, displayed a maiden's thoughts to every eye, \nand proved yourself as innocent as naked Eve. \n\nIt was beautiful to observe how her simple and \nhappy nature mingled itself with mine. She kindled a \ndomestic fire within my heart, and took up her dwell- \ning there, even in that chill and lonesome cavern, \nhung roimd with glittering icicles of fancy. She gave \nme warmth of feeling, while the influence of my mind \nmade her contemplative. I taught her to love the \nmoonlight hour, when the expanse of the encircled \nbay was smooth as a great mirror and slept in a trans- \nparent shadow ; while beyond Nahant the wind rippled \nthe dim ocean into a dreamy brightness, which grew \nfaint afar off without becoming gloomier. I held her \nhand and pointed to the long surf wave, as it rolled \ncalmly on the beach, in an unbroken line of silver ; \nwe were silent together till its deep and peacefiU mur- \nmur had swept by us. When the Sabbath sim shone \ndown into the recesses of the cliffs, I led the mermaid \nthither, and told her that those huge, gray, shattered \nrocks, and her native sea, that raged forever like a \nstorm against them, and her own slender beauty in \nso stern a scene, were all combined into a strain of \npoetry. But on the Sabbath eve, when her mother \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE UNCLE. 357 \n\nhad gone early to bed, and her gentle sister had smiled \nand left ns, as we sat alone by the quiet hearth, mth \nhousehold tilings aroimd, it was her turn to make me \nfeel that here was a deeper poetry, and that this was \nthe dearest hour of all. Thus went on om' wooing till \nI had shot -svild fowl enough to feather our bridal bed, \nand the Daughter of the Sea was mine. \n\nI built a cottage for Susan and myself, and made a \ngateway in the form of a Gothic arch, by setting up a \nwhale's jaw-bones. We bought a heifer with her first \ncalf, and had a little garden on the hill-side, to supply \nus with potatoes and green sauce for our fish. Our \nparlor, small and neat, was ornamented with our two \nprofiles in one gilt frame, and with shells and pretty \npebbles on the mantel-piece, selected from the sea's \ntreasury of such things, on Nahant Beach. On the \ndesk, beneath the looking-glass, lay the Bible, which I \nhad begun to read aloud at the book of Genesis, and \nthe singing-book that Susan used for her evening \npsalm. Except the almanac, we had no other litera- \nture. All that I heard of books was when an Indian \nhistory, or tale of shipwreck, was sold by a pedlar or \nwandering subscription man, to some one in the vil- \nlage, and read through its o^vner's nose to a slumber- \nous auditory. Like my brother fishermen, I grew into \nthe belief that all human erudition was collected in \nour pedagogue, whose green spectacles and solemn \nphiz, as he passed to his little school-house amid a \nwaste of sand, might have gained him a diploma from \nany college in New England. In truth I dreaded him. \nWhen our children were old enough to claim his care, \nyou remember, Susan, how I frowned, though you \nwere pleased, at this learned man's encomiums on \ntheir proficiency. I feared to trust them even wdth \nthe alphabet ; it was the key to a fatal treasure. \n\n\n368 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nBut I loved to lead them by their little hands along \nthe beach, and point to nature in the vast and the \nminute, the sky, the sea, the green earth, the pebbles, \nand the shells. Then did I discourse of the mighty \nworks and coextensive goodness of the Deity, with the \nsimple wisdom of a man whose mind had profited by \nlonely days upon the deep, and his heart by the strong \nand pure affections of his evening home. Sometimes \nmy voice lost itself in a tremulous depth ; for I felt \nHis eye upon me as I spoke. Once, while my wife \nand all of us were gazing at ourselves, in the mirror \nleft by the tide in a hollow of the sand, I pointed to \nthe pictured heaven below, and bade her observe how \nreligion was strewn everywhere in our path ; since \neven a casual pool of water recalled the idea of that \nhome whither we were travelling, to rest forever with \nour children. Suddenly, your image, Susan, and all \nthe little faces made up of yours and mine, seemed to \nfade away and vanish aroimd me, leaving a pale visage \nlike my own of former days within the frame of a \nlarge looking-glass. Strange illusion ! \n\nMy life glided on, the past appearing to mingle \nwith the present and absorb the future, till the whole \nlies before me at a glance. My manhood has long \nbeen waning with a stanch decay ; my earlier contem- \nporaries, after lives of imbroken health, are all at rest, \nwithout having known the weariness of later age ; and \nnow, with a wrinkled forehead and thin white hair as \nbadges of my dignity, I have become the patriarch, \nthe Uncle of the village. I love that name ; it wid- \nens the circle of my sympathies ; it joins all the youth- \nful to my household in the kindred of affection. \n\nLike Uncle Parker, whose rhemnatic bones were \ndashed against Egg Rock, full forty years ago, I am \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE UNCLE. 359 \n\na spinner of long yarns. Seated on the gunwale of a \ndory, or on the sunny side of a boat-house, where the \nwarmth is gratefid to my limbs, or by my own hearth, \nwhen a friend or two are there, I overflow ^vith talk, \nand yet am never tedious. With a broken voice I \ngive utterance to much wisdom. Such, Heaven be \npraised ! is the vigor of my faculties, that many a for- \ngotten usage, and traditions ancient in my youth, and \nearly adventures of myself or others, hitherto effaced \nby things more recent, acqiure new distinctness in my \nmemory. I remember the happy days when the had- \ndock were more numerous on all the fishing groimds \nthan sculpins in the surf ; when the deep-water cod \nswam close in shore, and the dogfish, ^vith his poison- \nous horn, had not learned to take the hook. I can \nnumber every equinoctial storm in which the sea has \noverwhelmed the street, flooded the cellars of the vil- \nlage, and hissed upon our kitchen hearth. I give the \nhistory of the great whale that was landed on Whale \nBeach, and whose jaws, being now my gateway, will \nlast for ages after my coffin shall have passed beneath \nthem. Thence it is an easy digression to the halibut, \nscarcely smaller than the whale, which ran out six cod \nlines, and haided my dory to the mouth of Boston Har- \nbor, before I coidd touch him with the gaff. \n\nIf melancholy accidents be the theme of conversa- \ntion, I tell how a friend of mine was taken out of his \nboat by an enormous shark ; and the sad, true tale of \na yoimg man on the eve of marriage, who had been \nnine days missing, when his drowned body floated into \nthe very pathway, on Marblehead Neck, that had often \nled him to the dwelling of his bride, — as if the drip- \nping corpse would have come where the mourner was. \nWith such awful fidelity did that lover return to fulfil \n\n\n360 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhis vows ! Another favorite story is of a crazy maiden \nwho conversed with angels and had the gift of proph- \necy, and whom all the village loved and pitied, though \nshe went from door to door accusing us of sin, exhort- \ning to repentance, and foretelling our destruction by \nflood or earthquake. If the yoimg men boast their \nknowledge of the ledges and siuiken rocks, I speak of \npilots who knew the wind by its scent and the wave \nby its taste, and could have steered blindfold to any \nport between Boston and Mount Desert, guided only \nby the rote of the shore, — the peculiar sound of the \nsurf on each island, beach, and line of rocks, along \nthe coast. Thus do I talk, and all my auditors grow \nwise while they deem it pastime. \n\nI recollect no happier portion of my life than this, \nmy cahn old age. It is like the sunny and sheltered \nslope of a valley, where, late in the autumn, the grass \nis greener than in August, and intermixed with golden \ndandelions that have not been seen till now, since the \nfirst warmth of the year. But with me the verdure \nand the flowers are not frost-bitten in the midst of win- \nter. A playfulness has revisited my mind ; a sympa- \nthy with the young and gay ; an vmpainful interest in \nthe business of others ; a light and wandering curi- \nosity ; arising, perhaps, from the sense that my toil on \nearth is ended, and the brief hour till bedtime may \nbe spent in play. Still I have fancied that there is a \ndepth of feeling and reflection under tliis superficial \nlevity peculiar to one who has lived long and is soon \nto die. \n\nShow me anything that woidd make an infant \nsmile, and you shall behold a gleam of mirth over the \nhoary ruin of my \\dsage. I can spend a pleasant hour \nin the sun, watching the sports of the village children \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE VNCLE. 361 \n\non the edge of the siirf : now they chase the retreat- \ning wave far dov/n over the wet sand ; now it steals \nsoftly \\\\^ to kiss their naked feet ; now it comes on- \nward with threatening front, and roars after the laugh- \ning crew, as they scamper beyond its reach. Why \nshould not an old man be merry too, when the great \nsea is at play with those little children ? I delight, \nalso, to follow in the wake of a pleasure part}^ of j'oung \nmen and girls, strolling along the beach after an early \nsupper at the Point. Here, with handl^erchiefs at \nnose, they bend over a heap of eel-grass, entangled in \nwhich is a dead skate, so oddly accoutred with two \nlegs and a long tail that they mistake him for a \ndrowned animal. A few steps farther the ladies \nscream, and the gentlemen make ready to protect \nthem against a yomig shark of the dogfish kind, roll- \ning with a lifelike motion in the tide that has thrown \nhim up. Next, they are smit with wonder at the black \nshells of a wagon load of live lobsters, packed in rock- \nweed for the country market. And when they reach \nthe fleet of dories, just haided ashore after the day's \nfishing, how do I laugh in my sleeve, and sometimes \nroar outright, at the simplicity of these yoimg folks \nand the sly hmnor of the fishermen I In winter, \nwhen our \\dllage is thrown into a bustle by the arrival \nof perhaps a score of country dealers, bargaming for \nfrozen fish, to be transported hundreds of miles, and \neaten fresh in Vermont or Canada, I am a pleased but \nidle spectator in the throng. For I laimch my boat \nno more. \n\nWhen the shore was solitary I have found a pleas- \nure that seemed even to exalt my mind, in obser\\'ing \nthe sports or contentions of two gidls, as they wheeled \nand hovered about each other, with hoarse screams, \n\n\n362 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\none moment flapping on the foam of the wave, and \nthen soaring aloft, till their white bosoms melted into \nthe upper smishine. In the calm of the sunmier sim- \nset I drag my aged limbs, with a little ostentation of \nactivity, because I am so old, up to the rocky brow of \nthe hill. There I see the white sails of many a ves- \nsel, outward bound or homeward from afar, and the \nblack trail of a vapor behind the eastern steamboat ; \nthere, too, is the sun going down, but not in gloom, \nand there the illimitable ocean mingling with the sky, \nto remind me of Eternity. \n\nBut sweetest of all is the hour of cheerfid musing \nand pleasant talk, that comes between the dusk and \nthe lighted candle, by my glowmg fireside. And never, \neven on the first Thanksgiving night, when Susan and \nI sat alone with our hopes, nor the second, when a \nstranger had been sent to gladden us, and be the visi- \nble image of our affection, did I feel such joy as now. \nAll that belong to me are here ; Death has taken none, \nnor Disease kept them away, nor Strife divided them \nfrom their parents or each other ; with neither povei-ty \nnor riches to disturb them, nor the misery of desires \nbeyond their lot, they have kept New England's festi- \nval round the patriarch's board. For I am a patriarch ! \nHere I sit among my descendants, in my old arm-chair \nand immemorial comer, while the firelight throws an \nappropriate glory round my venerable frame. Susan ! \nMy children ! Something whispers me that this hap- \npiest hour must be the final one, and that nothmg re- \nmains but to bless you all, and depart with a treasure \nof recollected joys to heaven. Will you meet me \nthere ? Alas ! your figures grow indistinct, fading into \npictures on the air, and now to fainter outlines, while \nthe fire is glimmering on the walls of a familiar room, \n\n\nTHE VILLAGE UNCLE. 363 \n\nand shows the book that I flung down, and the sheet \nthat I left half written, some fifty years ago. I lift \nmy eyes to the looking-glass and perceive myself alone, \nmiless those be the mermaid's features retiring into \nthe depths of the mirror with a tender and melancholy \nsmile. \n\nAh ! one feels a chillness, not bodily, but about the \nheart, and, moreover, a foolish dread of looking behind \nhim, after these pastimes. I can imagine precisely \nhow a magician would sit down in gloom and terror, \nafter dismissing the shadows that had personated dead \nor distant people, and sti'ipping his cavern of the un- \nreal splendor which had changed it to a palace. And \nnow for a moral to my reverie. Shall it be that, since \nfancy can create so bright a dream of happiness, it \nwere better to dream on from youth to age, than to \nawake and strive doubtfully for something real. Oh, \nthe slight tissue of a dream can no more preserve us \nfrom the stern reality of misfortune than a robe of \ncobweb could repel the wintry blast. Be this the \nmoral then. In chaste and warm affections, himible \nwishes, and honest toil for some useful end, there is \nhealth for the mind, and quiet for the heart, the pros- \npect of a happy life, and the fairest hope of heaven. \n\n\nTHE AJMBITIOUS GUEST. \n\nOne September night a family had gathered round \ntheir hearth, and piled it high \\vith the driftwood of \nmomitam streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the \nsj^lintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing \ndowTi the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, \nand brightened the room with its broad blaze. The \nfaces of the father and mother had a sober gladness ; \nthe children laughed ; the eldest daughter was the \nimage of Happiness at seventeen ; and the aged grand- \nmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the \nimage of Happiness grown old. They had fomid the \n\" herb, heart' s-ease,\" in the bleakest spot of all New \nEngland. This family were situated in the Notch of \nthe White Hills, where the vnnd was sharp throughout \nthe year, and pitilessly cold in the winter, — gi^'ing \ntheir cottage all its fresh inclemency before it de- \nscended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a \ncold sj^ot and a dangerous one ; for a mountain tow- \nered above their heads, so steep, that the stones woidd \noften rmnble down its sides and startle them at mid- \nnight. \n\nThe daughter had just uttered some simple jest that \nfilled them all with mirth, when the wind came through \nthe Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage — \nrattling the door, with a sound of wailing and lamen- \ntation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment \nit saddened them, though there was nothmg miusual in \nthe tones. But the family were glad again when they \n\n\nTHE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 365 \n\nperceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller, \nwhose footsteps had been imheard amid the dreary \nblast wliicli heralded his approach, and wailed as he \nwas entering\", and went moaning away from the door. \n\nThough they dwelt in such a solitude, these people \nheld daily converse with the world. The romantic pass \nof the Notch is a great artery, through which the life- \nblood of internal commerce is continually throbbing \nbetween Maine, on one side, and the Green Moimtains \nand the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The \nstage-coach always drew up before the door of the \ncottage. The wayfarer, with no companion but his \nstaff, paused here to exchange a word, that the sense \nof loneliness might not utterly overcome him ere he \ncould pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach \nthe first house in the valley. And here the teamster, \non his way to Portland market, woidd put up for the \nnight ; and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond \nthe usual bedtime, and steal a kiss from the mountain \nmaid at parting. It was one of those primitive tav- \nerns where the traveller pays only for food and lodg- \ning, but meets vAih. a homely kindness beyond all price. \nWhen the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the \nouter door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, \ngrandmother, children, and all, as if about to welcome \nsome one who belonged to them, and whose fate was \nlinked with theirs. \n\nThe door was opened by a yoimg man. His face at \nfirst wore the melancholy expression, almost despond- \nency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road, at \nnightfall and alone, but soon brightened vip when he \nsaw the kmdly warmth of his reception. He felt his \nheart spring forward to meet them all, from the old \nwoman, who wiped a chair with her apron, to the little \n\n\n366 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncliild that held out its arms to him. One glance and \nsmile placed the stranger on a footing of imiocent \nfamiliarity with the eldest daughter. \n\n\" Ah, this fire is the right thing ! \" cried he; \"espe- \ncially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I \nam quite benumbed; for the Notch is just like the \npipe of a great pair of bellows ; it has blown a terrible \nblast in my face all the way from Bartlett.\" \n\n\"Then you are going towards Vermont?\" said the \nmaster of the house, as he helped to take a light knap- \nsack off the young man's shoulders. \n\n\" Yes ; to Burlington, and far enough beyond,\" re- \nplied he. \" I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford's \nto-night; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as \nthis. It is no matter ; for, when I saw this good fire, \nand all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled \nit on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. \nSo I shall sit down among you, and make myself at \nhome.\" \n\nThe frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair \nto the fire when something like a heavy footstep was \nheard without, rushing down the steep side of the \nmountain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking \nsuch a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the op- \nposite precipice. The family held their breath, be- \ncause they knew the soimd, and their guest held his by \ninstinct. \n\n\" The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for \nfear we should forget him,\" said the landlord, recover- \nins: himself. \" He sometimes nods his head and \nthreatens to come dowTi ; but we are old neighbors, \nand agree together pretty well upon the whole. Be- \nsides we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he \nshould be coming in good earnest.\" \n\n\nTHE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 367 \n\nLet us now suppose the stranger to have finished his \nsupper of bear's meat ; and, by his natural felicity of \nmanner, to have placed himself on a footing of kind- \nness mth the whole family, so that they talked as \nfreely together as if he belonged to their mountain \nbrood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit — haughty \nand reserved among the rich and great ; but ever ready \nto stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be like \na brother or a son at the poor man's fireside. In the \nhousehold of the Notch he fomid warmth and simplicity \nof feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England, \nand a poetry of native growth, which they had gath- \nered when they little thought of it from the momitain \npeaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their \nromantic and dangerous abode. He had travelled far \nand alone ; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary \npath ; for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had \nkept liimseK apart from those who might otherwise \nhave been his companions. The family, too, though \nso kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity \namong themselves, and separation from the world at \nlarge, which, in eveiy domestic circle, shoidd still keep \na holy place where no stranger may intrude. But this \nevening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined \nand educated youth to pour out his heart before the \nsimple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer \nhim with the same free confidence. And thus it should \nhave been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a \ncloser tie than that of birth ? \n\nThe secret of the yoimg man's character was a high \nand abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live \nan undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the \ngrave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope ; \nand hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, \n\n\n368 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthat, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to \nbeam on all his pathway, — though not, perhaps, while \nhe was treading it. But when posterity should gaze \nback into the gloom of what was now the present, they \nwould trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening \nas meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one \nhad passed from his cradle to liis tomb with none to \nrecognize him, \n\n\" As yet,\" cried the stranger — his cheek glowing \nand liis eye flashing with enthusiasm — \"as yet, I \nhave done nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth \nto-morrow, none would know so much of me as you : \nthat a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the \nvalley of the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the \nevening, and passed through the Notch by simrise, \nand was seen no more. Not a soul woidd ask, ' Who \nwas he? Whither did the wanderer go?' But I \ncannot die till I have achieved my destiny. Then, let \nDeath come ! I shall have built my moniunent ! \" \n\nThere was a continual flow of natural emotion, gush- \ning forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the \nfamily to understand this young man's sentiments, \nthough so foreign from their own. With qiuck sensi- \nbility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into \nwhich he had been betrayed. \n\n\" You laugh at me,\" said he, taking the eldest \ndaughter's hand, and laughing himself. \" You think \nmy ambition as nonsensical as if I were to freeze my- \nself to death on the top of Mount Wasliington, only \nthat people might spy at me from the coimtry round \nabout. And, tridy, that would be a noble pedestal for \na man's statue ! \" \n\n\" It is better to sit here by this fire,\" answered the \ngirl, blushing, \"and be comfortable and contented, \nthough nobody thinks about us.\" \n\n\nI \n\n\nTHE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 369 \n\n\" I suppose,\" said her father, after a fit of musing, \n\" there is something' natural in wliat the yomig man \nsays ; and if my mind had been turned that way, I \nmight have felt just the same. It is strange, wife, \nhow his talk has set my head running on things that \nare pretty certain never to come to pass.\" \n\n\" Perhaps they may,\" observed the wife. \" Is the \nman thmking what he will do when he is a widower ? \" \n\n\" No, no ! \" cried he, repelling the idea with re- \nproachful kindness. \" When I think of your death, \nEsther, I tliink of mine, too. But I was wishing we \nhad a good farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, or Little- \nton, or some other towTiship round the White Mount- \nains ; but not where they coidd tumble on our heads. \nI shoidd want to stand well with my neighbors and be \ncalled Squire, and sent to General Court for a term or \ntwo ; for a plain, honest man may do as much good \nthere as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite \nan old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be \nlong apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and \nleave you all crying around me. A slate gravestone \nwould suit me as well as a marble one — with just my \nname and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something \nto let people know that I lived an honest man and died \na Christian.\" \n\n\" There now ! \" exclaimed the stranger ; \" it is our \nnature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or \na iDillar of granite, or a glorious memory in the uni- \nversal heart of man.\" \n\n\" We 're in a strange way, to-night,\" said the wife, \n\nwith tears in lier eyes. \" They say it 's a sign of \n\nsomething, when folks' minds go a wandering so. \n\nHark to the children ! \" \n\nThey listened accordingly. The yoimger children \nVOL. I. 24 \n\n\n870 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhad been put to bed in another room, but with an \nopen door between, so that they covdd be heard talk- \ning busily among themselves. One and all seemed to \nhave caught the infection from the fireside circle, and \nwere outvying each other in wild wishes, and childish \nprojects of what they woidd do when they came to be \nmen and women. At length a little boy, instead of \naddressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his \nmother. \n\n\" I '11 tell you what I wish, mother,\" cried he. \" I \nwant you and father and grandma'm, and all of us, \nand the stranger too, to start right away, and go and \ntake a drink out of the basin of the Fliune ! \" \n\nNobody coidd help laughing at the child's notion of \nleaving a warm bed, and dragging them from a cheer- \nfid fire, to visit the basin of the Flume, — a brook, \nwhich tumbles over the precipice, deep within the \nNotch. The boy had hardly spoken when a wagon \nrattled along the road, and stopped a moment before \nthe door. It appeared to contain two or three men, \nwho were cheering their hearts with the rou^gh chorus \nof a song, which resounded, in broken notes, between \nthe cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to con- \ntinue their journey or put up here for the night.\" \n\n\" Father,\" said the girl, \" they are calling you by \nname.\" \n\nBut the good man doubted whether they had really \ncalled him, and was unwilling to show liimself too \nsolicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his \nhouse. He therefore did not hurry to the door ; and \nthe lash being soon applied, the travellers plimged \ninto the Notch, still singing and laugliing, though \ntheir music and mirth came back drearily from tha \nheart of the mountain. \n\n\nTHE AMBITIOUS (lUEST. 371 \n\n\" There, mother ! \" cried the boy, again. \" They 'd \nhave given us a ride to the Fkime,\" \n\nAgain they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy \nfor a night ramble. But it happened that a light cloud \npassed over the daughter's spirit ; she looked gravely \ninto the fire, and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. \nIt forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to re- \npress it. Then starting and blusliing, she looked \nquickly round the circle, as if they had caught a \nglimpse into her bosom. The stranger asked what she \nhad been thinking of. \n\n\" Notliing,\" answered she, with a downcast smile. \n\" Only I felt lonesome just then.\" \n\n\" Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in \nother people's hearts,\" said he, half seriously. \" Shall \nI tell the secrets of yours ? For I know what to think \nwhen a yoimg girl shivers by a warm hearth, and com- \nplains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. Shall I \nput these feelings into words?\" \n\n\" They would not be a girl's feelings any longer if \nthey could be put into words,\" replied the mountain \nnymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye. \n\nAll this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love \nwas springing in their hearts, so pure that it might \nblossom in Paradise, since it could not be matured on \nearth ; for women worship such gentle dignity as his ; \nand the provid, contemplative, yet kindly soid is often- \nest captivated by simplicity like hers. But while they \nspoke softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, \nthe lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden's \nnature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and \ndrearier somid. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger \nsaid, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast, \nwho in old Indian times had their dwelling among \n\n\n372 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthese mountains, and made their heights and recesses \na sacred region. There was a wail along the road, as \nif a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, \nthe family threw pine branches on their fire, till the \ndry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering \nonce again a scene of peace and humble happiness. \nThe light hovered about them fondly, and caressed \nthem all. There were the little faces of the children, \npeeping from their bed apart, and here the father's \nframe of strength, the mother's subdued and careful \nmien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and \nthe good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest \nplace. The aged woman looked up from her task, \nand, with fingers ever busy, was the next to speak. \n\n\" Old folks have their notions,\" said she, \" as well \nas young ones. You 've been wishing and planning ; \nand letting your heads run on one thing and another, \ntill you 've set my mind a wandering too. Now what \nshould an old woman wish for, when she can go but a \nstep or two before she comes to her grave ? Children, \nit will haunt me night and day till I tell you.\" \n\n\" What is it, mother ? \" cried the husband and wife \nat once. \n\nThen the old woman, with an air of mystery which \ndrew the circle closer round the fire, informed them \nthat she had provided her grave-clothes some years be- \nfore, — a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, \nand everything of a finer sort than she had worn since \nher wedding day. But this evening an old supersti- \ntion had strangely recurred to her. It used to be said, \nin her younger days, that if anything were amiss with \na corpse, if only the ruff were not smooth, or the cap \ndid not set right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath \nthe clods would strive to put up its cold hands and \narrange it. The bare thought made her nervous. \n\n\nTHE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 373 \n\n\" Don't talk so, grandmother ! \" said the girl, shud- \ndering. \n\n\" Now,\" — continued the old woman, with singular \nearnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own folly, — \n\" I want one of you, my children — when your mother \nis dressed and in the coffin — I want one of you to \nhold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but \nI may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all 's \nright ? \" \n\n\" Old and young, we dream of graves and monu- \nments,\" murmured the stranger youth. \" I wonder \nhow mariners feel when the ship is sinking, and they, \nunknown and undistinguished, are to be buried to- \ngether in the ocean — that wide and nameless sep- \nulchre?\" \n\nFor a moment, the old woman's ghastly conception \nso engrossed the mmds of her hearers that a sound \nabroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, \nhad grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated \ngroup were conscious of it. The house and all within \nit trembled ; the foundations of the earth seemed to \nbe shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of \nthe last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild \nglance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, with- \nout utterance, or power to move. Then the same \nshriek burst simidtaneously from all their lips. \n\n\"TheSMe! The Slide!\" \n\nThe simplest words must intimate, but not portray, \nthe unutterable horror of the catastrophe. The vic- \ntims rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in \nwhat they deemed a safer spot — where, in contempla- \ntion of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been \nreared. Alas! they had quitted their security, and \nfled right into the pathway of destruction. Down \n\n\n874 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncame the whole side of the mountain, in a cataract \nof ruin. Just before it reached the house, the stream \nbroke into two branches — shivered not a window \nthere, but overwhehned the whole vicinity, blocked up \nthe road, and annihilated everything in its dreadfid \ncourse. Long ere the thvmder of the great Slide had \nceased to roar among the moimtains, the mortal agony \nhad been endured, and the victims were at peace. \nTheir bodies were never foimd. \n\nThe next morning, the light smoke was seen steal- \ning from the cottage chimney up the mountain side. \nWithin, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, \nand the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabit- \nants had but gone forth to view the devastation of the \nSlide, and woidd shortly return, to thank Heaven for \ntheir miracidous escape. All had left separate tokens, \nby which those who had known the family were made \nto shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their \nname ? The story has been told far and wide, and \nwill forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets \nhave sung their fate. \n\nThere were circumstances which led some to sup- \npose that a stranger had been received into the cottage \non tliis aAvfid night, and had shared the catastrophe of \nall its inmates. Others denied that there were suffi- \ncient grounds for such a conjecture. Woe for the \nhigh-souled youth, with his dream of Earthly Immor- \ntality ! His name and person utterly unknown ; his \nhistory, his way of life, liis plans, a mystery never to \nbe solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt ! \nWhose was the agony of that death moment ? \n\n\nTHE SISTER YEARS. \n\nLast night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, \nwhen the Old Year was leaving her final footprints on \nthe borders of Time's empire, she found herself in \npossession of a few spare moments, and sat down — \nof all places in the world — on the steps of our new \nCity Hall. The wintry moonlight showed that she \nlooked weary of body and sad of heart, like many an- \nother wayfarer of earth. Her garments, having been \nexposed to much foid weather and rough usage, were \nin very ill condition ; and as the hiu-ry of her journey \nhad never before allowed her to take an mstant's rest, \nher shoes were so worn as to be scarcely worth the \nmending. But, after trudging only a little distance \nfarther, tliis poor Old Year was destined to enjoy a \nlong, long sleep. I forgot to mention that, when she \nseated herseK on the steps, she deposited by her side \na very capacious bandbox, in which, as is the custom \namong travellers of her sex, she carried a great deal \nof valuable property\\ Besides this luggage, there was \na folio book imder her arm, very much resembling the \nannual voliune of a newspaper. Placing this volume \nacross her knees, and resting her elbows upon it, with \nher forehead in her hands, the weary, bedraggled, \nworld-worn Old Year heaved a heavy sigh, and ap- \npeared to be taking no very pleasant retrospect of her \npast existence. \n\nWliile she thus awaited the midnight knell that \nwas to siunmon her to the innumerable sisterhood of \n\n\n376 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ndeparted Years, there came a yoimg maiden treading \nlightsomely on tiptoe along the street, from the direc- \ntion of the Railroad Depot. She was evidently a \nstranger, and perhaps had come to town by the even- \ning train of cars. There was a smiling cheerfidness \nin this fair maiden's face, which besjioke her fully \nconfident of a kind reception from the multitude of \npeople Avith whom she was soon to form acquaintance. \nHer dress was rather too airy for the season, and was \nbedizened with fluttering ribbons and other vanities, \nwhich were likely soon to be rent away by the fierce \nstorms or to fade in the hot sunsliine, amid which she \nwas to pursue her changefid course. But still she was \na wonderfully pleasant looking figure, and had so much \npromise and such an indescribable hopefidness in her \naspect, that hardly anybody could meet her without an- \nticipating some very desirable thing — the consmnma- \ntion of some long-sought good — from her kind offices. \nA few dismal characters there may be, here and there \nabout the world, who have so often been trifled with \nby yomig maidens as promising as she, that they have \nnow ceased to pin any faith upon the skirts of the \nNew Year. But, for my own part, I have great faith \nin her ; and should I live to see fifty more such, still, \nfrom each of these successive sisters, I shall reckon \nupon receiving something that will be worth living for. \nThe New Year — for this yomig maiden was no less \na personage — carried all her goods and chattels in a \nbasket of no great size or weight, which hung upon \nher arm. She greeted the disconsolate Old Year with \ngreat affection, and sat down beside her on the steps \nof the City Hall, waiting for the signal to begin her \nrambles through the world. The two were own sisters, \nbeing both granddaughters of Time; and though one \n\n\nTHE SISTER YEARS. 377 \n\nlooked so much older than the other, it was rather \nowing- to hardships and trouble than to age, since \nthere was but a twelvemonth's diiference between \nthem. \n\n\" Well, my dear sister,\" said the New Year, after \nthe first salutations, \" you look almost tired to death. \nWhat have you been about during your sojourn in this \npart of Infinite Space ? \" \n\n\" Oh, I have it all recorded here in my Book of \nChronicles,\" answered the Old Year, in a heavy tone. \n\" There is nothing that woidd amuse you ; and you \nwill soon get sufficient knowledge of such matters \nfrom your o^\\^l personal experience. It is but tire- \nsome reading.\" \n\nNevertheless, she turned over the leaves of the foKo, \nand glanced at them by the light of the moon, feeling \nan irresistible spell of interest in her owti biography, \nalthough its incidents were remembered without pleas- \nure. The volume, though she termed it her Book of \nChronicles, seemed to be neither more nor less than the \n\" Salem Gazette \" for 1838 ; in the accuracy of which \njournal this sagacious Old Year had so much confi- \ndence that she deemed it needless to record her liis- \ntory with her own pen. \n\n\" What have you been doing in the political way? \" \nasked the New Year. \n\n\" Why, my course here in the United States,\" said \nthe Old Year, — \" though perhaps I ought to blush at \nthe confession, — my political course, I must acknowl- \nedge, has been rather vacillatory, sometimes inclining \ntowards the Whigs — then causmg the Administra- \ntion party to shout for triumph — and now again up- \nlifting what seemed the almost prostrate banner of \nthe Opposition ; so that historians will hardly know \n\n\n378 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwhat to make of me in this respect. But the Loco \nFoeos \" — \n\n\" I do not like these party nicknames,\" interrupted \nher sister, who seemed remarkably touchy about some \npoints. \" Perhaps we shall part in better himior if \nwe avoid any political discussion.\" \n\n\" With all my heart,\" replied the Old Year, who \nhad already been tormented half to death with squab- \nbles of tliis kind. \" I care not if the names of Whig \nor Tory, with their interminable brawls about Banks \nand the Sub-Treasury, Abolition, Texas, the Florida \nWar, and a million of other topics — which you will \nlearn soon enough for your own comfort — I care not, \nI say, if no whisper of these matters ever reaches my \nears again. Yet they have occupied so large a share \nof my attention that I scarcely know what else to tell \nyou. There has indeed been a curious sort of war on \nthe Canada border, where blood has streamed in the \nnames of Liberty and Patriotism ; but it must remain \nfor some future, perhaps far distant Year, to tell \nwhether or no those holy names have been rightfidly \ninvoked. Nothing so much depresses me, in my view \nof mortal afPairs, as to see high energies wasted, and \nhmnan life and happiness thrown away, for ends that \nappear oftentimes umvise, and stUl oftener remain mi- \naccomplished. But the wisest people and the best \nkeep a steadfast faith that the progress of Mankind \nis onward and upward, and that the toil and angiiish \nof the path serve to wear away the imperfections of \nthe Immortal Pilgrim, and will be felt no more when \nthey have done their office.\" \n\n\" Perhaps,\" cried the hopefid New Year, — \" per- \nhaps I shall see that happy day ! \" \n\n\" I doubt whether it be so close at hand,\" answered \n\n\nTHE SISTER YEARS. 879 \n\nthe Old Year, gravely smiling. \" You will soon grow \nweary of looking for that blessed consummation, and \nwill turn for amusement (as has frequently been my \nown practice) to the affairs of some sober little city, \nlike this of Salem. Here we sit on the steps of the \nnew City Hall, which has been completed mider my \nadministration ; and it would make you laugh to see \nhow the game of politics, of which the Capitol at \nWasliington is the great chess-board, is here played \nin miniature. Burning Ambition finds its fuel here; \nhere Patriotism speaks boldly in the people's behaK, \nand virtuous Economy demands retrenchment in the \nemolimients of a lamplighter ; here the Aldermen \nrange their senatorial dignity aroimd the Mayor's \nchair of state, and the Common Comicil feel that they \nhave liberty in charge. In short, himian weakness \nand strength, passion and policy, Man's tendencies, \nhis aims and modes of pursuing them, his individual \ncharacter and his character in the mass, may be \nstudied almost as well here as on the theatre of na- \ntions: and with this great advantage, that, be the \nlesson ever so disastrous, its Liliputian scope still \nmakes the beholder smile.\" \n\n\" Have you done much for the improvement of the \nCity?\" asked the New Year. \"Judging from what \nlittle I have seen, it appears to be ancient and time- \nworn.\" \n\n\" I have opened the Railroad,\" said the elder Year, \n\" and half a dozen times a day you will hear the bell \n(which once summoned the Monks of a Spanish Con- \nvent to their devotions) annomicing the arrival or \ndeparture of the cars. Old Salem now wears a much \nlivelier expression than when I first beheld her. \nStrangers rumble down from Boston by hmidreds \n\n\n380 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nat a time. New faces throng in Essex Street. Rail- \nroad hacks and omnibuses rattle over the pavements. \nThere is a perceptible increase of oyster shops, and \nother establishments for the accommodation of a tran- \nsitory diurnal multitude. But a more important \nchange awaits the venerable town. An immense ac- \ncmnidation of musty prejudices will be carried off by \nthe free circulation of society. A peculiarity of char- \nacter, of which the inhabitants themselves are hardly \nsensible, will be rubbed down and worn away by the \nattrition of foreign substances. Much of the result \nwill be good ; there will likewise be a few things not \nso good. Whether for better or worse, there will be \na probable diminution of the moral influence of \nwealth, and the sway of an aristocratic class, which, \nfrom an era far beyond my memory, has held firmer \ndominion here than in any other New England town.\" \n\nThe Old Year having talked away nearly all of \nher little remaining breath, now closed her Book of \nChronicles, and was about to take her dejjarture. But \nher sister detained her a while longer, by inqmring \nthe contents of the huge bandbox which she was so \npainfidly lugging along wdth her. \n\n\"These are merely a few trifles,\" replied the Old \nYear, \"which I have picked up in my rambles, and \nam going to deposit in the receptacle of things past \nand forgotten. We sisterhood of Years never carry \nanytliing really valuable out of the world with us. \nHere are patterns of most of the fasliions which I \nbrought into vogiie, and which have already lived out \ntheir allotted term. You will supply their place with \nothers equally ephemeral. Here, put \\\\^ in little \nChina pots, like rouge, is a considerable lot of beauti- \nfid women's bloom, which the disconsolate fair ones \n\n\nTHE SISTER YEARS. 381 \n\nowe me a bitter gniclge for stealing. I have likewise \na quantity of men's dark hair, instead of which, I have \nleft gray locks, or none at all. The tears of widows \nand other afflicted mortals, who have received com- \nfort durmg the last twelve months, are preserved in \nsome dozens of essence bottles, well corked and sealed. \nI have several bundles of love-letters, eloquently \nbreathing an eternity of burnmg passion, which grew \ncold and perished almost before the ink was dry. \nMoreover, here is an assortment of many thousand \nbroken j^romises, and other broken ware, all very light \nand packed into little space. The heaviest articles \nin my possession are a large parcel of disappointed \nhopes, which a little while ago were buoyant enough \nto have inflated Mr. Lauriat's balloon.\" \n\n\"I have a fine lot of hopes here in my basket,\" \nremarked the New Year. \" They are a sweet-smelling \nflower — a species of rose.\" \n\n\" They soon lose their perfume,\" rej^lied the sombre \nOld Year. \" What else have you brought to insure a \nwelcome from the discontented race of mortals?\" \n\n\" Why, to say the truth, little or nothing else,\" said \nher sister, with a smile, — \" save a few new Annuals \nand Almanacs, and some New Year's gifts for the \nchildren. But I heartily wish well to poor mortals, \nand mean to do all I can for their improvement and \nhappiness.\" \n\n\" It is a good resolution,\" rejoined the Old Year ; \n\" and, by the way, I have a plentiful assortment of \ngood resolutions, which have now grown so stale and \nmusty that I am ashamed to carry them any farther. \nOnly for fear that the City authorities would send Con- \nstable Mansfield with a warrant after me, I should toss \nthem into the street at once. Many other matters go \n\n\n382 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nto make up the contents of my bandbox, but the whole \nlot would not fetch a single bid, even at an auction of \nworn-out furniture ; and as they are worth nothing \neither to you or anybody else, I need not trouble you \nwith a longer catalogue.\" \n\n\" And must I also pick up such worthless luggage in \nmy travels ? \" asked the New Year. \n\n\" Most certainly — and well, if you have no heavier \nload to bear,\" replied the other. \" And now, my dear \nsister, I must bid you farewell, earnestly advising and \nexhorting you to expect no gratitude nor good- will from \ntliis peevish, unreasonable, inconsiderate, ill-intending, \nand worse-behaving world. However warmly its in- \nhabitants may seem to welcome you, yet, do what you \nmay, and lavish on them what means of happiness you \nplease, they will still be complaining, still craving what \nit is not in your power to give, still looking forward to \nsome other Year for the accomplishment of projects \nwhich ought never to have been formed, and which, if \nsuccessful, would only provide new occasions of dis- \ncontent. If these ridicidous people ever see anything \ntolerable in you, it will be after you are gone for- \never.\" \n\n\" But I,\" cried the fresh-hearted New Year, \" I \nshall try to leave men wiser than I find them. I wdll \noffer them freely whatever good gifts Providence per- \nmits me to distribute, and will tell them to be thankful \nfor what they have, and humbly hopefid for more ; and \nsurely, if they are not absolute fools, they will conde- \nscend to be happy, and will allow me to be a happy \nYear. For my happiness must depend on them.\" \n\n\" Alas for you, then, my poor sister ! \" said the Old \nYear, sighing, as she uplifted her bm^den. \" We, \ngrandchildren of Time, are born to trouble. Happi- \n\n\nTHE SISTER YEARS. 383 \n\nness, they say, dwells in the mansions of Eternity; \nbut we can only lead mortals thither, step by step, with \nreluctant murmurings, and ourselves must perish on \nthe threshold. But hark ! my task is done.\" \n\nThe clock in the tall steeple of Dr. Emerson's \nchurch struck twelve ; there was a response from Dr. \nFlint's, in the opposite quarter of the city ; and while \nthe strokes were yet dropping into the air, the Old \nYear either flitted or faded away, — and not the wis- \ndom and might of Angels, to say nothing of the re- \nmorseful yearnings of the millions who had used her \nill, could have prevailed with that departed Year to \nreturn one step. But she, in the company of Time \nand all her kindred, must hereafter hold a reckoning \nwith Mankind. So shall it be, likewise, with the maid- \nenly New Year, who, as the clock ceased to strike, arose \nfrom the steps of the City Hall, and set out rather \ntimorously on her earthly course. \n\n\" A happy New Year ! \" cried a watchman, eying \nher figure very questionably, but without the least \nsuspicion that he was addressing the New Year in \nperson. \n\n\" Thank you kindly ! said the New Year ; and she \ngave the watchman one of the roses of hope from her \nbasket. \" May this flower keep a sweet smell, long \nafter I have bidden you good-by.\" \n\nThen she stepped on more briskly through the silent \nstreets ; and such as were awake at the moment heard \nher footfall, and said, — \" The New Year is come ! \" \nWherever there was a knot of midnight roisterers they \nquaffed her health. She sighed, however, to perceive \nthat the air was tainted — as the atmosphere of tliis \nworld must continually be — with the dying breaths of \nmortals who had lingered just long enough for her to \n\n\n384 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbury them. But there were millions left alive to \nrejoice at her coming; and so she pursued her way \nwith confidence, strewing emblematic flowers on the \ndoorstep of almost every dwelling, which some persons \nwill gather up and wear in their bosoms, and others \nwill trample vmder foot. The Carrier Boy can only \nsay further that, early this morning, she filled his bas- \nket with New Year's Addresses, assuring him that the \nwhole City, with our new Mayor, and the Aldermen \nand Common Council at its head, would make a general \nrush to secure copies. Kind Patrons, ^vill not you re- \ndeem the pledge of the NEW YEAR? \n\n\nSNOW-FLAKES. \n\nThere is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the \nmorning ! — and, through the partially frosted win- \ndow panes, I love to watch the gradual beginning of \nthe storm. A few feathery flakes are scattered widely \nthrough the air, and hover downward with uncertain \nflight, now almost alighting on the earth, now whirled \nagain aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere. \nThese are not the big flakes, heavy with moisture, \nwhich melt as they touch the ground, and are porten- \ntous of a soaking rain. It is to be, in good earnest, a \nwintry storm. The two or three people visible on the \nsidewalks have an aspect of endurance, a blue-nosed, \nfrosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in antici- \npation of a comfortless and blustering day. By night- \nfall, or at least before the sun sheds another glimmer- \ning smile upon us, the street and our little garden will \nbe heaped with momitain snow-drifts. The soil, al- \nready frozen for weeks past, is prepared to sustain \nwhatever burden may be laid upon it ; and, to a \nnorthern eye, the landscape will lose its melancholy \nbleakness and acquire a beauty of its own, when \nMother Earth, like her children, shall have put on \nthe fleecy garb of her winter's wear. The cloud \nspirits are slowly weaving her white mantle. As yet, \nindeed, there is barely a rime like hoarfrost over the \nbrown surface of the street ; the withered grass of the \ngrass-plat is still discernible ; and the slated roofs of \nthe houses do but begin to look gray instead of black. \n\nVOL. I 25 \n\n\n386 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nAll the snow that has yet fallen within the circumfer- \nence of my view, were it heaped up together, would \nhardly equal the hillock of a grave. Thus gradually, \nby silent and stealthy influences, are great changes \nMTought. These little snow particles, which the storm \nspirit flings by handfvds through the air, will bury the \ngreat earth under their accumulated mass, nor permit \nher to behold her sister sky again for dreary months. \nWe, likewise, shall lose sight of our mother's familiar \nvisage, and must content ourselves with looking heaven- \nward the oftener. \n\nNow, leaving the storm to do his appointed office, \nlet us sit down, pen in hand, by our fireside. Gloomy \nas it may seem, there is an influence productive of \ncheerfulness, and favorable to imaginative thought, in \nthe atmosphere of a snowy day. The native of a \nsouthern clime may woo the muse beneath the heavy \nshade of simimer foliage, reclining on banks of turf, \nwhile the sound of singing birds and warbling rivulets \nchimes in with the music of his soul. In our brief \nsummer, I do not think, but only exist in the vagiie \nenjoyment of a dream. My hour of inspiration — if \nthat hour ever comes — is when the green log hisses \nupon the hearth, and the bright flame, brighter for the \ngloom of the chamber, rustles high up the chimney, \nand the coals drop tinkling down among the glowing \nheaps of ashes. When the casement rattles in the \ngust, and the snow-flakes or the sleety raindrops pelt \nhard against the window panes, then I spread out rny \nsheet of paper, with the certainty that thoughts and \nfancies will gleam forth upon it like stars at twilight, \nor like violets in May, — perhaps to fade as soon. \nHowever transitory their glow, they at least shine \namid the darksome shadow which the clouds of the \n\n\nSNOW-FLAKES. 387 \n\noutvv'ard sky fling through the room. Blessed, there- \nfore, and reverently welcomed by me, her true-born \nson, be New England's winter, which makes us, one \nand all, the niu'slings of the storm, and sings a famil- \niar lullaby even in the wildest shriek of the December \nblast. Now look we forth again, and see how much of \nhis task the storm spirit has done. \n\nSlow and sure ! He has the day, perchance the \nweek, before him, and may take his own time to ac- \ncomplish Nature's burial in snow. A smooth mantle \nis scarcely yet thrown over the withered grass-jjlat, \nand the dry stocks of annuals still thrust themselves \nthrough the white surface in all parts of the garden. \nThe leafless rose-bushes stand shivering in a shallow \nsnow-drift, looking, poor things ! as disconsolate as if \nthey possessed a human consciousness of the dreary \nscene. This is a sad time for the shrubs that do not \nperish with the simimer ; they neither live nor die ; \nwhat they retain of life seems but the chilling sense of \ndeath. Very sad are the flower shrubs in midwinter ! \nThe roofs of the houses are now all white, save where \nthe eddying wind has kept them bare at the bleak cor- \nners. To discern the real intensity of the storm, we \nmust fix upon some distant object, — as yonder spire, \n— a.nd observe how the riotous gust fights with the \ndescending snow throughout the intervening space. \nSometimes the entire prospect is obscured ; then, \nagain, we have a distinct, but transient, glimpse of \nthe tall steeple, like a giant's ghost ; and now the \ndense \"OTeaths sweep between, as if demons were fling- \ning snow-drifts at each other in mid-air. Look next \ninto the street, where we have an amusing parallel to \nthe combat of those fancied demons in the upper re- \ngions. It is a snow battle of school-boys. What a \n\n\n388 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\npretty satire on war and military glory might be writ- \nten, in the form of a child's story, by describing the \nsnow-ball fights of two rival schools, the alternate de- \nfeats and victories of each, and the final triumph of \none party, or perhaps of neither ! What pitched bat- \ntles, worthy to be chanted in Homeric strains ! What \nstorming of fortresses, built all of massive snow blocks ! \nWhat feats of individual prowess, and embodied on- \nsets of martial enthusiasm ! And when some well-con- \ntested and decisive victory had put a period to the \nwar, both armies should unite to build a lofty monu- \nment of snow upon the battle-field and crown it with \nthe victor's statue, hewn of the same frozen marble. \nIn a few days or weeks thereafter the passer-by would \nobserve a shapeless mound upon the level common ; \nand, unmindful of the famous victory, would ask, — \n\" How came it there ? Who reared it ? And what \nmeans it?\" The shattered pedestal of many a battle \nmonument has provoked these questions when none \ncould answer. \n\nTurn we again to the fireside, and sit musing there, \nlending our ears to the wind, till perhaps it shall seem \nlike an articulate voice, and dictate wild and airy mat- \nter for the pen. Would it might inspire me to sketch \nout the personification of a New England winter! \nAnd that idea, if I can seize the snow- wreathed fig- \nures that flit before my fancy, shall be the theme of \nthe next page. \n\nHow does Winter herald his approach ? By the \nshrieking blast of latter autiuun, which is Nature's cry \nof lamentation, as the destroyer rushes among the \nshivering groves where she has lingered, and scatters \nthe sear leaves upon the tempest. When that cry ia \nheard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks, and \n\n\nSNOW-FLAKES. 389 \n\nshake their heads disconsolately, saying, — \" Winter is \nat hand ! \" Then the axe of the woodcutter echoes \nsharp and diligently in the forest ; then the coal \nmerchants rejoice, because each shriek of Nature in \nher agony adds something to the price of coal per ton ; \nthen the peat smoke spreads its aromatic fragrance \nthrough the atmosphere. A few days more ; and at \neventide the children look out of the ^\\indow, and \ndimly perceive the flavmting of a snowj^ mantle in the \nair. It is stern Winter's vesture. They crowd aroimd \nthe hearth, and cling to their mother's gown, or press \nbetween their father's knees, affrighted by the hollow \nroaring voice that bellows adowni the wide flue of the \nchimney. It is the voice of Winter ; and when par- \nents and children hear it, they shudder and exclaim, \n— \" Winter is come ! Cold Winter has begun his \nreign already! \" Now, throughout New England, each \nhearth becomes an altar, sending up the smoke of a \ncontinued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tjTan- \nnizes over forest, coimtry side, and town. Wrapped \nin his white mantle, his staff a huge icicle, his beard \nand hair a wind-tossed snow-drift, he travels over the \nland, in the' midst of the northern blast ; and woe to \nthe homeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path ! \nThere he lies stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, \non the spot where Winter overtook hmi. On strides \nthe tyrant over the rushing rivers and broad lakes, \nwhich turn to rock beneath his footsteps. His dreary \nempire is established ; all aromid stretches the deso- \nlation of the Pole. Yet not ungrateful be his New \nEngland children — for Winter is our sire, though a \nstern and rough one — not ungrateful even for the se- \nverities which have nourished our unpelding strength \nof character. And let us thank him, too, for the \n\n\n390 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsleigh-rides, cheered by the music of merry bells — \nfor the crackling and rustling hearth, when the ruddy \nfirelight gleams on hardy Manhood and the blooming \ncheek of Woman — for all the home enjoyments, and \nthe kindred virtues, which flourish in a frozen soil. \nNot that we grieve, when, after some seven months of \nstorm and bitter frost. Spring, in the guise of a flower- \ncrowned virgin, is seen driving away the hoary despot, \npelting him with violets by the handful, and strewing \ngreen grass on the path behind him. Often, ere he \nwill give up lais empire, old Winter rushes fiercely \nback, and hu.rls a snow-drift at the shrinking form of \nSpring ; yet, step by step, he is compelled to retreat \nnorthward, and spends the summer months mthin the \nArctic circle. \n\nSuch fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of \nmind, have made the winter's day pass pleasantly. \nMeanwhile, the storm has raged without abatement, \nand now, as the brief afternoon declines, is tossing \ndenser volumes to and fro about the atmosphere. On \nthe window-sill there is a layer of snow reaching \nhalf way up the lowest pane of glass. The garden is \none unbroken bed. Along the street are-tw^o or three \nspots of imcovered earth, where the gust has whirled \naway the snow, heaping it elsewhere to the fence tops, \nor piling huge banks against the doors of houses. A \nsolitary passenger is seen, now striding mid-leg deep \nacross a drift, now scudding over the bare groxmd, \nwhile his cloak is swollen with the wind. And now \nthe jingling of bells, a sluggish sound, responsive to \nthe horse's toilsome progress through the imbroken \ndrifts, announces the passage of a sleigh, with a boy \nclinging behind, and ducking his head to escape detec- \ntion by the driver. Next comes a sledge, laden with \n\n\nSNOW-FLAKES. 391 \n\n^^^ood for some unthrifty housekeeper, whom winter \nhas surprised at a cold hearth. But what dismal \nequipage now struggles along the uneven street ? A \nsable hearse, bestrewn with snow, is beai-ing a dead \nman through the storm to his frozen bed. Oh, how \ndreary is a burial in ^\\4nter, when the bosom of Mother \nEarth has no warmth for her poor child ! \n\nEvening — the early eve of December — begins to \nspread its deepening veil over the comfortless scene, \nthe firelight gradually brightens, and throws my flick- \nering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the cham- \nber ; but still the storm rages and rattles against the \nwindows. Alas ! I shiver, and thmk it time to be \ndisconsolate. But, taking a farewell glance at dead \nnature in her shroud, I perceive a flock of snow-birds \nskimming lightsomely through the tempest, and flit- \nting from drift to drift, as sportively as swallows in \nthe delightf id prime of summer. Whence come they ? \nWhere do they biuld their nests and seek their food ? \nWhy, having airy wings, do they not follow smnmer \naromid the earth, instead of making themselves the \nplaymates of the storm, and fluttering on the dreary \nverge of the winter's eve ? I know not whence they \ncome, nor why ; yet my spirit has been cheered by \nthat wandering flock of snow-birds. \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. \n\nRambling on foot in the spring of my life and the \nsummer of the year, I came one afternoon to a point \nwhich gave me the choice of three directions. Straight \nbefore me the main road extended its dusty length to \nBoston ; on the left a branch went towards the sea, \nand woidd have lengthened my journey a trifle of \ntwenty or thirty miles ; while, by the right-hand path \nI might have gone over hills and lakes to Canada, \nvisiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. \nOn a level spot of grass, at the foot of the guide-post, \nappeared an object which, though locomotive on a dif- \nferent principle, reminded me of Gulliver's portable \nmansion ctmong the Brobdignags. It was a huge cov- \nered wagon, or, more properly, a small house on \nwheels, with a door on one side and a window shaded \nby green blinds on the other. Two horses, munching \nprovender out of the baskets which muzzled them, \nwere fastened near the vehicle : a delectable sound of \nmusic proceeded from the interior ; and I immediately \nconjectured that this was some itinerant show halting \nat the confluence of the roads to intercept such idle \ntravellers as myself. A shower had long been climb- \ning up the western sky, and now hung so blackly over \nmy onward path that it was a pomt of wisdom to seek \nshelter here. \n\n\" Halloo ! Who stands guard here ? Is the door- \nkeeper asleep ? \" cried I, approaching a ladder of two \nor three steps which was let down from the wagon. \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 393 \n\nThe music ceased at my summons, and there ap- \npeared at the door, not the sort of figure that I had \nmentally assigned to the wandering showman, but a \nmost respectable old personage, whom I was sorry to \nhave addressed in so free a style. He wore a snuff- \ncolored coat and smallclothes, vnth. white top-boots, \nand exhibited the mild dignity of aspect and manner \nwhich may often be noticed in aged schoolmasters, \nand sometimes in deacons, selectmen, or other poten- \ntates of that kind. A small piece of silver was my \npassport wdthin his premises, where I found only one \nother person, hereafter to be described. \n\n\" This is a dull day for business,\" said the old gen- \ntleman, as he ushered me in , \" but I merely tarry \nhere to refresh the cattle, being bound for the camp- \nmeeting at Stamford.\" \n\nPerhaps the movable scene of this narrative is still \nperegrinating New England, and may enable the \nreader to test the accuracy of my description. The \nspectacle — for I will not use the unworthy term of \npuppet show — consisted of a midtitude of little peo- \nple assembled on a miniature stage. Among them \nwere artisans of every land, in the attitudes of their \ntoil, and a group of fair ladies and gay gentlemen \nstanding ready for the dance ; a company of foot-sol- \ndiers formed a line across the stage, looking stem, \ngrim, and terrible enough, to make it a pleasant con- \nsideration that they were but three inches high ; and \nconspicuous above the whole was seen a Merry An- \ndrew, in the pointed cap and motley coat of his pro- \nfession. All the inhabitants of this mimic world were \nmotionless, like the figures in a picture, or like that \npeople who one moment were alive in the midst of \ntheir business and delights, and the next were trans- \n\n\n394 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nformed to statues, preserving an eternal semblance of \nlabor that was ended, and pleasure that could be felt \nno more. Anon, however, the old gentleman turned \nthe handle of a barrel organ, the first note of which \nproduced a most enlivening effect upon the figures, \nand awoke them all to their proper occupations and \namusements. By the self-same impulse the tailor \nplied his needle, the blacksmith's hammer descended \nupon the anvil, and the dancers whirled away on \nfeathery tiptoes ; the company of soldiers broke into \nplatoons, retreated from the stage, and were succeeded \nby a troop of horse, who came prancing onward with \nsuch a sound of trumpets and trampling of hoofs as \nmight have startled Don Quixote himself ; while an old \ntoper, of inveterate ill habits, uplifted his black bottle \nand took off a hearty swig. Meantime the Merry An- \ndrew began to caper and turn somersets, shaking his \nsides, nodding his head, and winking his eyes in as \nlife-like a manner as if he were ridiculing the non- \nsense of all human affairs, and making fun of the \nwhole multitude beneath him. At length the old \nmagician (for I compared the showman to Prospero \nentertaining his guests vdth a mask of shadows) \npaused that I might give utterance to my wonder. \n\n\" What an admirable piece of work is tliis ! \" ex- \nclaimed I, lifting up my hands in astonishment. \n\nIndeed I liked the spectacle, and was tickled with \nthe old man's gravity as he presided at it, for I had \nnone of that foolish wisdom which reproves every \noccupation that is not usefid in tliis world of vanities. \nIf there be a facidty which I possess more perfectly \nthan most men, it is that of throwing myseK mentally \ninto situations foreign to my own, and detecting, with \na cheerful eye, the desirable circumstances of each. \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 395 \n\nI could have envied the life of this ^ay-headed show- \nman, spent as it had been in a course of safe and \npleasurable adventure, in dri\\ing his huge vehicle \nsometimes through the sands of Cape Cod, and some- \ntimes over the rough forest roads of the north and \neast, and halting now on the green before a village \nmeetmg-house, and now in a paved square of the me- \ntropolis. How often must his heart have been glad- \ndened by the delight of children as they viewed these \nanunated figures ! or his pride indidged by harangu- \ning learnedly to grown men on the mechanical powers \nwliicli produced such wonderful effects, or his gal- \nlantry brought into play (for this is an attribute \nwhich such grave men do not lack) by the visits of \npretty maidens ! And then with how fresh a feeling \nmust he return, at intervals, to his own pecuKar home ! \n\n\" I would I were assured of as happy a life as his,\" \nthought I. \n\nThough the showman's wagon might have accom- \nmodated fifteen or twenty spectators, it now contained \nonly liimseK and me, and a third person at whom I \nthrew a glance on entering. He was a neat and thin \nyoung man of two or three and twenty ; his drab hat, \nand gTcen frock coat vnih. velvet collar, were smart, \nthough no longer new ; while a pair of gi*een specta- \ncles that seemed needless to liis brisk little eyes gave \nhim something of a scholar-like and literary air. \nAfter allowing me a sufficient time to inspect the \npuppets, he advanced with a bow, and drew my atten- \ntion to some books in a corner of the wagon. These \nhe forthwith began to extol with an amazing volubil- \nity of well-somiding words, and an ingenuity of praise \nthat won him my heart, as being myself one of the \nmost mercifid of critics. Indeed his stock required \n\n\n396 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsome considerable powers of commendation in the \nsalesman ; there were several ancient friends of mine, \nthe novels of those happy days when my affections \nwavered between the Scottish Chiefs and Thomas \nThmnb ; besides a few of later date, whose merits had \nnot been acknowledged by the public. I was glad to \nfind that dear little venerable volume, the New Eng- \nland Primer, looking as antique as ever, though in its \nthousandth new edition ; a bundle of superannuated \ngilt picture-books made such a child of me, that partly \nfor the glittering covers, and partly for the fairy \ntales within, I bought the whole ; and an assortment \nof ballads and popular theatrical songs drew largely \non my purse. To balance these expenditures, I med- \ndled neither with sermons, nor science, nor morality, \nthough volumes of each were there ; nor with a Life \nof Franklin in the coarsest of paper, but so showily \nbound that it was emblematical of the Doctor himself, \nin the court-dress which he refused to wear at Paris ; \nnor with Webster's Spelling-Book, nor some of By- \nron's minor poems, nor half a dozen little Testaments \nat twenty-five cents each. \n\nThus far the collection might have been swept from \nsome great bookstore, or picked up at an evening auc- \ntion room ; but there was one small blue-covered pam- \nphlet, which the pedlar handed me with so peculiar an \nair, that I purchased it immediately at liis own pince ; \nand then, for the first time, the thought struck me, \nthat I had spoken face to face w ith the veritable au- \nthor of a printed book. The literaiy man now e\\4nced \na gTeat kindness for me, and I ventured to inquire \nwhich way he was travelling. \n\n\" Oh,\" said he, \" I keep company with this old \ngentleman here, and we are moving now towards the \ncamp-meeting at Stamford.\" \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 397 \n\nHe then explained to me that for the present season \nhe hatl rented a comer of the wagon as a bookstore, \nwhich, as he wittily observed, was a true Circidating \nLibrary, since there were few parts of the coimtry \nwhere it had not gone its rounds. I approved of the \nplan exceedingly, and began to sum up within my \nmind the many uncommon feKcities in the life of a \nbook pedlar, especially when his character resembled \nthat of the individual before me. At a high rate was \nto be reckoned the daily and hourly enjoyment of such \ninterviews as the present, in which he seized upon \nthe admiration of a passing stranger, and made him \naware that a man of literary taste, and even of literary \nachievement, was travelling the coimtry in a show- \nman's wagon. A more valuable, yet not infrequent, \ntrimnph, might be won in his conversations with some \nelderly clergyman, long vegetating in a rocky, woody, \nvvatery back settlement of New England, who, as he \nrecruited his library from the pedlar's stock of ser- \nmons, woidd exhort him to seek a college education \nand become the first scholar in his class. Sweeter and \nprouder yet would be his sensations when, talking po- \netry while he sold spelling-books, he should chai'm the \nmind, and haply touch the heart, of a fair coimtry \nschoolmistress, herself an imhonored poetess, a wearer \nof blue stockings which none but himself took pains \nto look at. But the scene of his completest glory \nwould be when the wagon had halted for the night, and \nhis stock of books was transferred to some crowded \nbar-room. Then woidd he recommend to the midti- \nfarious company, v/hether traveller from the city, or \nteamster from the hills, or neighboring squire, or the \nlandlord himself, or his loutish hostler, works suited \nto each particular taste and capacity ; proving, all the \n\n\n398 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwhile, by acute criticism and profound remark, that \nthe lore in his books was even exceeded by that in his \nbrain. \n\nThus happily woidd he traverse the land ; some- \ntimes a herald before the march of Mind ; sometimes \nwalking arm in arm with a\\vfvd Literature ; and reap- \ning everywhere a harvest of real and sensible popular- \nity .^ wliich the secluded bookworms, by whose toil he \nlived, coiUd never hope for. \n\n\" If ever I meddle with literature,\" thought I, fix- \ning myself in adamantine resolution, \"it shall be as a \ntravelling bookseller.\" \n\nThough it was still mid afternoon, the air had now \ngrown dark about us, and a few drops of rain came \ndown upon the roof of our vehicle, pattering like the \nfeet of birds that had flown tliither to rest. A sound \nof pleasant voices made us listen, and there soon ap- \npeared haK-way up the ladder the pretty person of a \nyoung damsel, whose rosy face was so cheerful that \neven amid the gloomy light it seemed as if the sim- \nbeams were peej)ing tmder her bonnet. We next saw \nthe dark and handsome features of a young man, who, \nwith easier gallantry than might have been expected \nin the heart of Yankee land, was assisting her into \nthe wagon. It became immediately evident to us, \nwhen the two strangers stood within the door, that \nthey were of a profession kindred to those of my com- \npanions ; and I was delighted with the more than hos- \npitable, the even paternal, kindness of the old show- \nman's manner, as he welcomed them ; while the man \nof literature hastened to lead the merry-eyed girl to a \nseat on the long bench. \n\n\"You are housed but just in time, my yoimg \nfriends,\" said the master of the wagon. \" The sky \nwould have been down upon you within five minutes.' \n\n\nTHE SFA'EN VAGABONDS. 399 \n\nThe young man's reply marked liim as a foreigner, \nnot by any variation from the idiom and accent of \ngood English, but because he spoke with more caution \nand accuracy than if perfectly familiar with the lan- \nguage. \n\n\" We knew that a shower was hanging over us,' \nsaid he, \"and considted whether it were best to entei \nthe house on the top of yonder hill, but seemg youi \nwagon in the road \" — \n\n\" We agTced to come hither,\" interrupted the girl, \nwith a smile, \" because we should be more at home in \na wandering house like this.\" \n\nI meanwhile, with many a wild and imdetermined \nfantasy, was narrowly inspecting these t^vo doves that \nhad flowTi into our ark. The yoimg man, tall, agile, \nand athletic, wore a mass of black shming curls clus- \ntering roimd a dark and vivacious countenance, which, \nif it had not greater expression, was at least more act- \nive, and attracted readier notice, than the quiet faces \nof our comitrymen. At his first appearance he had \nbeen laden with a neat mahogany box, of about two \nfeet square, but very light in proportion to its size, \nwhich he had immediately imstrapped from his shoul- \nders and deposited on the floor of the wagon. \n\nThe girl had nearly as fair a complexion as our \nown beauties, and a brighter one than most of them ; \nthe lightness of her figiire, which seemed calculated \nto traverse the whole world without weariness, suited \nwell with the glowing cheerfulness of her face ; and \nher gay attire, combining the rainbow hues of crim- \nson, green, and a deep orange, was as proper to her \nlightsome aspect as if she had been born in it. This \ngay stranger Vv^as appropriately burdened with that \nmirth-inspiring instrimient, the fiddle, which her com- \n\n\n400 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\npanion took from her hands, and shortly began the \nprocess of tuning. Neither of us — the previous com- \npany of the wagon — needed to inquire their ti ade ; \nfor this could be no mystery to frequenters of brigade \nmusters, ordinations, cattle-shows, commencements, and \nother festal meetings in our sober land ; and there \nis a dear friend of mine who will smile when this \npage recalls to his memoiy a chivalrous deed per- \nformed by us, in rescuing the showbox of such a \ncouple from a mob of gTcat double-fisted countrjonen. \n\n\" Come,\" said I to the damsel of gay attire, \" shall \nwe visit all the wonders of the world together ? \" \n\nShe understood the metaphor at once ; though in- \ndeed it would not much have troubled me if she had \nassented to the literal meaning of my words. The \nmahogany box was placed in a proper position, and I \npeeped in through its small romid mag-nifying -win- \ndow, while the girl sat by my side, and gave short \ndescriptive sketches, as one after another the pictures \nwere imfolded to my view. We visited together, at \nleast our imaginations did, full many a famous city, \nin the streets of which I had long yearned to tread ; \nonce, I remember, we were in the harbor of Barce- \nlona, gazing townwards ; next, she bore me tlu'ough \nthe air to Sicily, and bade me look up at blazing \n^tna; then we took wing to Venice, and sat in a \ngondola beneath the arch of the Eialto ; and anon she \nsat me down among the thronged spectators at the \ncoronation of Napoleon. But there v/as one scene, its \nlocality she could not tell, which charmed my attention \nlonger than all those gorgeous palaces and churches, \nbecause the fancy haunted me that I myseK, the pre- \nceding summer, had beheld just such a hmnble meet- \ning-house, in just such a pine-surrounded nook, among \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 401 \n\nour own green mountains. All these pictures were \ntolerably executed, though far inferior to the girl's \ntouches of description ; nor was it easy to compre- \nhend how, in so few sentences, and theSe, as I sui> \nposed, in a language foreign to her, she contrived to \npresent an airy copy of each varied scene. When we \nhad travelled through the vast extent of the mahogany \nbox I looked into my guide's face. \n\n\" Where are you going, my pretty maid ? \" in- \nquired I, in the words of an old song. \n\n\" Ah,\" said the gay damsel, \" you might as well \nask where the summer wind is going. We are wan- \nderers here, and there, and everywhere. Wherever \nthere is mirth, our merry hearts are drawn to it. To- \nday, indeed, the people have told us of a great frolic \nand festival in these parts; so perhaps we may be \nneeded at what you call the camp-meeting at Stam- \nford.\" \n\nThen in my happy youth, and while her pleasant \nvoice yet sounded in my ears, I sighed ; for none but \nmyself, I thought, should have been her companion in \na life which seemed to realize my own wild fancies, \ncherished all through visionary boyhood to that hour. \nTo these tw^o strangers the world was in its golden \nage, not that indeed it was less dark and sad than \never, but because its weariness and sorrow had no \ncommunity with their ethereal nature. Wherever they \nmight appear in their pilgrimage of bliss, Youth would \necho back their gladness, care-stricken Maturity would \nrest a moment from its toil, and Age, tottering among \nthe graves, would smile in withered joy for their sakes. \nThe lonely cot, the narrow and gloomy street, the \nsombre shade, would catch a passing gleam like that \nnow shining on ourselves, as these bright spirits wan- \n\n\nVOL. I. \n\n\n402 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ndered by^ Blessed pair, whose happy home was \nthroughout all the earth I I looked at my shoulders, \nand thought them broad enough to sustain those pict- \nured towns and mountains ; mine, too, was an elastic \nfoot, as tireless as the wing of the bird of paradise ; \nmine was then an untroubled heart, that would have \ngone singing on its delightful way. \n\n\" O maiden ! \" said I aloud, \" why did you not come \nhither alone ? \" \n\nWhile the merry girl and myself were busy with \nthe showbox, the imceasing rain had driven another \nwayfarer into the wagon. He seemed pretty nearly \nof the old showman's age, but much smaller, leaner, \nand more withered than he, and less respectably clad \nin a patched suit of gray; Avithal, he had a thin, \nshrewd countenance, and a pair of diminutive gray \neyes, which peeped rather too keenly out of their \npuckered sockets. This old fellow had been joking \nwith the showman, in a manner which intimated pre- \nvious acquaintance ; but percei\\dng that the damsel \nand I had terminated our affairs, he drew forth a \nfolded document, and presented it to me. As I had \nanticipated, it proved to be a circular, ^vritten in a \nvery fair and legible hand, and signed by several dis- \ntinguished gentlemen whom I had never heard of, stat- \ning that the bearer had encountered every variety of \nmisfortune, and recommending him to the notice of \nall charitable people. Previous disbursements had \nleft me no more than a five-dollar bill, out of which, \nhowever, I offered to make the beggar a donation, \nprovided he woidd give me change for it. The object \nof my beneficence looked keenly in my face, and dis- \ncerned that I had none of that abominable spirit, char- \nacteristic though it be, of a full-blooded Yankee, \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 403 \n\nwhich takes pleasure in detecting every little harmless \npiece of knavery. \n\n\" Why, perhaps,\" said the ragged old mendicant, \n\" if the bank is in good standing, I can't say hut I \nmay have enough about me to change your bill.\" \n\n\" It is a bill of the Suffolk Bank,\" said 1, \" and \nbetter than the specie.\" \n\nAs the beggar had nothing to object, he now pro- \nduced a small buff -leather bag, tied up carefidly with \na shoestring. When this was opened, there appeared \na very comfortable treasure of silver coins, of all sorts \nand sizes ; and I even fancied that I saw, gleaming \namong them, the golden plmnage of that rare bird in \nour currency, the American Eagle. In this precious \nheap was my bank-note deposited, the rate of exchange \nbeing considerably against me. His wants being thus \nrelieved, the destitute man pidled out of his pocket an \nold pack of greasy cards, which had probably contrib- \nuted to fill the buff-leather bag in more ways than \none. \n\n\" Come,\" said he, \" I spy a rare fortune in your \nface, and for twenty-five cents more, I '11 tell you what \nit is.\" \n\nI never refuse to take a glimpse into futurity ; so, \nafter shuffling the cards, and when the fair damsel \nhad cut them, I dealt a portion to the prophetic beg- \ngar. Like others of liis profession, before predicting \nthe shadowy events that were moving on to meet me, \nhe gave proof of his preternatural science by describ- \ning scenes through which I had already passed. Here \nlet me have credit for a sober fact. When the old \nman had read a page in his book of fate, he bent his \nkeen gray eyes on mine, and proceeded to relate, in \nall its minute particulars, what was then the most \n\n\n404 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsingular event of my life. It was one which I had \nno purpose to disclose till the general unfolding of all \nsecrets ; nor would it be a much stranger instance of \ninscrutable knowledge, or fortune conjecture, if the \nbeggar were to meet me in the street to-day, and re- \npeat, word for word, the page which I have here writ- \nten. The fortune-teller, after predicting a destiny \nwhich Time seems loath to make good, put up his \ncards, secreted his treasure bag, and began to con- \nverse with the other occupants of the wagon. \n\n\" Well, old friend,\" said the showman, \" you have \nnot yet told us wliich way your face is turned tliis \nafternoon.\" \n\n\"I am taking a trip northward, this warm weather,\" \nreplied the conjurer, \"across the Connecticut first, \nand then up through Vermont, and may be into Can- \nada before the fall. But I must stop and see the \nbreaking up of the camp-meeting at Stamford.\" \n\nI began to think that all the vagrants in New Eng- \nland were converging to the camp-meeting, and had \nmade this wagon their rendezvous by the way. The \nshowman now proposed that, when the shower was \nover, they shovdd pursue the road to Stamford to- \ngether, it being sometimes the policy of these people \nto form a sort of league and confederacy. \n\n\"And the yoimg lady too,\" observed the gallant \nbibliopolist, bowing to her profoundly, \" and this for- \neign gentleman, as I understand, are on a jaunt of \npleasure to the same spot. It would add incalcidably \nto my own enjoyment, and I presume to that of my \ncolleagiie and his friend, if they could be prevailed \nupon to join our party.\" \n\nThis arrangement met with approbation on all \nhands, nor were any of those concerned more sensi- \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 405 \n\nble of its advantages than myself, who had no title \nto be included in it. Having- already satisfied myself \nas to the several modes in which the four others at- \ntained felicity, I next set my mind at work to discover \nwhat enjojonents were peculiar to the old \"Straggler,\" \nas the people of the country would have termed the \nwandering mendicant and prophet. As he pretended \nto familiarity with the Devil, so I fancied that he was \nfitted to pursue and take delight in his way of life, by \npossessing some of the mental and moral character- \nistics, the lighter and more comic ones, of the Devil in \npopular stories. Among them might be reckoned a \nlove of deception for its own sake, a shrewd eye and \nkeen relish for himian weakness and ridiculous infirm- \nity, and the talent of petty fraud. Thus to this old \nman there would be pleasure even in the conscious- \nness so insupportable to some minds, that his whole \nlife was a cheat upon the world, and that, so far as he \nwas concerned A\\ith the public, his little cunning had \nthe upper hand of its imited wisdom. Every day \nwoidd furnish him with a succession of minute and \npungent triumphs : as when, for instance, his impor- \ntunity wrimg a pittance out of the heart of a miser ; or \nwhen my silly good nature transferred a part of my \nslender purse to his plump leather bag ; or when some \nostentatious gentleman shoidd throw a coin to the \nragged beggar who was richer than himself ; or when, \nthough he woidd not always be so decidedly diabolical, \nhis pretended wants should make him a sharer in the \nscanty li\\dng of real indigence. And then what an \ninexhaustible field of enjoyment, both as enabling him \nto discern so much folly and achieve such quantities \nof minor mischief, was opened to his sneering spirit by \nhis pretensions to prophetic knowledge. \n\n\n406 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nAll this was a sort of happiness which I could con- \nceive of, though I had little sympathy with it. Per- \nhaps, had I been then inclined to admit it, I might \nhave found that the roving life was more proper to \nhim than to either of his companions ; for Satan, to \nwhom I had compared the poor man, has delighted, \never since the time of Job, in \"wandering up and \ndown upon the earth ; \" and indeed a crafty disposi- \ntion wliich operates not in deep-laid plans, but in dis- \nconnected tricks, could not have an adequate scope, \nluiless naturally imj)elled to a continual change of \nscene and society. My reflections were here inter- \nrupted. \n\n\" Another visitor ! \" exclaimed the old showman. \n\nThe door of the wagon had been closed against the \ntempest, which was roaring and blustering with pro- \ndigious fury and commotion, and beating violently \nagainst our shelter, as if it claimed all those homeless \npeople for its lawful prey, while we, caring little for \nthe displeasure of the elements, sat comfortably talk- \ning. There was now an attempt to open the door, \nsucceeded by a voice uttering some strange, unintel- \nligible gibberish, which my companions mistook for \nGreek, and I suspected to be thieves' Latin. How- \never, the showman stepped forward, and gave admit- \ntance to a figure which made me imagine, either that \nour wagon had rolled back two hundred years into \npast ages, or that the forest and its old inhabitants \nhad sprung up around us by enchantment. \n\nIt was a red Indian, armed with his bow and arrow. \nHis dress was a sort of cap, adorned with a single \nfeather of some wild bird, and a frock of blue cotton \ngirded tight about him ; on his breast, like orders of \nknighthood, hung a crescent and a circle, and other \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 407 \n\nornaments of silver ; while a small crucifix betokened \nthat our Father the Pope had interposed between the \nIndian and the Great Spirit, whom he had worshipped \nin his sini])licity. This son o£ the wilderness and \npilgrim of the storm took his place silently in the \nmidst of us. When the first surprise was over, I \nrightly conjectured him to be one of the Penobscot \ntribe, parties of which I had often seen, in their \nsummer excursions down our Eastern rivers. There \nthey paddle their birch canoes among the coasting \nschooners, and build their wigwam beside some roar- \ning mill-dam, and drive a little trade in basket work \nwhere their fathers himted deer. Our new visitor was \nprobably wandering through the country towards Bos- \nton, subsisting on the careless charity of the people, \nwhile he turned his archery to profitable account by \nshooting at cents, which were to be the prize of his \nsuccessful aim. \n\nThe Indian had not long been seated ere our merry \ndamsel sought to draw him into conversation. She, \nindeed, seemed all made up of sunshine in the month \nof .May; for there was nothing so dark and dismal \nthat her pleasant mind could not cast a glow over it; \nand the wild man, like a fir-tree in his native forest, \nsoon began to brighten into a sort of sombre cheerfid- \nness. At length, she inquired whether his journey \nhad any particular end or purpose. \n\n\" I go shoot at the camp-meeting at Stamford,\" re- \nplied the Indian. \n\n\" And here are five more,\" said the gii'l, \" aU aim- \ning at the camp-meeting too. You shall be one of us, \nfor we travel with light hearts ; and as for me, I sing \nmerry songs, and tell merry tales, and am full of \nmerry thoughts, and I dance merrily along the road, \n\n\n408 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nso that there is never any sadness among them that \nkeep me company. But, oh, you would find it very \ndull indeed to go all the way to Stamford alone ! \" \n\nMy ideas of the aboriginal character led me to fear \nthat the Indian would prefer his own solitary musings \nto the gay society thus offered him ; on the contrary, \nthe girl's proposal met with immediate acceptance, and \nseemed to animate him with a misty expectation of en- \njoyment. I now gave myself up to a course of thought \nwhich, whether it flowed naturally from this combina- \ntion of events, or was drawn forth by a wayward \nfancy, caused my mind to thrill as if I were listening \nto deep music. I saw mankind, in this weary old age \nof the world, either enduring a sluggish existence amid \nthe smoke and dust of cities, or, if they breathed a \npurer air, still lying down at night with no hope but \nto wear out to-morrow, and all the to-morrows which \nmake up life, among the same dull scenes and in the \nsame wretched toil that had darkened the sunshine of \nto-day. But there were some, full of the primeval in- \nstinct, who preserved the freshness of youth to their \nlatest years by the continual excitement of new ob- \njects, new pursuits, and new associates ; and cared \nlittle, though their birthplace might have been here \nin New England, if the grave should close over them \nin Central Asia. Fate was summoning a parliament \nof these free spirits ; unconscious of the impidse which \ndirected them to a common centre, they had come \nhither from far and near, and last of all appeared \nthe representative of those mighty vagrants who had \nchased the deer during thousands of years, and were \nchasmg it now in the Spirit Land. Wandering down \nthrough the waste of ages, the woods had vanished \naround his path; his arm had lost somewhat of ita \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 409 \n\nstrength, his foot of its fleetness, his mien of its w^ld \nregality, his heart and mind of their savage virtue and \nuncultured force ; but here, mitamable to the routine \nof artificial life, roving now along the dusty road as \nof old over the forest leaves, here was the Indian still. \n\n\"Well,\" said the old showman, in the midst of my \nmeditations, \"-here is an honest company of us — one, \ntwo, three, four, five, six — all going to the camp- \nmeeting at Stamford. Now, hoping no offence, I \nshoidd like to know where this yomig gentleman may \nbe going?\" \n\nI started. How came I among these wanderers? \nThe free mind, that preferred its own folly to an- \nother's wisdom; the open spirit, that found compan- \nions everywhere; above all, the restless impulse, that \nhad so often made me wretched in the midst of enjoy- \nments ; these were my claims to be of their society. \n\n\"My friends!\" cried I, stepping into the centre of \nthe wagon, \" I am going with you to the camp-meet- \ning at Stamford.\" \n\n\"But in what capacity?\" asked the old showman, \nafter a moment's silence. \" All of us here can get our \nbread in some creditable way. Every honest man \nshoidd have his livelihood. You, sir, as I take it, are \na mere strolling gentleman.\" \n\nI proceeded to inform the company that, when Nat- \nure gave me a propensity to their way of life, she had \nnot left me altogether destitute of qualifications for it ; \nthough I coidd not deny that my talent was less re- \nspectable, and might be less profitable, than the mean- \nest of theirs. My design, in short, was to imitate the \nstorj^-tellers of whom Oriental travellers have told us, \nand become an itmerant novelist, reciting my own ex- \ntemporaneous fictions to such audiences as I could col- \nlect. \n\n\n410 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\"Either this,\" said I, \"is my vocation, or I have \nbeen born in vain.\" \n\nThe fortune-teller, with a sly wink to the company, \nproposed to take me as an apprentice to one or other \nof his professions, either of which, undoubtedly, would \nhave given full scope to whatever inventive talent I \nmight possess. The bibliopolist spoke a few words in \nopposition to my plan, influenced partly, I suspect, by \nthe jealousy of authorship, and partly by an apprehen- \nsion that the viva voce practice would become general \namono; novelists, to the infinite detriment of the book \ntrade. Dreading a rejection, I solicited the mterest \nof the merry damsel. \n\n\"Mirth,\" cried I, most aptly appropriating the \nwords of L' Allegro, \" to thee I sue ! Mirth, admit \nme of thy crew ! \" \n\n\"Let us indulge the poor youth,\" said Mirth, with a \nkindness wliich made me love her dearly, though I was \nno such coxcomb as to misinterpret her motives. \" I \nhave espied much promise in him. True, a shadow \nsometimes flits across his brow, but the sunshine is \nsure to follow in a moment. He is never guilty of a \nsad thought, but a merry one is twin bom with it. \nWe will take him with us ; and you shall see that he \nwill set us all a-laughing before we reach the camp- \nmeeting at Stamford.\" \n\nHer voice silenced the scruples of the rest, and \ngained me admittance into the league ; according to \nthe terms of which, without a community of goods or \nprofits, we were to lend each other all the aid, and \navert all the harm, that might be in our power. This \naffair settled, a marvellous jollitj^ entered into the \nwhole tribe of us, manifesting itself characteristically \nin each individual. The old showman, sitting down \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 411 \n\nto his barrel organ, stirred up the souls of the pygmy- \npeople with one of the quickest tunes in the music \nbook ; tailors, blacksmiths, gentlemen and ladies, all \nseemed to share in the spirit of the occasion ; and the \nMerry Andrew played his part more facetiously than \never, nodding and winking particularly at me. The \nyoung foreigner floiu'ished liis fiddle bow with a mas- \nter's hand, and gave an inspiring echo to the show- \nman's melody. The bookish man and the merry dam- \nsel started up simidtaneously to dance ; the former \nenacting the double shuffle in a style which every- \nbody must have witnessed ere Election week was \nblotted out of time ; while the girl, setting her arms \nakimbo with both hands at her slim waist, displayed \nsuch light rapidity of foot, and harmony of varying \nattitude and motion, that I coidd not conceive how she \never was to stop ; imagining, at the moment, that Nat- \nure had made her, as the old showman had made his \npuppets, for no eartldy purpose but to dance jigs. \nThe Indian bellowed forth a succession of most hid- \neous outcries, somewhat affrighting us till we inter- \npreted them as the war-song, with which, in imitation \nof his ancestors, he was prefacing the assault on Stam- \nford. The conjurer, meanwhile, sat demurely in a cor- \nner, extracting a sly enjoyment from the whole scene, \nand, like the facetious Merry Andrew, directing his \nqueer glance particidarly at me. \n\nAs for myself, with great exhilaration of fancy, I \nbegan to arrange and color the incidents of a tale, \nAvheremth I proposed to amuse an audience that very \nevening ; for I saw that my associates were a little \nashamed of me, and that no time was to be lost in ob- \ntaining a public acknowledgment of my abilities. \n\n\" Come, fellow-laborers,\" at last said the old show- \n\n\n412 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nman, whom we had elected President ; \" the shower is \nover, and we must be doing our duty by these poor \nsouls at Stamford.\" \n\n\" We '11 come among them in procession with music \nand dancing,\" cried the merry damsel. \n\nAccordmgly — for it must be understood that our \npilgrimage was to be performed on foot — we sallied \njoyously out of the wagon, each of us, even the old \ngentleman in his white top-boots, giving a great skip \nas we came do^Ti the ladder. Above our heads there \nwas such a glory of simshine and splendor of clouds, \nand such brightness of verdure below, that, as I mod- \nestly remarked at the time, Nature seemed to have \nwashed her face, and put on the best of her jewelry \nand a fresh green gown, in honor of our confederation. \nCasting our eyes northward, we beheld a horseman ap- \nproaching leisurely, and splasliing through the little \npuddles on the Stamford road. Onward he came, \nsticking up in liis saddle with rigid perpendicularity, a \ntall, thin figure in rusty black, whom the showman and \nthe conjurer shortly recognized to be, what his aspect \nsufficiently indicated, a travelling preacher of great \nfame among the Methodists. AVhat puzzled us was \nthe fact that his face appeared turned from, instead of \nto, the camp-meeting at Stamford. However, as this \nnew votary of the wandering life drew near the little \ngreen space where the guide-post and oiu' wagon were \nsituated, my six fellow-vagabonds and myself rushed \nforward and surrounded him, crying out with united \nvoices, — \n\n\" What news, what news from the camp-meeting at \nStamford?\" \n\nThe missionary looked down in surprise at as singu- \nlar a knot of people as could have been selected from \n\n\nTHE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 413 \n\nall his heterogeneous auditors. Indeed, considering \nthat we might all be classified under the general head \nof Vagabond, there was great diversity of character \namong the grave old showman, the sly, prophetic beg- \ngar, the fiddling foreigner and his merry damsel, the \nsmart bibliopolist, the sombre Indian, and myself, the \nitinerant noveKst, a slender youth of eighteen. I even \nfancied that a smile was endeavoring to disturb the \niron gravity of the preacher's mouth. \n\n\" Good people,\" answered he, \" the camp-meeting is \nbroke up.\" \n\nSo saying, the Methodist minister switched his steed \nand rode westward. Our union being thus nullified \nby the removal of its object, we were sundered at once \nto the four winds of heaven. The fortime-teller giv- \ning a nod to all, and a peculiar wink to me, departed \non liis northern tour, chuckling within himself as he \ntook the Stamford road. The old showman and his \nliterary coadjutor were already tackling their horses \nto the wagon, with a design to peregrinate southwest \nalong the sea-coast. The foreigner and the merry \ndamsel took their laughing leave, and pursued the \neastern road, wliich I had that day trodden ; as they \npassed away, the young mar played a lively strain and \nthe girl's happy spirit broke into a dance : and thus, \ndissolving, as it were, into sunbeams and gay music, \nthat pleasant pair departed from my \\aew. Finally, \nwith a pensive shadow thrown across my mind, yet en- \nvious of the light philosophy of my late companions, I \njoined myself to the Penobscot Indian and set forth \ntowards the distant city. \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. \n\nThe moonbeams came through two deep and nar- \nrow windows, and showed a spacious chamber richly- \nfurnished in an antique fasliion. From one lattice \nthe shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon \nthe floor ; the ghostly light, through the other, slept \nupon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains, \nand illuminatmg the face of a young man. But, how \nqmetly the slumberer lay ! how pale his features ! and \nhow like a shroud the sheet was womid about his \nframe ! Yes ; it was a corpse, in its burial clothes. \n\nSuddenly, the fixed features seemed to move with \ndark emotion. Strange fantasy ! It was but the \nshadow of the fringed curtain wa\\'ing betwixt the dead \nface and the moonlight, as the door of the chamber \nopened and a girl stole softly to the bedside. Was \nthere delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture \nand her eye betray a gleam of triimiph, as she bent \nover the pale corpse — pale as itself — and pressed her \nliving lips to the cold ones of the dead ? As she drew \nback from that long kiss, her features wi-ithed as if \na proud heart were fightmg with its anguish. Again \nit seemed that the features of the corpse had moved \nresponsive to her own. Still an illusion ! The silken \ncurtain had waved, a second time, betwixt the dead \nface and the moonlight, as another fair yomig girl im- \nclosed the door, and glided, ghost-like, to the bedside. \nThere the two maidens stood, both beautifid, with the \npale beauty of the dead between them. But she who \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. 415 \n\nhad first entered was proud and stately, and the other \na soft and frasfile thing:. \n\n\" Away ! \" cried the lofty one. \" Thou hadst him \nliAdng ! The dead is mine ! \" \n\n\" Tliine ! \" returned the other, shuddering. \" WeU \nhast thou spoken ! The dead is thine ! \" \n\nThe proud girl started, and stared into her face \nwith a ghastly look. But a wild and moumfid ex- \npression passed across the features of the gentle one ; \nand weak and helpless, she sank dowTi on the bed, her \nhead pillowed beside that of the corpse, and her hair \nmingling wdth liis dark locks. A creature of hope and \njoy, the first draught of sorrow had bewildered her. \n\n\" Edith ! \" cried her rival. \n\nEdith groaned, as with a sudden compression of the \nheart ; and renio\\'ing her cheek from the dead youth's \npillow, she stood upright, fearfidly encountering the \neyes of the lofty girl. \n\n\" Wilt thou betray me? \" said the latter, calmly. \n\n\" Till the dead bid me speak, I will be silent,\" an- \nswered Edith. \" Leave us alone together ! Go, and \nlive many years, and then return, and tell me of thy \nlife. He, too, will be here! Then, if thou tellest of \nsufferings more than death, we will both forgive thee.\" \n\n\" And what shall be the token ? \" asked the proud \ngirl, as if her heart acknowledged a meaning in these \nwild words. \n\n\" This lock of hair,\" said Edith, lifting one of the \ndark, clustering curls that lay heavily on the dead \nman's brow. \n\nThe two maidens joined their hands over the bosom \nof the corpse, and appointed a day and hour, far, far \nin time to come, for their next meeting in that cham- \nber. The statelier girl gave one deep look at the mo- \n\n\n416 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ntionless comitenance, and departed — yet turned again \nand trembled ere she closed the door, almost believing \nthat her dead lover frowned upon her. And Edith, \ntoo ! Was not her white form fading into the moon- \nlight ? Scorning her own weakness she went forth, \nand perceived that a negro slave was waiting in the \npassage with a wax -light, which he held between her \nface and his o^vn, and regarded her, as she thought, \nwith an ugly expression of merriment. Lifting his \ntorch on high, the slave lighted her down the stair- \ncase, and undid the portal of the mansion. The yoimg \nclergyman of the town had just ascended the steps, \nand bowing to the lady, passed in without a word. \n\nYears, many years, rolled on ; the world seemed \nnew again, so much older was it gTown since the night \nwhen those pale girls had clasped their hands across \nthe bosom of the corpse. In the interval, a lonely \nwoman had passed from youth to extreme age, and \nwas known by all the town as the \" Old Maid in the \nWinding Sheet.\" A taint of insanity had affected \nher whole life, but so qiuet, sad, and gentle, so utterly \nfree from violence, that she was suffered to pursue \nher harmless fantasies, mimolested by the world, with \nwhose business or pleasures she had nought to do. \nShe dwelt alone, and never came into the daylight, \nexcept to follow funerals. Whenever a corpse was \nborne along the street in sunshme, rain, or snow; \nwhether a pompous train of the rich and proud \nthronged after it, or few and humble were the mourn- \ners, behind them came the lonely woman in a long- \nwhite garment which the people called her shroud. \nShe took no place among the kindred or the friends, \nbut stood at the door to hear the funeral prayer, and \nwalked in the rear of the procession, as one whose \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. 417 \n\nearthly charge it was to haunt the house of mourning, \nand be the shadow of affliction, and see that the dead \nwere duly buried. So long had this been her custom \nthat the inhabitants of the to\\vn deemed her a part of \nevery funeral, as much as the coffin pall, or the very \ncorpse itself, and augured ill of the sinner's destiny \nimless the \" Old Maid in the Winding Sheet \" came \ngliding, like a ghost, behind. Once, it is said, she \naffrighted a bridal party with her pale presence, ap- \npearing suddenly in the illuminated hall, just as the \npriest was imiting a false maid to a wealthy man, be- \nfore her lover had been dead a year. Evil was the \nomen to that marriage I Sometimes she stole forth by \nmoonlight and visited the graves of venerable Integ- \nrity, and wedded Love, and virgin Innocence, and \nevery spot where the ashes of a kind and f aithf id heart \nwere moiddering. Over the hillocks of those favored \ndead woidd she stretch out her arms, with a gesture, \nas if she were scattering seeds ; and many believed \nthat she brought them from the garden of Paradise; \nfor the graves which she had visited were green be- \nneath the snow, and covered with sweet flowers from \nApril to November. Her blessing was better than a \nholy verse upon the tombstone. Thus wore away her \nlong, sad, peacefid, and fantastic life, till few were so \nold as she, and the people of later generations won- \ndered how the dead had ever been buried, or mourners \nhad endured their grief, without the \" Old Maid in \nthe Winding Sheet.\" \n\nStill years went on, and still she followed funerals, \nand was not yet smnmoned to her owti festival of \ndeath. One afternoon the great street of the town \nwas all alive with business and bustle, though the sun \nnow gilded only the upper half of the church spire, \n\nVOL. I. 27 \n\n\n418 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhaving left the housetops and loftiest trees in shadow. \nThe scene was cheerful and animated, in spite of the \nsombre shade between the high brick buildings. Here \nwere pompous merchants, in white wigs and laced \nvelvet ; the bronzed faces of sea-captains ; the foreign \ngarb and air of Spanish Creoles ; and the disdainful \nport of natives of Old England ; all contrasted with \nthe rough aspect of one or two back settlers, negoti- \nating sales of timber from forests where axe had never \nsomided. Sometimes a lady passed, swelling roimdly \nforth in an embroidered petticoat, balancing her steps \nin high-heeled shoes, and courtesying with lofty grace \nto the pimctilious obeisances of the gentlemen. The \nlife of the town seemed to have its very centre not \nfar from an old mansion that stood somewhat back \nfrom the pavement, surrounded by neglected gTass, \nwith a strange air of loneliness, rather deepened than \ndispelled by the throng so near it. Its site would \nhave been suitably occupied by a magnificent Ex- \nchange or a brick block, lettered all over with various \nsigns ; or the large house itself might have made a \nnoble tavern, with the \" King's Arms \" swinging be- \nfore it, and guests in every chamber, instead of the \npresent solitude. But owing to some dispute about \nthe right of inheritance, the mansion had been long \nwithout a tenant, decaying from year to year, and \nthrowing the stately gloom of its shadow over the \nbusiest part of the towTi. Such was the scene, and \nsuch the time, when a figure milike any that have \nbeen described was observed at a distance down the \nstreet. \n\n\" I espy a strange sail, yonder,\" remarked a Liver- \npool captain ; \" that woman in the long white gar- \nment ! \" \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. 419 \n\nThe sailor seemed much struck by the object, as \nwere several others who, at the same moment, caught \na glimpse of the figure that had attracted his notice. \nAlmost immediately the various topics of conversa- \ntion gave place to speculations, in an undertone, on \nthis unwonted occiuTcnce. \n\n\" Can there be a funeral so late this afternoon ? \" \ninquired some. \n\nThey looked for the signs of death at every door — \nthe sexton, the hearse, the assemblage of black-clad \nrelatives — all that makes up the woful pomp of fu- \nnerals. They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt \nspire of the church, and wondered that no clang pro- \nceeded from its bell, which had always toUed till now \nwhen this figiu-e appeared in the light of day. But \nnone had heard that a corpse was to be borne to its \nhome that afternoon, nor was there any token of a \nfuneral, except the apparition of the \" Old Maid in \nthe Winding Sheet.\" \n\n\" What may this portend ? \" asked each man of his \nneighbor. \n\nAll smiled as they put the question, yet with a cer- \ntain ti'ouble in their eyes, as if pestilence or some \nother wide calamity were prognosticated by the un- \ntimely intrusion among the li\\ing of one whose pres- \nence had always been associated with death and woe. \nWhat a comet is to the earth w'as that sad W'Oman to \nthe town. Still she moved on, while the hmn of sur- \nprise w^as hushed at her approach, and the proud and \nthe humble stood aside, that her white garment might \nnot wave against them. It was a long, loose robe, of \nspotless piu•itJ^ Its w^earer appeared very old, pale, \nemaciated, and feeble, yet glided onward without the \nunsteady pace of extreme age. At one point of her \n\n\n420 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncourse a little rosy boy burst forth from a door, and \nran, with open arms, towards the ghostly woman, seem- \ning to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips. She made \na slight pause, fixing her eye upon him with an expres- \nsion of no earthly sweetness, so that the child shivered \nand stood awe-struck, rather than affrighted, while the \nOld Maid passed on. Perhaps her garment might \nhave been polluted even by an infant's touch ; perhaps \nher kiss would have been death to the sweet boy mthin \na year. \n\n\" She is but a shadow,\" whispered the superstitious. \n\"The child put forth his arms and could not grasp her \nrobe!\" \n\nThe wonder was increased when the Old Maid \npassed beneath the porch of the deserted mansion, as- \ncended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker, \nand gave three raps. The people could only conjec- \nture that some old remembrance, troubling her bewil- \ndered brain, had impelled the poor woman hither to \nvisit the friends of her youth ; all gone from their \nhome long since and forever, unless their ghosts still \nhaunted it — fit company for the \" Old Maid in the \nWinding Sheet.\" An elderly man approached the \nsteps, and, reverently uncovering his gray locks, es- \nsayed to explain the matter. \n\n\"None, Madam,\" said he, \"have dwelt in this \nhouse these fifteen years agone — no, not since the \ndeath of old Colonel Fenwicke, whose funeral you \nmay remember to have followed. His heirs, being \nill agreed among themselves, have let the mansion- \nhouse go to ruin.\" \n\nThe Old Maid looked slowly romid with a slight \ngesture of one hand, and a finger of the other ixpon \nher lip, appearing more shadow-like than ever in the \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. 421 \n\nobscurity of the porch. But again she lifted the ham- \nmer, and gave, this time, a single rap. Coidd it be \nthat a footstep was now heard coming down the stair- \ncase of the old mansion, which all conceived to have \nbeen so long untenanted ? Slowly, feebly, yet hea\\dly, \nlike the pace of an aged and infirm person, the step \napproached, more distinct on every downward stair, \ntill it reached the portal. The bar fell on the inside ; \nthe door was opened. One upward glance towards \nthe church spire, whence the simshine had just faded, \nwas the last that the people saw of the \" Old Maid in \nthe Winding Sheet.\" \n\n\" Who imdid the door?'* asked many. \n\nThis question, owing to the depth of shadow be- \nneath the porch, no one coidd satisfactorily answer. \nTwo or three aged men, while protesting against an \ninference which might be drawn, affirmed that the \nperson within was a negro, and bore a singular resem- \nblance to old Caesar, formerly a slave in the house, but \nfreed by death some thirty years before. \n\n\" Her summons has waked up a servant of the old \nfamily,\" said one, half seriously. \n\n\" Let us wait here,\" replied another. \" More guests \nwill knock at the door, anon. But the gate of the \ngraveyard shoidd be thrown open ! \" \n\nTwilight had overspread the town before the crowd \nbegan to separate, or the comments on this incident \nwere exhausted. One after another was wending his \nway homeward, when a coach — no common spectacle \nin those days — drove slowly into the street. It was \nan old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the gromid, \n\\Nith arms on the panels, a footman behind, and a \ngrave, corpident coachman seated high in front — the \nwhole gi\\ang an idea of solemn state and dignity. \n\n\n422 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nThere was sometliing awful in the heavy rumbling of \nthe wheels. The coach rolled clown the street, till, \ncoming to the gateway of the deserted mansion, it \ndrew up, and the footman sprang to the gToimd. \n\n\" Whose grand coach is this ? \" asked a very in- \nquisitive body. \n\nThe footman made no reply, but ascended the steps \nof the old house, gave three raps with the iron ham- \nmer, and returned to open the coach door. An old \nman, possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that \nday, examined the shield of arms on the panel. \n\n\" Azure, a lion's head erased, between three flower- \nde-luces,\" said he; then whispered the name of the \nfamily to whom these bearings belonged. The last \ninheritor of his honors was recently dead, after a long \nresidence amid the splendor of the British court, where \nhis birth and wealth had given him no mean station. \n\" He left no child,\" continued the herald, \" and these \narms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the coach ap- \npertains to his widow.\" \n\nFurther disclosures, perhaps, might have been made, \nhad not the speaker suddenly been struck dumb by \nthe stern eye of an ancient lady who thrust forth her \nhead from the coach, preparing to descend. As she \nemerged, the people saw that her dress was magnifi- \ncent, and her figure dignified, in spite of age and in- \nfirmity — a stately ruin but with a look, at once, of \npride and wretchedness. Her strong and rigid feat- \nures had an awe about them, unlike that of the white \nOld Maid, but as of something evil. She passed up \nthe steps, leaning on a gold-headed cane ; the door \nswimg open as she ascended — and the light of a \ntorch glittered on the embroidery of her dress, and \ngleamed on the pillars of the porch. After a momen- \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. 423 \n\ntary pause — a glance backwards — and then a des- \nperate effort — she went in. The decipherer of the \ncoat of arms had ventured up the lowest step, and \nshrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous, af- \nfirmed that the torch was held by the very image of \nold Caesar. \n\n\" But such a hideous grin,\" added he, \" was never \nseen on the face of mortal man, black or white ! It \nwill haimt me till my dying day.\" \n\nMeantime, the coach had wheeled round, with a \nprodigious clatter on the pavement, and rumbled up \nthe street, disappearing in the twilight, wliile the ear \nstill tracked its course. Scarcely was it gone, when \nthe people began to question whether the coach and \nattendants, the ancient lady, the spectre of old Caesar, \nand the Old Maid herself, were not all a strangely \ncombined delusion, with some dark pui'port in its mys- \ntery. The whole town was astir, so that, ifistead of \ndispersing, the crowd continually increased, and stood \ngazing up at the windows of the mansion, now silvered \nby the brightening moon. The eldei's, glad to indulge \nthe narrative propensity of age, told of the long-faded \nsplendor of the family, the entertainments they had \ngiven, and the guests, the greatest of the land, and \neven titled and noble ones from abroad, who had \npassed beneath that portal. These graphic reminis- \ncences seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whom \nthey referred. So strong was the impression on some \nof the more imaginative hearers, that two or three \nwere seized with trembling fits, at one and the same \nmoment, protesting that they had distinctly heard \nthree other raps of the iron laiocker. \n\n\" Impossible ! \" exclaimed others. \" See ! The \nmoon shines beneath the porch, and shows every part \n\n\n424 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof it, except in the narrow shade of that pillar. There \nis no one there ! \" \n\n\" Did not the door open ? \" whispered one of these \nfanciful persons. \n\n\" Didst thou see it, too ? \" said his companion, in a \nstartled tone. \n\nBut the general sentiment was opposed to the idea \nthat a third visitant had made application at the door \nof the deserted house. A few, however, adhered to \nthis new marvel, and even declared that a red gleam \nlike that of a torch had shone through the great front \nwindow, as if the negro were lighting a guest up the \nstaircase. This, too, was pronounced a mere fantasy. \nBut at once the whole multitude started, and each \nman beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all \nthe rest. \n\n\" What an aw^ul thing is this ! \" cried they. \n\nA shriek too fearfully distinct for doubt had been \nheard within the mansion, breaking forth suddenly, \nand succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had \nburst in giving it utterance. The peoj)le knew not \nwhether to fly from the very sight of the house, or to \nrush trembling in, and search out the strange mys- \ntery. Amid their confusion and affright, they are \nsomewhat reassured by the appearance of their cler- \ngyman, a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, \nwho had taught them and their fathers the way to \nheaven for more than the space of an ordinary life- \ntime. He was a reverend figure, with long, wliite \nhair upon his shoulders, a white beard upon his breast, \nand a back so bent over his staff that he seemed to \nbe looking do\\Naiward continually, as if to choose a \nproper grave for his weary frame. It was some time \nbefore the good old man, being deaf and of impaired \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. 425 \n\nintellect, coiild be made to comprehend such portions \nof the affair as were compi-ehensible at all. But, \nwhen possessed of the facts, his energies assmned un- \nexpected vigor. \n\n\" Verily,\" said the old gentleman, \" it will be fitting \nthat I enter the mansion-house of the worthy Colonel \nFenwicke, lest any harm should have befallen that \ntrue Christian woman whom ve call the ' Old Maid \nin the Winding Sheet.' \" \n\nBehold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending the \nsteps of the mansion, with a torch-bearer behind him. \nIt was the elderly man who had spoken to the Old \nMaid, and the same who had afterwards explained the \nshield of arms and recognized the features of the ne- \ngro. Like their predecessors, they gave three raps \nwith the iron hammer. \n\n\" Old Csesar cometh not,\" observed the priest. \n\" Well I wot he no longer doth service in this man- \nsion. \n\n\" Assuredly, then, it was something worse, in old \nCaesar's likeness I \" said the other adventurer. \n\n\" Be it as God wills,\" answered the clergyman. \n\" See ! my strength, though it be much decayed, hath \nsufficed to open this heavy door. Let us enter and \npass up the staircase.\" \n\nHere occurred a singvdar exemplification of the \ndreamy state of a very old man's mind. As they \nascended the wide flight of stairs, the aged clergy- \nman appeared to move with caution, occasionally \nstandmg aside, and oftener bending his head, as it \nwere in salutation, thus practising all the gestm^es of \none who makes his way through a throng. Reaching \nthe head of the staircase, he looked aromid with sad \nand solenm benignity, laid aside bis staff, bared his \n\n\n426 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhoary locks, and was evidently on the point of com- \nmencing a prayer. \n\n\" Reverend Sir,\" said his attendant, who conceived \nthis a very suitable prelude to their further search, \n\" would it not be well that the people joia with us in \nprayer?\" \n\n\" Welladay ! \" cried the old clergyman, staring \nstrangely around him. \" Art thou here with me, \nand none other ? Verily, past times were present \nto me, and I deemed that I was to make a funeral \nprayer, as many a time heretofore, from the head of \nthis staircase. Of a truth, I saw the shades of many \nthat are gone. Yea, I have prayed at their burials, \none after another, and the ' Old Maid in the Winding \nSheet ' hath seen them to their graves ! \" \n\nBeing now more thoroughly awake to their present \npurpose, he took his staff and struck forcibly on the \nfloor, till there came an echo from each deserted cham- \nber, but no menial to answer their smnmons. They \ntherefore walked along the passage, and again paused, \nopposite to the great front window through which was \nseen the crowd, in the shadow and partial moonlight of \nthe street beneath. On their right hand was the open \ndoor of a chamber, and a closed one on their left. The \nclergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak panel of \nthe latter. \n\n\" Within that chamber,\" observed he, \" a whole \nlife-time since, did I sit by the death-bed of a goodly \nyoung man, who, being now at the last gasp \" — \n\nApparently there was some powerful excitement in \nthe ideas which had now flashed across Ms mind. He \nsnatched the torch from his companion's hand, and \nthrew open the door with such sudden violence that \nthe flame vvas extinguished, leaving them no other \n\n\nTHE WHITE OLD MAID. 427 \n\nlight than the moonbeams, which fell through two \nwindows into the spacious chamber. It was sufficient \nto discover all that could be known. In a high-backed \noaken arm-chair, upright, with her hands clasped \nacross her breast, and her head thrown back, sat the \n\"Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.\" The stately \ndame had fallen on her knees, with her forehead on \nthe holy knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the \nfloor and the other pressed conviUsively against her \nheart. It clutched a lock of hair, once sable, now dis- \ncolored with a greenish moidd. As the priest and lay- \nman advanced into the chamber, the Old Maid's feat- \nures assmned such a semblance of shifting expression \nthat they trusted to hear the whole mystery explained \nby a single word. But it was only the shadow of a \ntattered curtain waving betwixt the dead face and the \nmoonlight. \n\n\" Both dead ! \" said the venerable man. \" Then \nwho shall divulge the secret ? Methinks it glimmers \nto and fro in my mind, like the light and shadow \nacross the Old Maid's face. And now 't is gone I \" \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. \n\n\" And so, Peter, you won't even consider of the \nbusiness ? \" said Mr. John Bro^vn, buttoning his sur- \ntout over the snug rotundity of his person, and draw- \ning on his gloves. \" You positively refuse to let me \nhave this crazy old house, and th*^, land under and ad- \njoining, at the price named ? \" \n\n\" Neither at that, nor treble the sum,\"\" responded \nthe gaunt, grizzled, and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. \n\" The fact is, Mr. Brown, you must find another site \nfor your brick block, and be content to leave my es- \ntate with the present owner. Next summer, I intend \nto put a splendid new mansion over the cellar of the \nold house.\" \n\n\" Pho, Peter I \" cried Mr. Bro\\^Ti, as he opened the \nkitchen door ; \" content yourself with building castles \nin the air, where house-lots are cheaper than on earth, \nto say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar. Such \nfoundations are solid enough for your edifices, while \nthis imderneath us is just the thing for mine ; and so \nwe may both be suited. What say you again?\" \n\n\" Precisely what I said before, Mr. Brown,\" an- \nswered Peter Goldthwaite. \" And as for castles in \nthe air, mine may not be as magnificent as that sort of \narchitecture, but perhaps as substantial, Mr. Brown, \nas the very respectable brick block with dry goods \nstores, tailors' shops, and banking rooms on the lower \nfloor, and lawyers' offices in the second story, which \nyou are so anxious to substitute.\" \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWATTE'S TREASURE. 429 \n\n\" And the cost, Peter, eh?\" said Mr. Brown, as he \nwithdrew, in something of a pet. \"That, I suppose, \nwill be pro\\dded for, off-hand, by drawing a check on \nBubble Bank ! \" \n\nJohn Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly- \nknown to the commercial world between twenty and \nthirty years before, imder the firm of Goldthwaite & \nBrown ; which copartnership, however, was speedily \ndissolved by the natural ineongTiuty^ of its constituent \nparts. Since that event, John Brown, with exactly \nthe qualities of a thousand other John Browns, and by \njust such plodding methods as they used, had pros- \npered wonderfidly, and become one of the wealthiest \nJohn Browns on earth. Peter Goldthwaite, on the con- \ntrary, after innumerable schemes, which ought to have \ncollected all the coin and paper currency of the coun- \ntry into his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever \nwore a patch upon his elbow. The contrast between \nhim and his former partner may be briefly marked ; \nfor Brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had \nit ; while Peter made luck the main condition of his \nprojects, and always missed it. While the means held \nout, his speculations had been magnificent, but were \nchiefly confined, of late years, to such small business \nas adventures in the lottery. Once he had gone on \na gold-gathering expedition somewhere to the South, \nand ingeniously contrived to empty his pockets more \nthorouglily than ever ; while others, doubtless, were \nfilling theirs with native bullion by the handful. More \nrecently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or \ntwo of dollars in purchasing Mexican scrip, and \nthereby became the proprietor of a province ; which, \nhowever, so far as Peter could find out, was situated \nwhere he might have had an empire for the same \n\n\n430 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmoney, — in the clouds. From a search after this val- \nuable real estate Peter returned so gaunt and thread- \nbare that, on reaching New England, the scarecrows \nin the cornfields beckoned to liim, as he passed by. \n\"They did but flutter in the wind,\" quoth Peter \nGoldthwaite. No, Peter, they beckoned, for the scare- \ncrows knew their brother ! \n\nAt the period of our story his whole visible income \nwoidd not have paid the tax of the old mansion in \nwhich we find him. It was one of those rusty, moss- \ngrown, many-peaked wooden houses, which are scat- \ntered about the streets of our elder towns, with a \nbeetle-browed second story projecting over the foun- \ndation, as if it frowned at the novelty around it. This \nold paternal edifice, needy as he was, and though, \nbeing centrally situated on the principal street of the \ntown, it wovdd have brought liim a handsome sum, the \nsagacious Peter had liis own reasons for never parting \nwith, either by auction or private sale. There seemed, \nindeed, to be a fatality that connected liim with his \nbirthplace ; for, often as he had stood on the verge of \nruin, and standing there even now, he had not yet \ntaken the step beyond it which would have compelled \nhim to surrender the house to his creditors. So here \nhe dwelt with bad luck till good should come. \n\nHere then in his kitchen, the only room where a \nspark of fire took off the chill of a November even- \ning, poor Peter Goldthwaite had just been visited by \nhis rich old partner. At the close of theb inter\\T.ew, \nPeter, with rather a mortified look, glanced down- \nwards at liis dress, parts of which appeared as ancient \nas the days of Goldthwaite & Brown. His upper gar- \nment was a mixed surtout, wofully faded, and patched \nwith newer stuff on each elbow ; beneath this he wore \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 431 \n\na threadbare black coat, some of the silk buttons of \nwhich had been replaced with others of a different \npattern ; and lastly, though he lacked not a pair of \ngray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had \nbeen partially turned brown by the frequent toasting \nof Peter's shins before a scanty fire. Peter's person \nwas in keeping with his goodly apparel. Gray-headed, \nhollow-eyed, pale-cheeked, and lean-bodied, he was \nthe perfect picture of a man who had fed on \\vindy \nschemes and empty hopes, till he could neither live on \nsuch imwholesome trash, nor stomach more substantial \nfood. But, withal, this Peter Goldthwaite, crack- \nbrained simpleton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut \na very brilliant figure in the world, had he employed \nhis imagination in the airy business of poetry, instead \nof making it a demon of mischief in mercantile pur- \nsuits. After all, he was no bad fellow, but as harm- \nless as a child, and as honest and honorable, and as \nmuch of the gentleman which nature meant him for, \nas an irregular life and depressed circimistances will \npermit any man to be. \n\nAs Peter stood on the imeven bricks of his hearth, \nlooking round at the disconsolate old kitchen, his eyes \nbeean to kindle Avith the illumination of an enthusi- \nasm that never long deserted him. He raised his \nhand, clinched it, and smote it energetically against \nthe smoky panel over the fireplace. \n\n\"The time is come!\" said he. \"With such a \ntreasure at command, it were folly to be a poor man \nany longer. To-morrow morning I will begin with the \ngarret, nor desist till I have torn the house down ! \" \n\nDeep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark \ncavern, sat a little old woman, mending one of the \ntwo pairs of stockings wherewith Peter Goldthwaite \n\n\n432 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nkept his toes from being frostbitten. As the feet were \nragged past all darning, she had cut pieces ont of a \ncast-off flannel petticoat, to make new soles. Tabitha \nPorter was an old maid, upwards of sixty years of \nage, fifty-five of which she had sat in that same chim- \nney-corner, such being the length of time since Peter's \ngrandfather had taken her from the almshouse. She \nhad no friend but Peter, nor Peter any friend but \nTabitha ; so long as Peter might have a shelter for \nhis own head, Tabitha would know where to shelter \nhers ; or, being homoless elsewhere, she would take \nher master by the hand and bring him to her native \nhome, the almshouse. Should it ever be necessary, \nshe loved him well enough to feed him with her last \nmorsel, and clothe him with her under petticoat. But \nTabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never \ninfected with Peter's flightiness, had become so accus- \ntomed to his freaks and follies that she viewed them \nall as matters of course. Hearing him threaten to \ntear the house down, she looked quietly up from her \nwork. \n\n\" Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter,\" \nsaid she. \n\n\" The sooner we have it all down the better,\" said \nPeter Goldthwaite. \" I am tired to death of living \nin this cold, dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, \ndismal old house. I shall feel like a younger man \nwhen we get into my sj^lendid brick mansion, as, \nplease Heaven, we shall by this time next autumn. \nYou shall have a room on the sunny side, old Tabby, \nfinished and furnished as best may suit your own no- \ntions.\" \n\n\" I should like it pretty much such a room as this \nkitchen,\" answered Tabitha. \" It will never be like \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 433 \n\nhome to me till the chimney-corner gets as black with \nsmoke as this ; and that won't be these hundred years. \nHow much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr. \nPeter ? \" \n\n\" What is that to the purpose ? \" exclaimed Peter, \nloftily. \" Did not my great-grandmicle, Peter Gold- \nthwaite, who died seventy years ago, and whose name- \nsake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty \nsuch ? \" \n\n\" I can't say but he did, Mr. Peter,\" said Tabitha, \nthreading her needle. \n\nTabitha well understood that Peter had reference \nto an immense hoard of the precious metals, which \nwas said to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or \nunder the floors, or in some concealed closet, or other \nout-of-the-way nook of the house. This wealth, accord- \ning to tradition, had been accmnulated by a former \nPeter Goldthwaite, whose character seems to have \nborne a remarkable similitude to that of the Peter of \nour story. Like him he was a wild projector, seeking \nto heap up gold by the tushel and the cartload, in- \nstead of scraping it together, com by coin. Like \nPeter the second, too, liis projects had almost invaria- \nbly failed, and, but for the magnificent success of the \nfinal one, would have left him with hardly a coat and \npair of breeches to his gaunt and grizzled person. \nPeports were various as to the nature of his fortunate \nspecidation : one intimating that the ancient Peter had \nmade the gold by alchemy ; another, that he had con- \njured it out of people's pockets by the black art ; and \na third, still more unaccountable, that the devil had \ngiven him free access to the old provincial treasury. \nIt was affirmed, however, that some secret impediment \n\nhad debarred him from the enjoyment of his riches, \nVOL. I. as \n\n\n434 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand that he had a motive for concealing them from \nhis heir, or at any rate had died without disclosing the \nplace of deposit. The present Peter's father had faith \nenough in the story to cause the cellar to be dug over. \nPeter himself chose to consider the legend as an indis- \nputable truth, and, amid his many troubles, had this \none consolation that, should all other resources fail, \nhe might build up his fortunes by tearing his house \ndown. Yet, unless he felt a lurking distrust of the \ngolden tale, it is difficult to account for his permitting \nthe paternal roof to stand so long, since he had never \nyet seen the moment when his predecessor's treasure \nwould not have found plenty of room in his own strong \nbox. But now was the crisis. Should he delay the \nsearch a little longer, the house would pass from the \nlineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to re- \nmain in its burial-place, till the ruin of the aged walls \nshould discover it to strangers of a future generation. \n\n\" Yes ! \" cried Peter Goldthwaite, again, \" to-mor~ \nrow I will set about it.\" \n\nThe deeper he looked at the matter the more cer- \ntain of success grew Peter. His spirits were natur- \nally so elastic that even now, in the blasted autiunn of \nhis age, he coidd often compete with the spring-time \ngayety of other people. Enlivened by liis brightening \nprospects, he began to caper about the kitchen like a \nhobgoblin, with the queerest antics of his lean limbs, \nand gesticiilations of his starved features. Nay, in \nthe exuberance of his feelings, he seized both of Tab- \nitha's hands, and danced the old lady across the floor, \ntill the oddity of her rhemnatic motions set him into \na roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the \nrooms and chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaite were \nlaughing in every one. Finally he bounded upward. \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 435 \n\nalmost out of sight, into the smoke that clouded the \nroof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor \nagain, endeavored to resume his customary gravity. \n\n\" To-morrow, at sunrise,\" he repeated, taking his \nlamp to retire to bed, \" I '11 see whether this treasure \nbe hid in the wall of the garret.\" \n\n\" And as we 're out of wood, Mr. Peter,\" said Tab- \nitha, puffing and panting with her late gymnastics, \n\" as fast as yovi tear the house down, I '11 make a fire \nwith the pieces.\" \n\nGorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter \nGoldthwaite I At one time he was turning a ponder- \nous key in an iron door not unlike the door of a \nsepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vaidt \nheaped up with gold coin, as plentifully as golden corn \nin a granary. There were chased goblets, also, and \ntureens, salvers, dinner dishes, and dish covers of gold, \nor silver gilt, besides chains and other jewels, incalcu- \nlably rich, though tarnished with the damps of the \nvault ; for, of all the wealth that was irrevocably lost \nto man, whether buried in the earth or svmken in the \nsea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this one treas- \nure-place. Anon, he had returned to the old house \nas poor as ever, and was received at the door by the \ngaimt and ginzzled figure of a man whom he might \nhave mistaken for himself, only that his garments \nwere of a much elder fasliion. But the house, with- \nout losing its former aspect, had been changed into a \npalace of the precious metals. The floors, walls, and \nceiling were of burnished silver ; the doors, the win- \ndow frames, the cornices, the balustrades, and the \nsteps of the staircase, of pure gold ; and silver, with \ngold bottoms, were the chairs, and gold, standing on \nsilver legs, the high chests of drawers, and silver the \n\n\n436 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbedsteads, ^\\dth blankets of woven gold, and sheets of \nsilver tissue. The house had eAddently been trans- \nmuted by a single touch ; for it retained all the marks \nthat Peter remembered, but in gold or silver instead \nof wood ; and the initials of liis name, which, when a \nboy, he had cut in the wooden door-post, remained as \ndeep in the pillar of gold. A happy man would have \nbeen Peter Goldthwaite except for a certain ocular \ndeception, which, whenever he glanced backwards, \ncaused the house to darken from its glittering mag- \nnificence into the sordid gloom of yesterday. \n\nUp, betimes, rose Peter, seized an axe, hammer, \nand saw, which he had placed by his bedside, and \nhied him to the garret. It was but scantily lighted \nup, as yet, by the frosty fragments of a sunbeam, \nwhich began to glimmer through the almost opaque \nbull's-eyes of the window. A moralizer might find \nabundant themes for his specidative and impracticable \nwisdom in a garret. There is the limbo of departed \nfashions, aged trifles of a day, and whatever was valu- \nable only to one generation of men, and which passed \nto the garret when that generati <)n passed to the grave, \nnot for safe keeping, but to be out of the way. Peter \nsaw piles of yellow and musty account-books, in parch- \nment covers, wherein creditors, long dead and buried, \nhad written the names of dead and buried debtors in \nink now so faded that their moss-growTi tombstones \nwere more legible. He found old moth-eaten gar- \nments all in rags and tatters, or Peter woidd have put \nthem on. Here was a naked and rusty sword, not a \nsword of service, but a gentleman's small French \nrapier, which had never left its scabbard till it lost it. \nHere were canes of twenty different sorts, but no \ngold-headed ones, and shoe-buckles of various pattern \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 437 \n\nand material, but not silver nor set with precious \nstones. Here was a large box full of shoes, with high \nheels and peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a mul- \ntitude of phials, half-filled with old apothecaries' stuff, \nwhich, when the other half had done its business on \nPeter's ancestors, had been brought hither from the \ndeath chamber. Here — not to give a longer inven- \ntory of articles that will never be put up at auction — \nwas the fragment of a fidl-length looking-glass, which, \nby the dust and dimness of its surface, made the pict- \nure of these old things look older than the reality. \nWhen Peter, not knoAving that there was a mirror \nthere, caught the faint traces of liis own figure, he \npartly imagined that the former Peter Goldthwaite \nhad come back, either to assist or impede his search \nfor the hidden wealth. And at that moment a strange \nnotion glimmered through his brain that he was the \nidentical Peter who had concealed the gold, and ought \nto know whereabout it lay. Tliis, however, he had \nunacountably forgotten. \n\n\" Well, Mr. Peter ! \" cried Tabitha, on the garret \nstairs. \" Have you torn the house down enough to \nheat the teakettle ? \" \n\n\"Not yet, old Tabby,\" answered Peter ; \"but that's \nsoon done — as you shall see.\" \n\nWith the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, \nand laid about him so vigorously that the dust flew, \nthe boards crashed, and, in a twinkling, the old woman \nhad an apron full of broken rubbish. \n\n\" We shall get our winter's wood cheap,\" quoth \nTabitha. \n\nThe good work being thus commenced, Peter beat \ndown all before him, smiting and hewing at the joists \nand timbers, imclinching spike-nails, ripping and tear- \n\n\n438 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ning away boards, -wdtli a tremendous racket, from \nmorning till night. He took care, however, to leave \nthe outside shell of the house untouched, so that the \nneighbors might not suspect what was going on. \n\nNever, in any of his vagaries, though each had \nmade him happy while it lasted, had Peter been hap- \npier than now. Perhaps, after all, there was some- \nthing in Peter Goldthwaite's turn of mind, which \nbrought him an inward recompense for all the exter- \nnal evil that it caused. If he were poor, ill-clad, even \nhungry, and exposed, as it were, to be utterly annihi- \nlated by a precipice of impending ruin, yet only his \nbody remained in these miserable circumstances, while \nhis aspiring soid enjoyed the simshine of a bright fu- \nturity. It was his nature to be always yoimg, and \nthe tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. Gray \nhairs vv^ere notliing, no, nor wrinkles, nor infirmity ; \nhe might look old, indeed, and be somewhat disagree- \nably connected with a gaunt old figure, much the \nworse for wear ; but the true, the essential Peter was \na yomig man of liigh hopes, just entering on the world. \nAt the kindling of each new fire, his burnt-out youth \nrose afresh from the old embers and ashes. It rose \nexulting now. Having lived thus long — not too long, \nbut just to the right age — a susceptible bachelor, with \nwarm and tender dreams, he resolved, so soon as the \nhidden gold should flash to light, to go a-wooing, and \nwin the love of the fairest maid in town. What heart \ncould resist him ? Happy Peter Goldthwaite ! \n\nEvery evening — as Peter had long absented him- \nseK from his former lounging-places, at insurance offi- \nces, news-rooms, and bookstores, and as the honor of \nhis company was seldom requested in private circles \n— he and Tabitha used to sit down sociably by the \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE, 439 \n\nkitchen hearth. This was always heaped plentifully \nwith the rubbish of his day's labor. As the founda- \ntion of the fire, there woidd be a goodly-sized backlog \nof red oak, which, after being sheltered from rain or \ndamp above a century, still hissed with the heat, and \ndistilled streams of water from each end, as if the tree \nhad been cut down within a week or two. Next these \nwere large sticks, soimd, black, and heavy, which had \nlost the principle of decay, and were indestructible ex- \ncept by fire, wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of \niron. On this solid basis, Tabitha woidd rear a lighter \nstructure, composed of the splinters of door panels, \nornamented mouldings, and such quick combustibles, \nwhich caught like straw, and threw a brilliant blaze \nhigh up the spacious flue, making its sooty sides visi- \nble almost to the chimney-top. Meantime, the gleam \nof the old kitchen would be chased out of the cob \nwebbed corners, and away from the dusky cross-beams \noverhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while \nPeter smiled like a gladsome man, and Tabitha seemed \na picture of comfortable age. All tliis, of course, was \nbut an emblem of the bright fortune which the de- \nstruction of the house would shed upon its occupants. \n\nWhile the dry pine -was flaming and crackling, like \nan irregular discharge of fairy musketry, Peter sat \nlooking and listening, in a pleasant state of excite- \nment. But, when the brief blaze and uproar were suc- \nceeded by the dark-red glow, 'the substantial heat, and \nthe deep singing sound, which were to last through- \nout the evening, his humor became talkative. One \nnight, the himdredth time, he teased Tabitha to tell \nhim something new about his great-granduncle. \n\n\" You have been sitting in that chimney-corner \nfifty-five years, old Tabby, and must have heard ms.ny \n\n\n440 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\na tradition about him,\" said Peter. \" Did not you \ntell me that, when you first came to the house, there \nwas an old woman sitting where you sit now, who had \nbeen housekeeper to the famous Peter Goldthwaite ? \" \n\n\" So there was, Mr. Peter,\" answered Tabitha, \" and \nshe was near about a himdred years old. She used to \nsay that she and old Peter Goldthwaite had often spent \na sociable evening by the kitchen fire — pretty much \nas you and I are doing now, Mr. Peter.\" \n\n\" The old fellow must have resembled me in more \npoints than one,\" said Peter, complacently, \"or he \nnever would have grown so rich. But, methinks, he \nmight have invested the money better than he did — \nno interest ! — nothing but good security ! — and the \nhouse to be torn down to come at it ! What made \nhim hide it so snug, Tabby ? \" \n\n\"Because he could not spend it,\" said Tabitha; \n\"for as often as he went to unlock the chest, the \nOld Scratch came behind and caught his arm. The \nmoney, they say, was paid Peter out of his purse ; and \nhe wanted Peter to give him a deed of this house and \nland, which Peter swore he would not do.\" \n\n\" Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner,\" \nremarked Peter. \" But this is all nonsense, Tabby ! \nI don't believe the story.\" \n\n\" Well, it may not be just the truth,\" said Tabitha ; \n\"for some folks say that Peter did make over the \nhouse to the Old Scratch, and that's the reason it \nhas always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. \nAnd as soon as Peter had given him the deed, the \nchest flew open, and Peter caught up a handful of the \ngold. But, lo and behold ! — there was nothing in his \nfist but a parcel of old rags.\" \n\n\" Hold yoirr tongue, you silly old Tabby ! \" cried \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 441 \n\nPeter in great wrath. \" They were as good golden \nguineas as ever bore the effigies of the king of Eng- \nland. It seems as if I could recollect the whole cir- \nciunstance, and how I, or old Peter, or whoever it was, \nthrust in my hand, or his hand, and drew it out all of \na blaze with gold. Old rags, indeed ! \" \n\nBut it was not an old woman's legend that would \ndiscourage Peter Goldthwaite. All night long he \nslept among pleasant dreams, and awoke at daylight \nwith a joyous throb of the heart, which few are for- \ntimate enough to feel beyond their boyhood. Day \nafter day he labored hard without wasting a moment, \nexcept at meal times, when Tabitha simimoned him to \nthe pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance as she \nhad picked up, or Providence had sent them. Being a \ntruly pious man, Peter never failed to ask a blessing ; \nif the food w^ere none of the best, then so much the \nmore earnestly, as it was more needed ; — nor to re- \nturn thanks, if the dinner had been scanty, yet for the \ngood appetite, which was better than a sick stomach \nat a feast. Then did he hurry back to his toil, and, in \na moment, was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from \nthe old walls, though sufficiently perceptible to the ear \nby the clatter which he raised in the midst of it. How \nenviable is the consciousness of being usefully em- \nployed ! Nothing troubled Peter ; or nothing but \nthose phantoms of the mind which seem like vague \nrecollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. \nHe often pavised, with his axe uplifted in the air, and \nsaid to himself, — \" Peter Goldthwaite, did you never \nstrike this blow before ? \" — or, \" Peter, what need of \ntearing the whole house dowTi ? Think a little while, \nand you will remember where the gold is hidden.\" \nPays and weeks passed on, however, without any re- \n\n\n442 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmarkable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a lean, gray \nrat peeped forth at the lean, gray man, wondering \nwhat devil had got into the old house, which had al- \nways been so peaceable till now. And, occasionally, \nPeter sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse, \nwho had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and \ndelicate young ones into the world just in time to \nsee them crushed by its ruin. But, as yet, no treas- \nure! \n\nBy this time, Peter, being as determined as Fate \nand as diligent as Time, had made an end with the \nuppermost regions, and got down to the second story, \nwhere he was busy in one of the front chambers. It \nhad formerly been the state bed-chamber, and was \nhonored by tradition as the sleeping apartment of \nGovernor Dudley, and many other eminent guests. \nThe furniture was gone. There were remnants of \nfaded and tattered paper-hangings, but larger spaces \nof bare wall ornamented with charcoal sketches, cliiefly \nof people's heads m profile. These being specimens of \nPeter's youthful genius, it went more to liis heart to \nobliterate them than if they had been pictures on a \nchurch wall by Michael Angelo. One sketch, how- \never, and that the best one, affected liim differently. \nIt represented a ragged man, partly supporting him- \nself on a spade, and bending his lean body over a hole \nin the earth, with one hand extended to grasp some- \ntliing that he had found. But close behind hun, with \na fiendish laugh on his features, appeared a figure with \nhorns, a tufted tail, and a cloven hoof. \n\n\" Avaimt, Satan ! \" cried Peter. \" The man shall \nhave his gold ! \" \n\nUplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such \na blow on the head as not only demolished him, but \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE, 443 \n\nthe treasure-seeker also, and caused the whole scene to \nvanish like magic. Moreover, his axe broke quite \nthrough the plaster and laths, and discovered a cavity. \n\n\" Mercy on us, Mr. Peter, are you quarrelling with \nthe Old Scratch ? \" said Tabitha, who was seeking \nsome fuel to put imder the pot. \n\nWithout answering the old woman, Peter broke \ndown a fiu'ther space of the wall, and laid open a \nsmall closet or cupboard, on one side of the fireplace, \nabout breast high from the ground. It contained \nnothing but a brass lamp, covered with verdigris, and \na dusty piece of parchment. While Peter inspected \nthe latter, Tabitha seized the lamp, and began to rub \nit with her apron. \n\n\" There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha,\" said Peter. \n\" It is not Aladdin's lamp, though I take it to be a \ntoken of as much luck. Look here, Tabby ! \" \n\nTabitha took the parclunent and held it close to her \nnose, which was saddled with a pair of iron-bound spec- \ntacles. But no sooner had she began to puzzle over it \nthan she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding both \nher hands against her sides. \n\n\" You can't make a fool of the old woman I \" cried \nshe. \" This is your o^ti handwriting, Mr. Peter I the \nsame as in the letter you sent me from Mexico.\" \n\n\" There is certainly a considerable resemblance,\" \nsaid Peter, again examining the parclunent. \" But \nyou know yourself, Tabby, that this closet must have \nbeen plastered up before you came to the house, or I \ncame into the world. Xo, this is old Peter Gold- \nthwaite's WTiting ; these columns of pounds, shillings, \nand pence are his figures, denoting the amount of the \ntreasure ; and this at the bottom is, doubtless, a refer- \nence to the place of concealment. But the ink has \n\n\n444 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\neither faded or peeled off, so that it is absolutely illeg- \nible. What a pity!\" \n\n\" Well, this lamp is as good as new. That 's some \ncomfort,\" said Tabitha. \n\n\" A lamp ! \" thought Peter. \" That indicates light \non my researches.\" \n\nFor the present, Peter felt more inclined to ponder \non this discovery than to resume his labors. After \nTabitha had gone down stairs, he stood poring over \nthe parchment, at one of the front windows, which \nwas so obscured Avith dust that the smi could barely \nthrov/ an uncertain shadow of the casement across the \nfloor. Peter forced it open, and looked out upon the \ngreat street of the town, while the sun looked in at his \nold house. The air, though mild, and even warm, \nthrilled Peter as with a dash of water. \n\nIt was the first day of the January thaw. The snow \nlay deep upon the house-tops, but was rapidly dissolv- \ning into millions of water-drops, which sparkled down- \nwards through the sunshine, with the noise of a sum- \nmer shower beneath the eaves. Along the street, the \ntrodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement of \nwhite marble, and had not yet gro\\vn moist in the \nspring-like temperature. But when Peter thrust forth \nhis head, he saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, \nwere already thawed out by this warm day, after two \nor three weeks of winter weather. It gladdened him \n— a gladness with a sigh breathing through it — to \nsee the stream of ladies, gliding along the slippery \nsidewalks, with their red cheeks set off by quilted \nhoods, boas, and sable capes, like roses amidst a new \nkind of foliage. The sleigh-bells jingled to and fro \ncontinually : sometimes announcing the arrival of a \nsleigh from Vermont, laden with the frozen bodies oi \n\n\nPETER GOLDTH WAITERS TREASURE. 445 \n\n] workers, or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two ; some- \ntimes of a regular market-man, with chickens, geese, \nand turkeys, comprising the whole colony of a barn \nyard ; and sometimes of a farmer and his dame, who \nhad come to town partly for the ride, partly to go \na-shopping, and partly for the sale of some eggs and \nbutter. This couple rode in an old-fashioned square \nsleigh, which had served them twenty winters, and \nstood twenty summers in the sun beside their door. \nNow, a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in an \nelegant car, shaped somewhat like a cockle-shell. \nNow, a stage-sleigh, \\vith its cloth curtains thrust aside \nto admit the sun, dashed rapidly down the street, \nwhirling in and out among the vehicles that obstructed \nits passage. Now came, round a corner, the similitude \nof Noah's ark on runners, being an immense open \nsleigh with seats for fifty people, and drawTi by a \ndozen horses. This spacious receptacle was populous \nwith merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls \nand boys, and merry old folks, all alive with fmi, and \ngrinning to the full \\vidth of their mouths. They kept \nup a buzz of babbling voices and low laughter, and \nsometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout, which the \nspectators answered with three cheers, while a gang \nof roguish boys let drive their snowballs right among \nthe pleasure party. The sleigh passed on, and, when \nconcealed by a bend of the street, was still audible by \na distant cry of merriment. \n\nNever had Peter beheld a livelier scene than was \nconstituted by all these accessories : the bright sun, \nthe flashing water-drops, the gleaming snow, the cheer- \nful midtitude, the variety of rapid vehicles, and the \njingle jangle of merry bells which made the heart \ndance to their music. Nothing dismal was to be seen, \n\n\n446 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nexcept that peaked piece of antiquity, Peter Gold- \nthwaite's house, which might well look sad externally, \nsince such a terrible consumption was preying on its \ninsides. And Peter's gaunt figure, half visible in the \nprojecting second story, was worthy of his house. \n\n\" Peter ! How goes it, friend Peter? \" cried a voice \nacross the street, as Peter was drawing in his head. \n\" Look out here, Peter ! \" \n\nPeter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John \nBrown, on the opposite sidewalk, portly and comforta- \nble, with his furred cloak thrown open, disclosing a \nhandsome surtout beneath. His voice had directed \nthe attention of the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite's \nwindow, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared \nat it. \n\n\" I say, Peter,\" cried Mr. Brown again, \" what the \ndevil are you about there, that I hear such a racket \nwhenever I pass by ? You are repairing the old \nhouse, I suppose, — making a new one of it, — eh ? \" \n\n\" Too late for that, I am afraid, Mr. BrowTi,\" re- \nplied Peter. \" If I make it new, it will be new in- \nside and out, from the cellar upwards.\" \n\n\" Had not you better let me take the job ? \" said \nMr. Brown, significantly. \n\n\" Not yet ! \" answered Peter, hastily shutting the \nwindow ; for, ever since he had been in search of the \ntreasure, he hated to have people stare at him. \n\nAs he drew back, ashamed of his outward povert}', \nyet proud of the secret wealth within his grasp, a \nhaughty smile shone out on Peter's visage, with pre- \ncisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid \nchamber. He endeavored to assmne such a mien as \nhis ancestor had probably worn, when he gloried in \nthe building of a strong house for a home to many \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 447 \n\ngenerations of Ids posterity. But the chamber was \nvery dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very dismal \ntoo, in contrast with the living scene that he had just \nlooked upon. His brief glimpse into the street had \ngiven him a forcible impression of the manner in \nwhich the world kept itself cheerful and prosperous, \nby social pleasures and an intercourse of business, \nwhile he, in seclusion, was pursuing an object that \nmight possibly be a phantasm, by a method which \nmost people would call madness. It is one great ad- \nvantage of a gregarious mode of life that each person \nrectifies his mind by other minds, and squares his con- \nduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost \nin eccentricity. Peter Goldthwaite had exposed him- \nself to this influence by merely looking out of the \nwindow. For a wliile, he doubted whether there were \nany hidden chest of gold, and, in that case, whether \nhe was so exceedingly wise to tear the house down, \nonly to be convinced of its non-existence. \n\nBut this was momentary. Peter, the Destroyer, \nresmned the task which fate had assigned him, nor \nfaltered again till it was accomplished. In the course \nof his search, he met Avith many things that are usually \nfound in the ruins of an old house, and also mth some \nthat are not. What seemed most to the purpose was \na rusty key, which had been thrust into a cliink of the \nwall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, \nbearing the initials, P. G. Another singidar discovery \nwas that of a bottle of wine, walled up in an old oven. \nA tradition ran in the family, that Peter's grand- \nfather, a jo\\ial officer in the old French War, had set \naside mau}'^ dozens of the precious liquor for the ben- \nefit of topers then unborn. Peter needed no cordial to \nsustain his hopes, and therefore kept the wine to glad- \n\n\n448 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nden his success. Many halfpence did he pick up, that \nhad been lost through the cracks of the floor, and \nsome few Spanish coins, and the half of a broken six- \npence, which had doubtless been a love token. There \nwas likewise a silver coronation medal of George the \nThird. But old Peter Goldthwaite's strong box fled \nfrom one dark corner to another, or otherwise eluded \nthe second Peter's clutches, till, should he seek much \nfarther, he must burrow into the earth. \n\nWe will not follow him in his triumphant progress, \nstep by step. Suffice it that Peter worked like a \nsteam-engine, and finished, in that one winter, the job \nwhich all the former inhabitants of the house, with \ntime and the elements to aid them, had only half done \nin a century. Except the kitchen, every room and \nchamber was now gutted. The house was nothing but \na shell, — the apparition of a house, — as unreal as the \npainted edifices of a theatre. It was like the perfect \nrind of a great cheese, in which a mouse had dwelt \nand nibbled till it was a cheese no more. And Peter \nwas the mouse. \n\nWhat Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burned \nup ; for she wisely considered that, Avithout a house, \nthey should need no wood to warm it ; and therefore \neconomy was nonsense. Thus the whole house might \nbe said to have dissolved in smoke, and flown up \namong the clouds, through the great black flue of the \nkitchen chimney. It was an admirable parallel to \nthe feat of the man who jumped down his own throat. \n\nOn the night between the last day of winter and \nthe first of spring, every chink and cranny had been \nransacked, except within the precincts of the kitchen. \nThis fated evening was an ugly one. A snow-storm \nhad set in some hours before, and was still driven \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 449 \n\nand tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane, \nwhich fought against the house as if the prince of the \nair, in person, were putting the final stroke to Peter's \nlabors. The framework being so much weakened, \nand the inward props removed, it would have been no \nmarvel if, in some stronger wrestle of the blast, the \nrotten walls of the edifice, and all the peaked roofs, \nhad come crushing down upon the o^vner's head. He, \nhowever, was careless of the peril, but as wild and rest- \nless as the night itself, or as the flame that quivered \nup the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous wind. \n\n\" The wine, Tabitha ! \" he cried. \" My grandfather's \nrich old wine ! We will drink it now I \" \n\nTabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in \nthe chimney-corner, and placed the bottle before Pe- \nter, close beside the old brass lamp, which had like- \nwise been the prize of his researches. Peter held it \nbefore his eyes, and, looking through the liquid me- \ndiiun, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden \nglory, which also enveloped Tabitha and gilded her \nsilver hair, and converted her mean garments into \nrobes of queenly splendor. It reminded him of his \ngolden dream. \n\n\"Mr. Peter,\" remarked Tabitha, \"must the wine \nbe drunk before the money is found ? \" \n\n\" The money is found ! \" exclaimed Peter, with a \nsort of fierceness. \" The chest is within my reach. I \nwill not sleep, till I have turned this key in the rusty \nlock. But, first of all, let us drink ! \" \n\nThere bemo- no corkscrew in the house, he smote \nthe neck of the bottle \\\\dth old Peter Goldthwaite's \nrusty key, and- decapitated the sealed cork at a single \nblow. He then filled two little china teacups, which \nTabitha had brought from the cupboard. So clear \n\nVOL. I. 29 \n\n\n450 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within \nthe cups, and rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers, at \nthe bottom of each, more distinctly visible than when \nthere had been no mne there. Its rich and delicate \nperfume wasted itself roimd the kitchen. \n\n\" Drink, Tabitha ! \" cried Peter. \" Blessings on the \nhonest old fellow who set aside this good liquor for \nyou and me ! And here 's to Peter Goldthwaite's \nmemory ! \" \n\n\" And good cause have we to remember him,\" quoth \nTabitha, as she drank. \n\nHow many years, and through what changes of \nfortiuie and various calamity, had that bottle hoarded \nup its effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two \nsuch boon companions ! A portion of the haj)piness \nof the former age had been kept for them, and was \nnow set free, in a crowd of rejoicing visions, to sport \namid the storm and desolation of the present time. \nUntil they have finished the bottle, we must turn our \neyes elsewhere. \n\nIt so chanced that, on this stormy night, Mr. John \nBrown found himself iU at ease in his wire-cushioned \narm-chair, by the glowing grate of anthracite wliich \nheated his handsome parlor. He was naturally a good \nsort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the mis- \nfortunes of others happened to reach his heart through \nthe padded vest of liis own prosperity. This evening \nhe had thought much about his old partner, Peter \nGoldthwaite, his strange vagaries, and continual ill \nluck, the poverty of liis dwelling, at Mr. Brown's last \nvisit, and Peter's crazed and haggard aspect when he \nhad talked with him at the window. \n\n\" Poor fellow ! \" thought Mr. John Brown. \" Poor, \ncrackbrained Peter Goldthwaite ! For old acquaint- \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 451 \n\nance' sake, I ought to have taken care that he was \ncomfoi-tahle this rough winter.\" \n\nThese feelings gTew so powerful that, in spite of \nthe inclement weather, he resolved to visit Peter \nGoldthwaite immediately. The strength of the im- \npulse was really singular. Every shriek of the blast \nseemed a summons, or would have seemed so, had Mr. \nBrown been accustomed to hear the echoes of his own \nfancy in the wind. Much amazed at such active be- \nnevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak, muffled his \nthroat and ears in comforters and handkercliiefs, and, \nthus fortified, bade defiance to the tempest. But the \npowers of the air had rather the best of the battle. \nMr. Brown was just weathering the corner, by Peter \nGoldthwaite's house, when the hiu-ricane caught him \noff his feet, tossed him face dowaiward into a snow \nbank, and proceeded to biu-y his protuberant j^art be- \nneath fresh drifts. There seemed little hope of his \nreappearance earlier than the next thaw. At the \nsame moment his hat was snatched away, and whirled \naloft into some far distant region, whence no tidings \nhave as yet returned. \n\nNevertheless Mr. Bro^m contrived to burrow a pas- \nsage through the snow-drift, and, with his bare head \nbent against the storm, floundered onward to Peter's \ndoor. There was such a creaking and groaning and \nrattling, and such an ominous shaking throughout the \ncrazy edifice, that the loudest rap would have been \ninaudible to those wdthin. He therefore entered, with- \nout ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen. \n\nHis intrusion, even there, was unnoticed. Peter and \nTabitha stood with their backs to the door, stoojiing \nover a large chest, which, apparently, they had just \ndragged from a cavity, or concealed closet, on the left \n\n\n452 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nside of the chimney. By the lamp in the old woman's \nhand, Mr. Brown saw that the chest was barred and \nclamped with iron, strengthened with iron plates and \nstudded with iron nails, so as to be a fit receptacle ia \nwhich the wealth of one century might be hoarded up \nfor the wants of another. Peter Goldthwaite was in- \nserting a key into the lock. \n\n\" O Tabitha ! \" cried he, with tremidous rapture, \n\" how shall I endure the effulgence ? The gold ! — \nthe bright, bright gold ! Methinks I can remember \nmy last glance at it, just as the iron-plated lid fell \ndown. And ever since, being seventy years, it has \nbeen blazing in secret, and gathering its splendor \nagainst this glorious moment ! It will flash upon us \nlike the noonday sun ! \" \n\n\" Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter ! \" said Tabitha, \nwith somewhat less patience than usual. \" But, for \nmercy's sake, do turn the key ! \" \n\nAnd, with a strong effort of both hands, Peter did \nforce the rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty \nlock. Mr. Brown, in the mean time, had drawn near, \nand thrust his eager visage between those of the other \ntwo, at the instant that Peter threw up the lid. No \nsudden blaze illuminated the kitchen. \n\n\" What 's here ? \" exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her \nspectacles, and holding the lamp over the open chest. \n\" Old Peter Goldthwaite's hoard of old rags.\" \n\n\" Pretty much so. Tabby,\" said Mr. BrowTi, lifting \na handful of the treasure. \n\nOh, what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had \nPeter Goldthwaite raised, to scare liimself out of his \nscanty wits withal I Here was the semblance of an \nincalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town, \nand build every street anew, but which, vast as it was, \n\n\nPETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 453 \n\nno sane man would have given a solid sixpence for. \nWhat then, in sober earnest, were the delusive treas- \nures of the chest ? Why, here were old pro\\aneial \nbills of credit, and treasury notes, and bills of land, \nbanks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first \nissue, above a century and a half ago, down nearly \nto the Revolution. Bills of a thousand poimds were \nintermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more \nthan they. \n\n\"And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite's treas- \nure ! \" said John Brown. \" Your namesake, Peter, \nwas something like yourself ; and, when the jDrovincial \ncurrency had depreciated fifty or seventy-five per cent., \nhe bought it up in expectation of a rise. I have heard \nmy grandfather say that old Peter gave his father a \nmortgage of this very house and land, to raise cash for \nhis silly project. But the currency kept sinking, till \nnobody woidd take it as a gift ; and there was old \nPeter Goldthwaite, like Peter the second, with thou- \nsands in his strong box and hardly a coat to his back. \nHe went mad upon the strength of it. But, never \nmind, Peter I It is just the sort of capital for build- \ning castles in the air.\" \n\n\" The house will be down about our ears ! \" cried \nTabitha, as the mnd shook it with increasing violence. \n\n\" Let it fall ! \" said Peter, folding his arms, as he \nseated himself upon the chest. \n\n\" No, no, my old friend Peter,\" said John Brown. \n\" I have house room for you and Tabby, and a safe \nvault for the chest of treasure. To-morrow we will \ntry to come to an agreement about the sale of this \nold house. Real estate is well up, and I covdd afford \nyou a pretty handsome price.\" \n\n\" And I,\" observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviv- \n\n\n454 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ning spirits, \"have a plan for laying out tlie cash to \ngreat advantage.\" \n\n\" Why, as to that,\" muttered John Brown to him- \nseK, \" we must apply to the next court for a guardian \nto take care of the solid cash ; and if Peter insists \nupon speculating, he may do it, to his heart's content, \nwith old Peter Goldthwaite's Treasure.\" \n\n\nCHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. \n\nPassing a summer, several years since, at Edgar- \ntown, on the island of Martha's Vineyard, I became \nacquainted ^^dth a certain carver of tombstones, who \nhad travelled and voyaged thither from the interior of \nMassachusetts, in search of professional employment. \nThe speculation had tiu*ned out so successfid that my \nfriend expected to transmute slate and marble into \nsilver and gold, to the amount of at least a thousand \ndollars, during the few months of his sojourn at Nan- \ntucket and the Vineyard. The secluded life, and the \nsimple and prmiitive spirit wliich still characterizes \nthe inhabitants of those islands, especially of Martha's \nVineyard, insure their dead friends a longer and dearer \nremembrance than the daily novelty and revohdng bus- \ntle of the world can elsewhere afford to beings of the \npast. Yet while every family is anxious to erect a me- \nmorial to its departed members, the imtaiuted breath \nof ocean bestows such health and length of days upon \nthe people of the isles, as woidd cause a melancholy \ndearth of business to a resident artist in that line. \nHis own monument, recording his death by starva- \ntion, would probably be an early specimen of his skill. \nGravestones, therefore, have generally been an article \nof imported merchandise. • \n\nIn my walks through the burial-gTound of Edgar- \ntown — where the dead have lain so long that the soil, \nonce enriched by their decay, has returned to its orig- \ninal barrenness — La that ancient burial-ground I no- \n\n\n456 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nticed much variety of monumental sculpture. The \nelder stones, dated a century back or more, have bor- \nders elaborately carved with flowers, and are adorned \nwith a multiplicity of death's heads, cross-bones, scythes, \nhour-glasses, and other lugubrious emblems of mortal- \nity, with here and there a winged cherub to direct the \nmourner's spirit upward. These productions of Gothic \ntaste must have been quite beyond the colonial skill \nof the day, and were probably carved in London, and \nbrousfht across the ocean to commemorate the defmict \nworthies of this lonely isle. The more recent monu- \nments are mere slabs of slate, in the ordinary style, \nwithout any superfluous flourishes to set off the bald \ninscriptions. But others — and those far the most im- \npressive both to my taste and feelings — were roughly \nhev/n from the gray rocks of the island, evidently by \nthe unskilled hands of surviving friends and relatives. \nOn some there were merely the initials of a name ; \nsome were inscribed with misspelt prose or rhyme, in \ndeep letters, which the moss and wintry rain of many \nyears had not been able to obliterate. These, these \nwere graves where loved ones slept ! It is an old \ntheme of satire, the falsehood and vanity of monu- \nmental eulogies ; but when affection and sorrow grave \nthe letters with their own painf id labor, then we may \nbe sure that they copy from the record on their hearts. \nMy acquaintance, the sculptor, — he may share that \ntitle with Greenough, since the dauber of signs is a \npainter as well as Eaphael, — had found a ready mar- \nket for all his blatik slabs of marble, and full occupa- \ntion in lettering and ornamenting them. He was an \nelderly man, a descendant of the old Puritan family \nof Wigglesworth, with a certain simplicity and single- \nness both of heart and mind, which, methinks, is more \n\n\nCHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 457 \n\nrarely found among us Yankees than in any other \ncommunity of people. In spite of his gray head and \nwrinkled brow, he was quite like a child in all matters \nsave what had some reference to his own business ; he \nseemed, unless my fancy misled me, to \\dew mankind \nin no other relation than as people in want of tomb- \nstones ; and his literary attainments e\\adently compre- \nhended very little, either of prose or poetry, which \nhad not, at one time or other, been inscribed on \nslate or marble. His sole task and office among the \nimmortal pilgrims of the tomb — the duty for which \nProvidence had sent the old man into the world as it \nwere with a chisel in his hand — was to label the dead \nbodies, lest their names should be forgotten at the \nresurrection. Yet he had not failed, within a narrow \nscope, to gather a few sprigs of eartlily, and more than \nearthly, wisdom, — the harvest of many a grave. \n\nAnd lugubrious as his calling might appear, he was \nas cheerful an old soul as health and integrity and \nlack of care could make him, and used to set to work \nupon one sorrowfid inscription or another with that \nsort of spirit which impels a man to sing at his labor. \nOn the whole I found Mr. Wigglesworth an entertain- \ning, and often instructive, if not an interesting, char- \nacter ; and partly for the charm of his society, and \nstill more because his work has an invariable attrac- \ntion for \"man that is born of woman,\" I was accus- \ntomed to spend some hours a day at his workshop. \nThe quaintness of his remarks, and their not infre- \nquent truth — a truth condensed and pointed by the \nlimited sphere of his view — gave a raciness to his \ntalk, which mere worldliness and general cultivation \nwould at once have destroyed. \n\nSometimes we would discuss the respective merits \n\n\n458 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nof the various qualities of marble, numerous slabs of \nwhich were resting against the walls of the shop ; or \nsometimes an hour or two would pass quietly, without \na word on either side, while I watched how neatly his \nchisel struck out letter after letter of the names of the \nNortons, the Mayhews, the Luces, the Daggets, and \nother immemorial families of the Vineyard. Often, \nwith an artist's pride, the good old sculptor woidd \nspeak of favorite productions of liis skill which were \nscattered throughout the village graveyards of New \nEngland. But my chief and most instructive amuse- \nment was to witness his interviews with his customers, \nwho held interminable consultations about the form \nand fashion of the desired monuments, the buried ex- \ncellence to be commemorated, the anguish to be ex- \npressed, and finally, the lowest price in dollars and \ncents for which a marble transcript of their feelings \nmight be obtained. Really, my mind received many \nfresh ideas which, perhaps, may remain in it even \nlonger than Mr. Wiggiesworth's hardest marble will \nretain the deepest strokes of his chisel. \n\nAn elderly lady came to bespeak a monument for \nher first love who had been killed by a whale in the \nPacific Ocean no less than forty years before. It was \nsingular that so strong an impression of early feeling \nshould have survived through the changes of her sub- \nsequent life, in the course of which she had been a \nwife and a mother, and, so far as I could judge, a com- \nfortable and happy woman. Reflecting within myself, \nit appeared to me that this lifelong sorrow — as, in all \ngood faith, she deemed it — was one of the most for- \ntunate circumstances of her history. It had given an \nideality to her mind ; it had kept her purer and less \nearthly than she would otherwise have been, by draw- \n\n\nCHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 459 \n\ning a portion of her sympathies apart from earth. \nAmid the throng of enjoyments and the pressni-e of \nworldly care, and all the warm materialism of this life, \nshe had communed with a vision, and had been the \nbetter for such intercourse. Faithful to the husband \nof her maturity, and loving him with a far more real \naffection than she ever could have felt for this dream \nof her girlhood, there had still been an imaginative \nfaith to the ocean-buried, so that an ordinary character \nhad thus been elevated and refined. Her sighs had \nbeen the breath of heaven to her soul. The good \nlady earnestly desired that the proposed monument \nshould be ornamented with a carved border of marine \nplants, intertwined with twisted sea-shells, such as \nwere probably waving over her lover's skeleton, or \nstrewn around it in the far depths of the Pacific. \nBut Mr. Wigglesworth's chisel being inadequate to \nthe task, she was forced to content herself with a rose \nhanging its head from a broken stem. After her de- \nparture, I remarked that the symbol was none of the \nmost apt. \n\n\" And yet,\" said my friend the sculptor, embodying \nin this image the thoughts that had been passing \nthrough my own mind, \" that broken rose has shed its \nsweet smell through forty years of the good woman's \nlife.\" \n\nIt was seldom that I could find such pleasant food \nfor contemplation as in the above instance. None of \nthe applicants, I think, affected me more disagreeably \nthan an old man who came, with his fourth wife hang- \ning on his arm, to bespeak gravestones for the three \nformer occupants of his marriage-bed. I watched \nwith some anxiety to see whether his remembrance of \neither were more affectionate than of the other two, \n\n\n460 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nbut could discover no spnptom of the kind. The \nthree monuments were all to be of the same material \nand form, and each decorated, in bass-relief, with two \nweeping willows, one of these sympathetic trees bend- \ning over its fellow, which was to be broken in the midst \nand rest upon a sepulchral urn. This, indeed, was Mr. \nWigglesworth's standing emblem of conjugal bereave- \nment. I shuddered at the gray polygamist who had \nso utterly lost the holy sense of individuality in wed- \nlock, that methought he was fain to reckon upon his \nfingers how many women, who had once slept by his \nside, were now sleeping in their graves. There was \neven — if I wrong him it is no great matter — a glance \nsidelong at his living spouse, as if he were inclined to \ndrive a thriftier bargain by bespeaking four grave- \nstones in a lot. I was better pleased with a rough old \nwhaling captain, who gave directions for a broad mar- \nble slab, divided into two compartments, one of which \nwas to contain an epitaph on his deceased wife, and \nthe other to be left vacant, till death should engrave \nhis own name there. As is frequently the case among \nthe whalers of Martha's Vineyard, so much of this \nstorm-beaten widower's life had been tossed away on \ndistant seas, that out of twenty years of matrimony \nhe had spent scarce three, and those at scattered in- \ntervals, beneath his own roof. Thus the wife of his \nyouth, though she died in his and her declining age, \nretained the bridal dew-drops fresh around her memory. \nMy observations gave me the idea, and Mr. Wiggles- \nworth confirmed it, that husbands were more faithful \nin setting up memorials to their dead wives than wid- \nows to their dead husbands. I was not ill-natured \nenough to fancy that women, less than men, feel so \nsure of their constancy as to be willing to give a \n\n\nCHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 461 \n\npledge of it in marble. It is more probably the fact \nthat while men are able to reflect upon their lost \ncompanions as remembrances apart from themselves, \nwomen, on the other hand, are conscious that a por- \ntion of their being has gone with the departed whith- \nersoever he has gone. Soul clings to soul ; the living \ndust has a sympathy with the dust of the grave ; and, \nby the very strength of that sympathy, the wife of the \ndead shrinks the more sensitively from reminding the \nworld of its existence. The link is already strong \nenough; it needs no visible symbol. And though a \nshadow walks ever by her side, and the touch of a chill \nhand is on her bosom, yet life, and perchance its nat- \nural yearnings, may still be warm wdthin her, and in- \nspire her with new hopes of happiness. Then would \nshe mark out the grave, the scent of which woidd be \nperceptible on the pillow of the second bridal ? No — \nbut rather level its green mound with the surrounding \nearth, as if, when she dug up again her buried heart, \nthe spot had ceased to be a grave. Yet, in spite of \nthese sentimentalities, I was prodigiously amused by \nan incident, of which I had not the good fortune to be \na witness, but which Mr. Wigglesworth related with \nconsiderable humor. A gentlewoman of the towTi, \nreceiving news of her husband's loss at sea, had be- \nspoken a handsome slab of marble, and came daily to \nwatch the progress of my friend's cliisel. One after- \nnoon, when the good lady and the sciUptor were in the \nvery midst of the epitaph, which the departed spirit \nmight have been greatly comforted to read, who \nshould walk into the workshop but the deceased him- \nself, in substance as well as spirit ! He had been \npicked up at sea, and stood in no present need of \ntombstone or epitaph. \n\n\n462 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\"And how,\" inquired I, \"did his wife bear the \nshock of joyful surprise ? \" \n\n\" Why,\" said the old man, deepening the grin of a \ndeath's-head, on which his chisel was just then em- \nployed, \" I really felt for the poor woman ; it was one \nof my best pieces of marble — and to be thrown away \non a living man ! \" \n\nA comely woman, with a pretty rosebud of a \ndaughter, came to select a gravestone for a twin \ndaughter, who had died a month before. I was im- \npressed with the different nature of their feelings for \nthe dead ; the mother was calm and wofidly resigned, \nfully conscious of her loss, as of a treasure which she \nhad not always possessed, and, therefore, had been \naware that it might be taken from her ; but the daugh- \nter evidently had no real knowledge of what death's \ndoings were. Her thoughts knew, but not her heart. \nIt seemed to me, that by the print and pressure which \nthe dead sister had left upon the survivor's spirit, her \nfeelings were almost the same as if she still stood side \nby side and arm in arm with the dej)arted, looking at \nthe slabs of marble ; and once or twice she glanced \naround with a sunny smile, which, as its sister smile \nhad faded forever, soon grew confusedly overshad- \nowed. Perchance her consciousness was truer than \nher reflection — perchance her dead sister was a closer \ncompanion than in life. The mother and daughter \ntalked a long while with Mr. Wiggiesworth about a \nsuitable epitaph, and finally chose an ordinary verse of \nill-matched rhymes, which had already been inscribed \nupon innumerable tombstones. But when we ridicule \nthe triteness of monumental verses, we forget that \nSorrow reads far deeper in them than we can, and \nfinds a profound and individual purport in what seems \n\n\nCHIPPING S WlTfl A CHISEL. 463 \n\nso vague and inexpressive, unless interpreted by her. \nShe makes the epitaph anew, though the selfsame \nwords may have served for a thousand graves. \n\n\" And yet,\" said I afterwards to Mr. Wigglesworth, \n\" they might have made a better choice than this. \nWhile you were discussing the subject, I was struck \nby at least a dozen simple and natural expressions \nfrom the lips of both mother and daughter. One of \nthese would have formed an inscription equally orig- \ninal and appropriate.\" \n\n\" No, no,\" replied the scidptor, shaking his head ; \n\" there is a good deal of comfort to be gathered from \nthese little old scraps of poetry ; and so I always \nrecommend them in preference to any new-fangled \nones. And somehow, they seem to stretch to suit a \ngreat grief, and shrink to fit a small one.\" \n\nIt was not seldom that ludicrous images were excited \nby what took place between Mr. Wigglesworth and \nhis customers. A shrewd gentlewoman, who kept a \ntavern in the town, was anxious to obtain two or three \ngravestones for the deceased members of her family, \nand to pay for these solemn commodities by taking \nthe scidptor to board. Hereupon a fantasy arose in \nmy mind of good Mr. Wigglesworth sitting down to \ndinner at a broad, flat tombstone, carving one of his \nown plump little marble cherubs, gnawing a pair of \ncross-bones, and drinking out of a hollow death's-head, \nor perhaps a lachrymatory vase, or sepidchral urn, \nwhile his hostess's dead children waited on him at the \nghastly banquet. On communicating this nonsensical \npicture to the old man he laughed heartily, and pro- \nnounced my humor to be of the right sort. \n\n\" I have lived at such a table all my days,\" said he, \n\"and eaten no small quantity of slate and marble.\" \n\n\n464 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" Hard fare ! \" rejoined I, smiling ; \" but you seemed \nto have foimd it excellent of digestion, too.\" \n\nA man of fifty, or thereabouts, with a harsh, im- \npleasant coimtenance, ordered a stone for the grave \nof his bittter enemy, with whom he had waged warfare \nhalf a lifetime, to their mutual misery and ruin. The \nsecret of this phenomenon was, that hatred had become \nthe sustenance and enjoyment of the poor wretch's \nsold ; it had supplied the place of all kindly affections ; \nit had been really a bond of sympathy between himself \nand the man who shared the jjassion ; and when its \nobject died the imappeasable foe was the only mourner \nfor the dead. He expressed a purpose of being buried \nside by side with his enemy. \n\n\" I doubt whether their dust will mingle,\" remarked \nthe old scidptor to me ; for often there was an earthli- \nness in his conceptions. \n\n\" Oh yes,\" replied I, who had mused long upon the \nincident ; \" and when they rise again, these bitter foes \nmay find themselves dear friends. Methinks what they \nmistook for hatred was but love under a mask.\" \n\nA gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a \nmemorial for an Indian of Chabbiquidick, one of the \nfew of imtainted blood remaining in that region, and \nsaid to be an hereditary chieftain, descended from the \nsachem who welcomed Governor Mayhew to the Vine- \nyard. Mr. Wigglesworth exerted his best skill to carve \na broken bow and scattered sheaf of arrows, in mem- \nory of the hiuiters and warriors whose race was ended \nhere ; but he likewise sculptured a cherub, to denote \nthat the poor Indian had shared the Christian's hope \nof immortality. \n\n\" Why,\" observed I, taking a perverse view of the \nwinged boy and the bow and arrows, \" it looks more \nlike Cupid's tomb than an Indian chief's ! \" \n\n\nCHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 465 \n\n\"You talk nonsense,\" said the sculptor, with the \noffended pride of art ; he then added with his usual \ngood nature, \" How can Cupid die when there are such \npretty maidens m the Vineyard ? \" \n\n\"Very true,\" answered I — and for the rest of the \nday I thought of other matters than tombstones. \n\nAt our next meeting I fomid him chiselling an open \nbook upon a marble headstone, and concluded that it \nwas meant to express the erudition of some black- \nletter clergyman of the Cotton Mather school. It \nturned out, however, to be emblematical of the script- \nural knowledge of an old woman who had never read \nanything but her Bible : and the monument was a trib- \nute to her piety and good works from the Orthodox \nchurch, of which she had been a member. In strange \ncontrast with this Christian woman's memorial was \nthat of an infidel, whose gravestone, by his own di- \nrection, bore an avowal of his belief that the spirit \nwithin him would be extinguished like a flame, and \nthat the nothingness whence he sprang would receive \nhun again. Mr. Wiggiesworth consulted me as to the \npropriety of enabling a dead man's dust to utter this \ndreadful creed. \n\n\" If I thought,\" said he, \" that a single mortal \nwould read the inscription without a shudder, my \nchisel should never cut a letter of it. But when the \ngrave speaks such falsehoods, the soul of man will \nknow the truth by its own horror.\" \n\n\" So it will,\" said I, struck by the idea ; \" the poor \ninfidel may strive to preach blasphemies from his \ngrave ; but it will be only another method of impress- \ning the soul with a consciousness of immortality.\" \n\nThere was an old man by the name of Norton, \nnoted throughout the island for his greath wealth, \n\nVOL. I. 30 \n\n\n466 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwhich he had accumulated by the exercise of strong \nand shrewd faculties, combined with a most penurious \ndisposition. This wretched miser, conscious that he \nhad not a friend to be mindful of him in his grave, had \nhimself taken the needful precautions for jDosthumous \nremembrance, by bespeaking an immense slab of \nwliite marble, with a long epitaph in raised letters, \nthe whole to be as magnificent as Mr. Wigglesworth's \nskill coidd make it. There was something very char- \nacteristic in this contrivance to have his money's \nworth even from his own tombstone, which, indeed, \nafforded him more enjoyment in the few months that \nhe lived thereafter, than it probably will in a whole \ncentury, now that it is laid over his bones. This inci- \ndent reminds me of a young girl, — a pale, slender, fee- \nble creature, most unlike the other rosy and healthful \ndamsels of the Vineyard, amid whose brightness she \nwas fading away. Day after day did the poor maiden \ncome to the sculptor's shop, and pass from one piece \nof marble to another, till at last she pencilled her \nname upon a slender slab, wliich, I think, was of a \nmore spotless white than all the rest. I saw her no \nmore, but soon afterwards found Mr. Wiggiesworth \ncutting her virgin name into the stone which she had \nchosen. \n\n\" She is dead — poor girl,\" said he, interrupting the \ntune which he was wliistling, \" and she chose a good \npiece of stuff for her headstone. Now which of these \nslabs would you like best to see your own name \nupon?\" \n\n\" Why, to tell you the truth, my good Mr. Wiggles- \nworth,\" replied I, after a moment's pause, — for the \nabruptness of the question had somewhat startled me, \n■ — \" to be quite sincere with you, I care little or noth. \n\n\nCHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 467 \n\ning about a stone for my own grave, and am somewhat \ninclined to scepticism as to the propriety of erecting \nmonmiients at all over the dust that once was human. \nThe weight of these heavy marbles, though luifelt \nby the dead corpse of the enfranchised soul, presses \ndrearily upon the spirit of the siu'vivor, and causes \nhim to connect the idea of death with the dungeon- \nlike imprisonment of the tomb, instead of with the \nfreedom of the skies. Every gravestone that you ever \nmade is the visible sj^mbol of a mistaken system. Our \nthoughts should soar upward with the butterfly — not \nlinger with the exuviae that confined him. In truth \nand reason, neither those whom we call the living, and \nstill less the departed, have anything to do with the \ngrave.\" \n\n\" I never heard anything so heathenish ! \" said Mr. \nWigglesworth, per|)lexed and displeased at sentunents \nwhich controverted all his notions and feelings, and \nimplied the utter waste, and worse, of his whole life's \nlabor ; \" would you forget your dead friends, the \nmoment they are under the sod ? \" \n\n\" They are not mider the sod,\" I rejoined ; \" then \nwhy should I mark the spot where there is no treasure \nliidden! Forget them? No! But to remember them \naright, I woidd forget what they have cast off. And \nto gain the truer conception of Death, I would forget \nthe Grave!\" \n\nBut still the good old sculptor murmured, and stum- \nbled, as it were, over the gravestones amid which he \nhad walked through life. Whether he were right or \nwrong, I had grown the wiser from our companionship, \nand from my observations of nature and character as \ndisplayed by those who came, wdth their old griefs or \ntheir new ones, to get them recorded upon his slabs of \n\n\n468 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmarble. And yet, with my gain of wisdom, I had \nlikewise gained perjjlexity ; for there was a strange \ndoubt in my mind, whether the dark shadowing of this \nlife, the sorrows and regrets, have not as much real \ncomfort in them — leaving religious influences out of \nthe question — as what we term life's joys. \n\n\nTHE SHAKER BRIDAL. \n\nOne day, in the sick chamber of Father Ephraini, \nwho had been forty years the presiding elder over the \nShaker settlement at Goshen, there was an assemblage \nof several of the cliief men of the sect. Individuals \nhad come from the rich establishment at Lebanon, \nfrom Canterbury, Harvard, and Alfred, and from all \nthe other localities where this strange people have \nfertilized the rugged hills of New England by their \nsystematic industry. An elder was likewise there, who \nhad made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a vil- \nlage of the faithful in Kentucky, to visit his spiritual \nkindred, the children of the sainted mother Ann. He \nhad partaken of the homely abundance of their tables, \nhad quaffed the far-famed Shaker cider, and had \njoined in the sacred dance, every step of wliich is be- \nlieved to alienate the enthusiast from earth, and bear \nhim onward to heavenly piu'ity and bliss. His breth- \nren of the north had now courteously invited him to \nbe present on an occasion, when the concurrence of \nevery eminent member of their commmiity was pecul- \niarly desirable. \n\nThe venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy \nchair, not only hoary headed and infirm with age, but \nworn down by a lingering disease, wliich, it was evi- \ndent, woidd very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to \nother hands. At his footstool stood a man and woman, \nboth clad in the Shaker garb. \n\n\" My brethren,\" said Father Ephraim to the sur- \n\n\n470 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nrounding elders, feebly exerting himself to utter these \nfew words, \" here are the son and daughter to whom \nI woidd commit the trust of which Providence is about \nto lighten my weary shoulders. Read their faces, I \npray you, and say whether the inward movement of \nthe spirit hath guided my choice aright.\" \n\nAccordingly, each elder looked at the two candi- \ndates with a most scrutinizing gaze. The man, whose \nname was Adam Colburn, had a face simburnt with \nlabor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful, and \ntraced with cares enough for a whole lifetime, though \nhe had barely reached middle age. There was some- \nthing severe in his aspect, and a rigidity throughout \nhis person, characteristics that caused him generally \nto be taken for a school-master , which vocation, in \nfact, he had formerly exercised for several years. The \nwoman, Martha Pierson, was somewhat above thirty, \nthin and pale, as a Shaker sister almost invariably is, \nand not entirely free from that corpse-like appearance \nwhich the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated \nto impart. \n\n\" This pair are still in the summer of their years,\" \nobserved the elder from Harvard, a shrewd old man. \n\" I woidd like better to see the hoar-frost of autumn \non their heads. Methinks, also, they will be exposed \nto peculiar temptations, on account of the carnal de- \nsires which have heretofore subsisted between them.\" \n\n\" Nay, brother,\" said the elder from Canterbury, \n\" the hoar-frost and the black-frost hath done its work \non Brother Adam and Sister Martha, even as we \nsometimes discern its traces in our cornfields, while \nthey are yet green. And why shoidd we question the \nwisdom of our venerable Father's purpose although \nthis pair, in theii* early youth, have loved one another \n\n\nTHE SHAKER BRIDAL. 471 \n\nas the world's people love? Are there not many- \nbrethren and sisters among us, who have lived long \ntogether in wedlock, yet, adopting our faith, find their \nhearts purified from all but spiritual affection ? \" \n\nWhether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha \nhad rendered it inexpedient that they shoidd now pre- \nside together over a Shaker village, it was certainly \nmost singidar that such shoidd be the final residt of \nmany warm and tender hopes. Children of neighbor- \ning families, their affection was older even than their \nschool-day^s ; it seemed an innate principle, interfused \namong all their sentiments and feelings, and not so \nmuch a distinct remembrance, as connected with their \nwhole voliune of remembrances. But, just as they \nreached a proper age for their union, misfortimes had \nfallen heavily on both, and made it necessary that they \nshould resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. \nEven imder these circimistances, Martha Pierson \nwould probably have consented to unite her fate with \nAdam Colburn's, and, secure of the bliss of mutual \nlove, woidd patiently have awaited the less important \ngifts of fortune. But Adam, being of a calm and \ncautious character, was loath to relinqmsh the atlvan- \ntages which a single man possesses for raising himself \nin the world. Year after year, therefore, their mar- \nriage had been deferred. Adam Colburn had followed \nmany vocations, had travelled far, and seen much of \nthe world and of life. Martha had earned her bread \nsometimes as a seamstress, sometimes as help to a \nfarmer's wife, sometimes as school-mistress of the vil- \nlage children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the \nsick, thus acquiring a varied experience, the idtimate \nuse of which she little anticipated. But nothing had \ngone prosperously with either of the lovers ; at no \n\n\n472 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nsubsequent moment would matrimony have been so \nprudent a measure as when they had first parted, in \nthe opening bloom of life, to seek a better fortime. \nStill they had held fast their mutual faith. Martha \nmight have been the wife of a man who sat among \nthe senators of his native state, and Adam could have \nwon the hand, as he had unintentionally won the heart, \nof a rich and comely widow. But neither of them de- \nsired good fortune save to share it with the other. \n\nAt length that calm despair which occurs only in a \nstrong and somewhat stubborn character, and yields to \nno second spring of hope, settled down on the spirit of \nAdam Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha, \nand proposed that they shoidd join the Society of \nShakers. The converts of this sect are oftener driven \nwithin its hosjaitable gates by worldly misfortune than \ndrawn thither by fanaticism, and are received without \ninquisition as to their motives. Martha, faithfid still, \nhad placed her hand in that of her lover, and accom- \npanied him to the Shaker village. Here the natural \ncapacity of each, cultivated and strengthened by the \ndifficidties of their previous lives, had soon gained them \nan important rank in the Society, whose members are \ngenerally below the ordinary standard of intelligence. \nTheir faith and feelings had, in some degree, become \nassimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. Adam \nColbiu*n gradually acquired reputation, not only in the \nmanagement of the temporal affairs of the Society, \nbut as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. \nMartha was not less distinguished in the duties proper \nto her sex. Finally, when the infirmities of Father \nEphraim had admonished him to seek a successor in \nhis patriarchal office, he thought of Adam and Martha, \nand proposed to renew, in their persons, the primitive \n\n\nTHE SHAKER BRIDAL. 473 \n\nform of Shaker government, as established by Mother \nAnn. They were to be the Father and Mother of the \nvillage. The simple ceremony, wliich would consti- \ntute them such, was now to be performed. \n\n'* Son Adam, and daughter Martha,\" said the vener- \nable Father Ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly \nupon them, \" if ye can conscientiously imdertake this \ncharge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of \nyoui\" fitness.\" \n\n\" Father,\" replied Adam, speaking with the calm- \nness of his character, \" I came to your village a disap- \npointed man, weary of the world, worn out with con- \ntinual trouble, seeking only a security against evil \nfortune, as I had no hope of good. Even my wishes \nof worldly success were almost dead within me. I \ncame hither as a man might come to a tomb, billing \nto lie down in its gloom and coldness, for the sake of \nits peace and quiet. There was but one earthly affec- \ntion in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my \nyouth ; so that I was satisfied to bring Martha to be \nmy sister, in our new abode. We are brother and \nsister ; nor would I have it otherwise. And in this \npeacef id \\allage I have found aU that I hoped for, — \nall that I desire. I will strive, with my best strength, \nfor the spiritual and temporal good of our community. \nMy conscience is not doubtful in this matter. I am \nready to receive the trust.\" \n\n\" Thou hast spoken well, son Adam,\" said the Fa- \nther. \" God will bless thee in the office which I am \nabout to resign.\" \n\n\" But our sister ! \" observed the elder from Har- \nvard, \"hath she not likewise a gift to declare her \nsentiments?\" \n\nMartha started, and moved her lips, as if she would \n\n\n474 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhave made a formal reply to this appeal. But, had \nshe attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the \nlong-repressed feelings of cliildliood, youth, and wom- \nanhood, might have gushed from her heart, in words \nthat it wovild have been profanation to utter there. \n\n\" Adam has spoken,\" said she hurriedly ; \" his sen- \ntiments are likewise mine.\" \n\nBut while sjseaking these few words, Martha grew \nso pale that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin \nthan to stand in the presence of Father Ephraim and \nthe elders ; she shuddered, also, as if there were some- \nthing awful or horrible in her situation and destiny. \nIt required, indeed, a more than feminine strength of \nnerve, to sustain the fixed observance of men so ex- \nalted and famous throughout the sect as these were. \nThey had overcome their natural sympathy with hu- \nman frailties and affections. One, when he joined the \nSociety, had brought with him his wife and children, \nbut never, from that hour, had spoken a fond word \nto the former, or taken his best-loved child upon his \nknee. Another, whose family refused to follow him, \nhad been enabled — such was his gift of holy forti- \ntude — to leave them to the mercy of the world. The \nyoungest of the elders, a man of about fifty, had been \nbred from infancy in a Shaker village, and was said \nnever to have clasped a woman's hand in his own, and \nto have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fra- \nternal one of the sect. Old Father Ephraim was the \nmost awful character of all. In his youth he had \nbeen a dissolute libertine, but was converted by Mother \nAnn herseK, and had partaken of the wild fanaticism \nof the early Shakers. Tradition whispered, at the \nfiresides of the village, that Mother Ann had been \ncompelled to sear his heart of flesh with a red-hot iron \nbefore it could be purified from earthly passions. \n\n\nTHE SHAKER BRIDAL. 475 \n\nHowever that might be, poor Martha had a woman's \nheart, and a tender one, and it quailed within her, as \nshe looked roimd at those strange old men, and from \nthem to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But \nperceiving that the elders eyed her doubtfidly, she \ngasped for breath, and again spoke. \n\n\" With what strength is left me by my many \ntroubles,\" said she, \" I am ready to undertake this \ncharge, and to do my best in it.\" \n\n\"My children, join your hands,\" said Father \nEphraim. \n\nThey did so. The elders stood up around, and the \nFather feebly raised himself to a more erect position, \nbut continued sitting in his great chair. \n\n\" I have bidden you to join your hands,\" said he, \n\"not in earthly affection, for ye have cast off its \nchains forever ; but as brother and sister in spiritual \nlove, and helpers of one another in your allotted \ntask. Teach unto others the faith which ye have re- \nceived. Open wide your gates, — I deliver you the \nkeys thereof, — open them wide to all who will give \nup the iniquities of the world, and come hither to lead \nlives of purity and peace. Receive the weary ones, \nwho have known the vanity of earth, — receive the \nlittle children, that they may never learn that misera- \nble lesson. And a blessing be upon your labors ,- so \nthat the time may hasten on, when the mission of \nMother Ann shall have wrought its full effect, — when \nchildren shall no more be born and die, and the last \nsurvivor of mortal race, some old and weary man like \nme, shall see the sun go down, nevermore to rise on a \nworld of sin and sorrow ! \" \n\nThe aged Father sank back exhausted, and the sur- \nrounding elders deemed, with good reason, that the \n\n\n476 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nhour was come when the new heads of the village \nmust enter on their patriarchal duties. In their atten- \ntion to Father Ephraim, their eyes were turned from \nMartha Pierson, who grew paler and paler, imnoticed \neven by Adam Colburn. He, indeed, had withdrawn \nhis hand from hers, and folded his arms with a sense \nof satisfied ambition. But paler and paler grew Mar- \ntha by his side, till, like a corpse in its burial clothes, \nshe sank down at the feet of her early lover; for, \nafter many trials firmly borne, her heart could endure \nthe weight of its desolate agony no longer. \n\n\nNIGHT SKETCHES. \n\nBENEATH AN UMBRELLA. \n\nPleasant is a rainy winter's day, witMn doors! \nThe best study for such a day, or the best amusement, \n— call it which you will, — is a book of travels, de- \nscribing scenes the most unlike that sombre one which \nis mistily presented through the windows. I have \nexperienced that fancy is then most successful in im- \nparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the objects \nwhich the author has spread upon his page, and that \nhis words become magic spells to summon up a thou- \nsand varied pictures. Strange landscapes glinuner \nthrough the familiar walls of the room, and outlandish \nfigures thrust themselves almost within the sacred pre- \ncincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it has \nspace enough to contain the ocean-like circumference \nof an Arabian desert, its parched sands tracked by the \nlong line of a caravan, with the camels patiently jour- \nneying through the heavy sunshine. Though my ceil- \ning be not lofty, yet I can pile up the moimtains of \nCentral Asia beneath it, till their summits shine far \nabove the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And with \nmy humble means, a wealth that is not taxable, I can \ntransport hither the magnificent merchandise of an \nOriental bazaar, and call a crowd of purchasers from \ndistant countries to pay a fair profit for the precious \narticles which are displayed on all sides. True it is, \nhowever, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever \n\n\n478 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nelse may seem to be going on around me, the rain-drops \nwill occasionally be heard to patter against my window \npanes, which look forth upon one of the quietest streets \nin a New England town. After a time, too, the vis- \nions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. \nThen, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of imreality \ndepresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out, \nbefore the clock shall strike bedtime, to satisfy myself \nthat the world is not entirely made up of such shad- \nowy materials as have busied me throughout the day. \nA dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies, that \nthe things without him will seem as imreal as those \nwithin. \n\nWhen eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, \ntightly buttoning my shaggy overcoat, and hoisting \nmy umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately \nresounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible \nrain-drops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast \nthe warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside \nwith the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into \nwhich I am about to plunge. Now come fearful augu- \nries, inniunerable as the drops of ram. Did not my \nmanhood cry shame upon me I should turn back within \ndoors, resume my elbow-chair, my slippers, and my \nbook, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment as \nthe day has been, and go to bed inglorious. The \nsame sliivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled, for \na moment, the adventurous spirit of many a traveller, \nwhen his feet, which were destined to measure the \nearth around, were lea\\Tng their last tracks in the \nhome paths. \n\nIn my own case poor human nature may be allowed \na few misgivings. I look upward, and discern no sky, \nnot even an unfathomable void, but only a black, im« \n\n\nNIGHT SKETCHES. 479 \n\npenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its \nlights were blotted from the system of the imiverse. \nIt is as if Nature were dead, and the world had put on \nblack, and the clouds were weeping for her. With \ntheir tears upon my cheek, I turn my eyes earthward, \nbut find little consolation here below. A lamp is \nburning duiily at the distant corner, and throws just \nenough of light along the street to show and exag- \ngerate by so faintly sho%ving the perils and difficulties \nwhich beset my path. Yonder dingily white remnant \nof a huge snow-bank, — which will yet cumber the \nsidewalk till the latter days of March, — over or \nthrough that wdntry waste must I stride onward. \nBeyond lies a certain Slough of Despond, a concoc- \ntion of mud and liquid filth, ankles between sixteen years and \nsixty, were seen in the ranks of the trainband. A \nfew stately savages, in all the pomp and dignity of \nthe primeval Indian, stood gazing at the spectacle. \nTheir flint-headed arrows were but childish weapons \ncompared with the matchlocks of the Puritans, and \nwould have rattled harmlessly against the steel caps \nand hammered iron breastplates which inclosed each \nsoldier in an indi\\ddual fortress. The valiant John \nEndicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy \nfollowers, and prepared to renew the martial toils of \nthe day. \n\n\" Come, my stout hearts I \" quoth he, drawing his \nsword. \" Let us show these poor heathen that we can \nhandle our weapons like men of might. Well for \nthem, if they put us not to prove it in earnest ! \" \n\nThe iron-breasted company straightened their line, \nand each man drew the heavy butt of his matchlock \nclose to his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the \ncaptain. But, as Endicott glanced right and left \nalong the front, he discovered a personage at some \nlittle distance with whom it behooved him to hold a \nparley. It was an elderly gentleman, wearing a black \n\n\nENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 489 \n\ncloak and band, and a high-e^o^vned hat, beneath \nwhich was a velvet skull-cap, the whole being the garb \nof a Piu\"itan minister. This reverend person bore a \nstaff which seemed to have been recently cut in the \nforest, and his shoes were bemired as if he had been \ntravelling on foot through the swamps of the ^\\dlde^- \nness. His aspect was perfectly that of a pilgrim, \nheightened also by an apostolic dignity. Just as Endi- \ncott perceived him he laid aside liis staff, and stooped \nto drink at a bubbling fountain which gushed into the \nsunshine about a score of yards from the corner of the \nmeeting-house. But, ere the good man drank, he \nturned his face heavenward in thankfidness, and then, \nholding back his gray beard mth one hand, he scooped \nup his simple draught in the hollow of the other. \n\n\" What, ho I good Mr. Williams,\" shouted Endi- \ncott. \" You are welcome back again to our town of \npeace. How does our worthy Governor Winthrop? \nAnd what news from Boston ? \" \n\n\" The Governor hath his health, worshipful Sir,\" \nanswered Roger Williams, now resuming his staff, and \ndrawing near. \" And for the news, here is a letter, \nwhich, knowing I was to travel hitherward to-day, his \nExcellency committed to my charge. Belike it con- \ntains tidings of much import ; for a ship arrived yes- \nterday from England.\" \n\nMr. Williams, the minister of Salem and of course \nkno\\\\Ti to all the spectators, had now reached the spot \nwhere Endicott was standing under the banner of his \ncompany, and put the Governor's epistle into his hand. \nThe broad seal was impressed with Winthrop's coat of \narms. Endicott hastily unclosed the letter and began \nto read, wliile, as his eye passed down the page, a \nwrathful change came over his manly countenance. \n\n\n490 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nThe blood glowed through it, till it seemed to be kind- \nling with an internal heat ; nor was it unnatural to \nsuppose that his breastplate would likewise become red- \nhot with the angry fire of the bosom which it covered. \nArriving at the conclusion, he shook the letter fiercely \nin his hand, so that it rustled as loud as the flag above \nhis head. \n\n\"Black tidings these, Mr. Williams,\" said he; \n\" blacker never came to New England. Doubtless you \nknow their purport ? \" \n\n\"Yea, truly,\" replied Roger Williams; \"for the \nGovernor consulted, respecting this matter, with my \nbrethren in the ministry at Boston ; and my opinion \nwas likewise asked. And his Excellency entreats you \nby me, that the news be not suddenly noised abroad, \nlest the people be stirred up unto some outbreak, and \nthereby give the King and the Archbishop a handle \nagainst us.\" \n\n\" The Governor is a wise man — a wise man, and \na meek and moderate,\" said Endicott, setting his teeth \ngrimly. \" Nevertheless, I must do according to my \nown best judgment. There is neither man, woman, \nnor child in New England, but has a concern as dear \nas life in these tidings ; and if John Endicott's voice \nbe loud enough, man, woman, and child shall hear \nthem. Soldiers, wheel into a hollow square ! Ho, \ngood people ! Here are news for one and all of \n\nyou.\" \n\nThe soldiers closed in around their captain ; and he \nand Roger Williams stood together vmder the banner \nof the Red Cross ; while the women and the aged men \npressed forward, and the mothers held up their chil- \ndren to look Endicott in the face. A few taps of the \ndrum gave signal for silence and attention. \n\n\nENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 491 \n\n\" Fellow-soldiers, — fellow-exiles,\" began Endicott, \nspeaking under strong excitement, yet powerfully re- \nstraining it, \" wherefore did ye leave your native coun- \ntry? Wherefore, I say, have we left the green and \nfertile fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old gray \nhalls, where we were born and bred, the churchyards \nwhere our forefathers lie buried ? Wherefore have we \ncome hither to set up our own tombstones in a wilder- \nness? A howling wilderness it is ! The wolf and the \nbear meet us within halloo of our dwellings. The sav- \nage lieth in wait for us in the dismal shadow of the \nwoods. The stubborn roots of the trees break our \nploughshares, when we woidd till the earth. Our \nchildren cry for bread, and we must dig in the sands \nof the sea-shore to satisfy them. Wherefore, I say \nagain, have we sought this country of a rugged soil \nand wintry sky ? Was it not for the enjoyment of our \ncivil rights ? Was it not for liberty to worship God \naccording to om^ conscience ? \" \n\n\"Call you this liberty of conscience?\" interrupted \na voice on the steps of the meeting-house. \n\nIt was the Wanton Gospeller. A sad and quiet \nsmile flitted across the mild visage of Roger Williams. \nBut Endicott, in the excitement of the moment, shook \nhis sword wrathf ully at the culprit — an ominous gest- \nure from a man like liim. \n\n\" What hast thou to do with conscience, thou \nknave?\" cried he. \"I said liberty to w orsliip God, \nnot license to profane and ridicule him. Break not in \nupon my speech, or I will lay thee neck and heels \ntill this time to-morrow ! Hearken to me, friends, nor \nheed that accursed rhapsodist. As I was saying, we \nhave sacrificed all things, and have come to a land \nwhereof the old world hath scarcely heard, that we \n\n\n492 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmight make a new world unto ourselves, and painfully \nseek a path from hence to heaven. But what think ye \nnow? This son of a Scotch tyrant — this grandson \nof a Papistical and adidterous Scotch woman, whose \ndeath proved that a golden crown doth not always \nsave an anointed head from the block \" — \n\n\" Nay, brother, nay,\" interposed Mr. Williams ; \n\" thy words are not meet for a secret chamber, far less \nfor a public street.\" \n\n\" Hold thy peace, Roger Williams ! \" answered En- \ndicott, imperiously. \" My spirit is wiser than thine \nfor the business now in hand. I tell ye, fellow-exiles, \nthat Charles of England, and Laud, our bitterest per- \nsecutor, arch-priest of Canterbury, are resolute to pur- \nsue us even hither. They are taking counsel, saith \ntliis letter, to send over a governor- general, in whose \nbreast shall be deposited all the law and equity of the \nland. They are minded, also, to establish the idola- \ntrous forms of English Episcopacy; so that, when \nLaud shall kiss the Pope's toe, as cardinal of Rome, \nhe may deliver New England, bovmd hand and foot, \ninto the power of his master ! \" \n\nA deep groan from the auditors, — a somid of wrath, \nas well as fear and sorrow, — responded to this intel- \nligence. \n\n\" Look ye to it, brethren,\" resumed Endicott, with \nincreasing energy. \" If this king and this arch-prelate \nhave their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the \nspire of this tabernacle which v»'e have builded, and \na high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning \nround it at noonday. We shall hear the sacring bell, \nand the voices of the Romish priests saying the mass. \nBut think ye. Christian men, that these aboumiations \nmay be suffered >\\ithout a sword drawn ? without a \n\n\nENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 493 \n\nshot fired ? without blood spilt, yea, on the very stairs \nof the pvilpit ? No, — be ye strong of hand and stout \nof heart ! Here we stand on our own soil, which we \nhave bought with our goods, which we have won with \nour swords, which we have cleared with our axes, \nwliich we have tilled with the sweat of ovu\" brows, \nwhich we have sanctified with our prayers to the God \nthat brought us hither ! Who shall enslave us here ? \nWhat have we to do with this mitred prelate, — Avith \nthis crowned king ? What have we to do with Eng- \nland?\" \n\nEndicott gazed round at the excited countenances \nof the people, now fidl of his own spirit, and then \nturned suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood \nclose belaind him. \n\n\" Officer, lower your banner ! \" said he. \n\nThe officer obeyed ; and, brandishing his sword, \nEndicott thrust it through the cloth, and, with his left \nhand, rent the Red Cross completely out of the banner. \nHe then waved the tattered ensign above his head. \n\n\" Sacrilegious wretch ! \" cried the high-churchman in \nthe pillory, unable longer to restrain himself, \" thou \nbast rejected the symbol of our holy religion ! \" \n\n\" Treason, treason ! \" roared the royalist in the \nstocks. \" He hath defaced the King's banner ! \" \n\n\" Before God and man, I will avouch the deed,\" \nanswered Endicott. \" Beat a flourish, drimimer I — \nshout, soldiers and people ! — in honor of the ensign \nof New England. Neither Pope nor TjTant hath part \nin it now ! \" \n\nWith a cry of triumph, the people gave their sanc- \ntion to one of the boldest exploits which our histoiy \nrecords. And forever honored be the name of Endi- \ncott ! We look back through the mist of ages, and \n\n\n494 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nrecognize in the rending of the Red Cross from New \nEngland's banner the first omen of that deliverance \nwhich our fathers consummated after the bones of the \nstem Puritan had lain more than a century in the \ndust. \n\n\nTHE LILY'S QUEST. \n\nAN APOLOGUE. \n\nTwo lovers, once upon a time, had planned a little \nsummer-house, in the form of an antique temple, which \nit was their purpose to consecrate to all manner of re- \nfined and innocent enjoyments. There they woidd hold \npleasant intercourse with one another and the circle of \ntheir famiKar friends ; there they woidd give festivals \nof delicious fruit; there they would hear lightsome \nmusic, intermingled with the strains of pathos which \nmake joy more sweet ; there they would read poetry \nand fiction, and permit their own minds to flit away \nin day-dreams and romance ; there, in short — for why \nshould we shape out the vague sunshine of their hopes? \n— there all pure delights were to cluster like roses \namong the pillars of the edifice, and blossom ever new \nand spontaneously. So, one breezy and cloudless after- \nnoon, Adam Forrester and Lilias Fay set out upon a \nramble over the wide estate which they were to possess \ntogether, seeking a proper site for their Temple of \nHappiness. They were themselves a fair and happy \nspectacle, fit priest and priestess for such a shrine ; \nalthough, making poetry of the prettj^ name of Lilias, \nAdam Forrester was wont to call her Lily, because \nher form was as fragile, and her cheek almost as pale. \n\nAs they passed hand in hand down the avenue of \ndrooping elms that led from the portal of Lilias Fay's \npaternal mansion, they seemed to glance like winged \n\n\n496 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ncreatures tlirougli the strips of sunshine, and to scatter \nbrightness where the deep shadows fell. But setting \nforth at the same time with this j^outhf ul pair, there \nwas a dismal figure, Avi-apped in a black velvet cloak \nthat might have Ween made of a coffin pall, and with a \nsombre hat such as mourners wear drooping its broad \nbrun over his heavy brows. Glancing behind them, \nthe lovers well knew who it was that followed, but \nwished from their hearts that he had been elsewhere, \nas being a companion so strangely unsuited to their \njoyous errand. It was a near relative of Lilias Fay, \nan old man by the name of Walter GascoigTie, who \nhad long labored under the burden of a melancholy \nspirit, which was sometimes maddened into absolute \ninsanity, and always had a tinge of it. What a con- \ntrast between the young jiilgrims of bliss and their \ntmbidden associate ! They looked as if moidded of \nheaven's sunshine, and he of earth's gloomiest shade ; \nthey flitted along like Hope and Joy roaming hand in \nhand through life ; while his darksome figure stalked \nbehind, a type of all the woful influences which life \ncould fling upon them. But the three had not gone \nfar when they reached a spot that pleased the gentle \nLily, and she paused. \n\n\" What sweeter place shall we find than this ? \" said \nshe. \" Why should we seek farther for the site of our \nTemple?\" \n\nIt was indeed a delightful spot of earth, though \nimdistingviished by any very prominent beauties, be- \ning merely a nook in the shelter of a hill, with the \nprospect of a distant lake in one direction, and of a \nchurch spire in another. There were vistas and path- \nways leading onward and onward into the green wood- \nlands, and vanishing away in the glimmering shade. \n\n\nTHE LILY'S QUEST. 4^7 \n\nThe Temple, if erected here, would look towards the \nwest : so that the lovers could shape all sorts of mag- \nniiicent dreams out of the purple, violet, and gold of \nthe sunset sky ; and few of their anticipated pleasures \nwere dearer than this sport of fantasy. \n\n\" Yes,\" said Adam Forrester, \" w^e might seek all \nday and find no lovelier spot. We wdll build our \nTemple here.\" \n\nBut their sad old companion, who had taken his \nstand on the very site which they proposed to cover \nwith a marble floor, shook his head and f ro^Tied ; and \nthe yoimg man and the Lily deemed it ahuost enough \nto blight the spot, and desecrate it for their airy Tem- \nple, that his dismal figure had thro'»\\Ti its shadow there. \nHe pointed to some scattered stones, the remnants of \na former structure, and to flowers such as yomig girls \ndelight to nurse in their gardens, but which had now \nrelapsed into the wild simplicity of nature. \n\n\"Not here! \" cried old Walter Gascoigne. \" Here, \nlong ago, other mortals built their Temple of Happi- \nness. Seek another site for yours ! \" \n\n\" What ! \" exclaimed Lilias Fay. \" Have any ever \nplanned such a Temple save ourselves ? \" \n\n\" Poor child ! \" said her gloomy kinsman. \" In \none shape or other, every mortal has dreamed yoiu' \ndream.\" \n\nThen he told the lovers how, not, indeed, an antique \nTemple, but a dwelling, had once stood there, and that \na dark-clad guest had dwelt among its inmates, sitting \nforever at the fireside, and poisoning all their house- \nhold mirth. Under tliis ty[3e, Adam Forrester and \nLilias saw that the old man spake of Sorrow. He told \nof nothing that might not be recorded in the history \n\nof almost every household ; and yet his hearers felt \nVOL. I. 32 \n\n\n498 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nas if no sunshine ought to fall upon a spot where \nhiunan grief had left so deep a stain ; or, at least, \nthat no joyous Temple should be built there. \n\n\" This is very sad,\" said the Lily, sighing. \n\n\" Well, there are lovelier spots than this,\" said \nAdam Forrester, soothingly, — \" spots which sorrow \nhas not blighted.\" \n\nSo they hastened away, and the melancholy Gas- \ncoigne followed them, looking as if he had gathered \nup all the gloom of the deserted spot, and was bearing \nit as a burden of inestimable treasure. But still they \nrambled on, and soon found themselves in a rocky \ndell through the midst of which ran a streamlet with \nripj)le and foam, and a con tin vial voice of inarticidate \njoy. It was a wild retreat, walled on either side with \ngray precipices, which would have frowned somewhat \ntoo sternly, had not a profusion of green shrubbery \nrooted itself into their crevices, and wreathed glad- \nsome foliage around their solemn brows. But the \nchief joy of the dell was in the little stream, which \nseemed like the presence of a bhssful child, with noth- \ning earthly to do save to babble merrily and disport \nitself, and make every living soul its playfellow, and \nthrow the sunny gleams of its spirit upon all. \n\n\"Here, here is the spot ! \" cried the two lovers with \none voice as they reached a level space on the brink of \na small cascade. \" This glen was made on purpose \nfor our Temple ! \" \n\n\" And the glad song of the brook will be always in \nour ears,\" said Lilias Fay. \n\n\" And its long melody shall sing the bliss of our \nlifetime,\" said Adam Forrester, \n\n\" Ye must build no Temple here ! \" murmured theii \ndismal companion. \n\n\nTHE LILY'S QUEST. 499 \n\nAnd there again was the old lunatic, standing just \non the spot where they meant to rear their lightsome \ndome, and looking like the embodied symbol of some \ngreat woe, that, in forgotten days, had happened there. \nAnd, alas ! there had been woe, nor that alone. A \nyoung man, more than a hundred years before, had \nlured hither a girl that loved him, and on this spot \nhad murdered her, and washed his bloody hands in \nthe stream which sung so merrily. And ever since \nthe victim's death shrieks were often heard to echo \nbetween the cliffs. \n\n\" And see ! \" cried old Gascoigne, \" is the stream \nyet pure from the stain of the murderer's hands ? \" \n\n\"Metliinks it has a tinge of blood,\" faintly an- \nswered the Lily ; and bemg as slight as the gossamer, \nshe trembled and clvmg to her lover's arm, whispering, \n\" Let us flee from tliis dreadfid vale ! \" \n\n\" Come, then,\" said Adam Forrester, as cheerily as \nhe could, \" we shall soon find a happier spot.\" \n\nThey set forth again, yoimg Pilgrims on that quest \nwhich millions — which every child of Earth — has \ntried in turn. And were the Lily and her lover to be \nmore fortunate than all those millions ? For a Ions' \ntime it seemed not so. The dismal shape of the old \nlunatic still glided behind them ; and for every spot \nthat looked lovely in their eyes, he had some legend \nof hmnan wrong or suffering, so miserably sad that \nhis auditors could never afterwards connect the idea \nof joy %vith the place where it had happened. Here, \na heart-broken woman, kneeling to her child, had been \nspurned from his feet ; here, a desolate old creature \nhad prayed to the evil one, and had received a fiend- \nish malignity of soul in answer to her prayer ; here, \na new-born infant, sweet blossom of life, had been \n\n\n500 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nfound dead, with the imi3ress of its mother's fingers \nroimd its throat ; and here, under a sliattered oak, two \nlovers had been stricken by lightning, and fell black- \nened corpses in each other's arms. The dreary Gas- \ncoig-ne had a gift to know whatever evil and lament- \nable thing had stained the bosom of Mother Earth ; \nand when his funereal voice had told the tale, it ap- \npeared like a prophecy of futm^e woe as well as a tra- \ndition of the past. And now, by their sad demeanor, \nyou woidd have fancied that the pilgrim lovers were \nseeldng, not a temple of earthly joy, but a tomb for \nthemselves and their posterity. \n\n\" Where in tliis world,\" exclaimed Adam Forrester, \ndespondingiy, \" shall we build our Temple of Happi- \nness ? \" \n\n\" Where in this world, indeed ! \" repeated Lihas \nFay; and being faint and weary, the more so by the \nheaviness of her heart, the Lily drooped her head and \nsat down on the summit of a knoll, repeating, \" Where \nin this world shall we build our Temple ? \" \n\n\" Ah ! have you already asked yourselves that ques- \ntion ? \" said their companion, his shaded features grow- \ning even gloomier with the smile that dwelt on them ; \n\"yet there is a place, even in this world, where ye \nmay build it.\" \n\nWhile the old man spoke, Adam Forrester and \nLilias had carelessly thrown their eyes around, and \nperceived that the spot where they had chanced to \npause possessed a quiet charm, which was well enough \nadapted to their present mood of mind. It was a \nsmall rise of groimd, \\\\dth a certain regularity of \nshape, that had perhaps been bestowed by art ; and a \ngroup of trees, which almost surrounded it, threw their \npensive shadows across and far beyond, although some \n\n\nTHE LILY'S QUEST. 501 \n\nsoftened glory of the sunshine found its way there. \nThe ancestral mansion, wherein the lovers wovdd dwell \ntogether, appeared on one side, and the ivied church, \nwhere they were to worship, on another. Happening \nto cast their eyes on the groimd they smiled, yet with \na sense of wonder, to see that a pale lily was growing \nat their feet. \n\n\" We will build our Temple here,\" said they, simul- \ntaneously, and with an indescribable conviction that \nthey had at last found the very spot. \n\nYet, while they uttered this exclamation, the yoimg \nman and the Lily turned an apprehensive glance at \ntheir dreary associate, deeming it hardly possible that \nsome tale of eartlily affliction should not make those \nprecincts loathsome, as in every former case. The \nold man stood just behind them, so as to form the \neliief figure in the group, with his sable cloak muffling \nthe lower part of his visage, and his sombre hat over- \nshadowing his brows. But he gave no word of dissent \nfrom their purpose ; and an inscrutable smile was ac- \ncepted by the lovers as a token that here had been no \nfootjarint of guilt or sorrow to desecrate the site of \ntheir Temple of Happiness. \n\nIn a little time longer, wliile summer was still in \nits prime, the fairy structure of the Temple arose on \nthe summit of the knoll, amid the solemn shadows of \nthe trees, yet often gladdened mth bright smishine. \nIt was built of white marble, with slender and grace- \nfid pillars supporting a vaulted dome ; and beneath \nthe centre of this dome, upon a pedestal, was a slab of \ndark^veined marble, on which books and music might \nbe strewn. But there was a fantasy among the people \nof the neighborhood that the edifice was planned after \nan ancient mausoleum and was intended for a tomb, \n\n\n502 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nand that the central slab of dark-veined marble was \nto be inscribed with the names of buried ones. They \ndoubted, too, whether the form of Lilias Fay could \nappertam to a creature of this earth, being so very \ndelicate, and growing every day more fragile, so that \nshe looked as if the summer breeze should snatch her \nup and waft her heavenward. But still she watched \nthe daily growth of the Temple ; and so did old Wal- \nter Gascoigne, who now made that spot his continual \nhaunt, leaning whole hours together on his staff, and \ngiving as deep attention to the work as though it had \nbeen indeed a tomb. In due time it was finished, and \na day appointed for a simple rite of dedication. \n\nOn the preceding evening, after Adam Forrester \nhad taken leave of his mistress, he looked back to- \nwards the portal of her dwelling, and felt a strange \nthrill of fear ; for he imagined that, as the setting \nsunbeams faded from her figure, she was exhaling \naway, and that something of her ethereal substance \nwas withdrawn with each lessening gleam of light. \nWith his farewell glance a shadow had fallen over \nthe portal and Lilias was invisible. His foreboding \nspirit deemed it an omen at the time, and so it proved ; \nfor the sweet earthly form, by which the Lily had \nbeen manifested to the world, was found lifeless the \nnext morning in the Temple, with her head resting \non her arms, which were folded upon the slab of dark- \nveined marble. The chill winds of the earth had long \nsince breathed a blight into this beautiful flower, so \nthat a lo\\ang hand had now transplanted it, to blos- \nsom brightly in the garden of Paradise. \n\nBut alas, for the Temple of Happiness ! In his mi- \nutterable grief, Adam Forrester had no purpose more \nat heart than to convert this Temple of many delight- \n\n\nTHE LILY'S QUEST. 603 \n\nful hopes into a tomb, and bury his dead mistress \nthere. And lo ! a wonder ! Digging a grave beneath \nthe Temple's marble floor, the sexton found no virgin \nearth, such as was meet to receive the maiden's dust, \nbut an ancient sepulchre, in which were treasured up \nthe bones of generations that had died long ago. \nAmong those forgotten ancestors was the Lily to be \nlaid. And when the funeral procession brought Lilias \nthither in her coffin, they beheld old Walter Gascoigne \nstanding beneath the dome of the Temple, with his \ncloak of pall and face of darkest gloom ; and where- \never that figure might take its stand the spot would \nseem a sepidchre. He watched the mourners as they \nlowered the coffin down. \n\n\" And so,\" said he to Adam Forrester, with the \nstrange smile in which his insanity was wont to gleam \nforth, \" you have f oimd no better foundation for your \nhaj)piness than on a grave ! \" \n\nBut as the Shadow of Afdiction spoke, a vision of \nHope and Joy had its birth in Adam's mind, even \nfrom the old man's tamiting words ; for then he knew \nwhat was betokened by the parable in which the Lily \nand himself had acted ; and the mystery of Life and \nDeath was opened to him. \n\n\" Joy ! joy ! \" he cried, throwing his arms towards \nheaven, \" on a grave be the site of our Temple ; and \nnow our happiness is for Eternity ! \" \n\nWith those words, a ray of sunshine broke through \nthe dismal sky, and glimmered down into the sepul- \nchre ; while, at the same moment, the shape of old \nWalter Gascoigne stalked drearily away, because his \ngloom, symbolic of all eartlily sorrow, might no longer \nabide there, now that the darkest riddle of hmnanity \nwas read. \n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. \n\nIt must be a spirit much unlike my own which can \nkeep itself in health and vigor without sometimes \nstealing from the sultry sunshine of the world, to \nplunge into the cool bath of solitude. At intervals, \nand not luifrequent ones, the forest and the ocean smn- \nmon me — one with the roar of its waves, the other \nwith the murmur of its boughs — forth from the \nhaimts of men. But I must wander many a mile ere \nI could stand beneath the shadow of even one prime- \nval tree, much less be lost among the multitude of \nhoary trunks, and hidden from earth and sky by the \nmystery of darksome foliage. Nothing is witliin my \ndaily reach more like a forest than the acre or two of \nwoodland near some suburban farm-house. When, \ntherefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a neces- \nsity within me, I am drawn to the sea-shore, which \nextends its line of rude rocks and seldom trodden \nsands for leagues around our bay. Setting forth at \nmy last ramble on a September morning, I bound my- \nself with a hermit's vow to interchange no thoughts \nwith man or woman, to share no social pleasure, but \nto derive all that day's enjoyment from shore and sea \nand sky, — from my soul's communion with these, and \nfrom fantasies and recollections, or anticipated reali- \nties. Surely here is enough to feed a hmnan spirit \nfor a single day. Farewell, then, busy world ! Till \nyour evening lights shall shine along the street, — till \nthey gleam upon my sea-flushed face as I tread home- \n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 505 \n\nward, — free me from your ties, and let me be a \npeaceful outlaw. \n\nHighways and cross paths are hastily traversed ; \nand, clambering down a crag, I find myself at the \nextremity of a long beach. How gladly does the \nspirit leap forth and suddenly enlarge its sense of \nbeing to the full extent of the broad, blue, sunny \ndeep ! A greeting and a homage to the Sea ! I de- \nscend over its margin and dip my hand into the wave \nthat meets me, and bathe ray brow. That far-resound- \ning roar is Ocean's voice of welcome. His salt breath \nbrings a blessing along with it. Now let us pace to- \ngether— the reader's fancy arm-in-arm with mine — \nthis noble beach, which extends a mile or more from \nthat craggy promontory to yonder rampart of broken \nrocks. In front, the sea; in the rear, a precipitous \nbank, the grassy verge of which is breaking away, \nyear after year, and flings down its tufts of verdure \nupon the barrenness below. The beach itself is a \nbroad space of sand, brown and sparlding, with hardly \nany pebbles intermixed. Near the water's edge there \nis a wet margin, which glistens brightly in the sun- \nshine, and reflects objects like a mirror ; and as we \ntread along the glistening border, a dry spot flashes \naroimd each footstep, but grows moist again as we lift \nour feet. In some spots the sand receives a complete \nimpression of the sole — square toe and all ; else- \nwhere it is of such marble firmness that we must \nstamp heavily to leave a print even of the iron-shod \nheel. Along the whole of tliis extensive beach gam- \nbols the surf wave ; now it makes a feint of dashing \nonward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek murmur, \nand does but kiss the strand ; now, after many such \nabortive efforts, it rears itself up in an luibroken line, \n\n\n506 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nheightening as it advances, without a speck of foam \non its green crest. With how fierce a roar it flings \nitself forward, and rushes far up the beach ! \n\nAs I threw my eyes along the edge of the surf I \nremember that I was startled, as Robinson Crusoe \nmight have been, by the sense that human life was \nwithin the magic circle of my solitude. Afar off in \nthe remote distance of the beach, appearing like sea- \nnymphs or some airier things such as might tread \nupon the feathery spray, was a group of girls. Hardly \nhad I beheld them when they passed into the shadow \nof the rocks and vanished. To comfort myself — for \ntruly I would fain have gazed a while longer — I made \nacquaintance with a flock of beach birds. These little \ncitizens of the sea and air preceded me by about a \nstone's throw along the strand, seeking, I suppose, for \nfood upon its margin. Yet, with a philosophy which \nmankind would do well to imitate, they drew a con- \ntinual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. The \nsea was each little bird's great playmate. They \nchased it downward as it swept back, and again ran \nup swiftly before the impending wave, which some- \ntimes overtook them and bore them off their feet. \nBut they floated as lightly as one of their own feathers \non the breaking crest. In their airy flutterings they \nseemed to rest on the evanescent spray. . Their images \n— long-legged little figures, with gray backs and snowy \nbosoms — were seen as distinctly as the realities in \nthe mirror of the glistening strand. As I advanced \nthey flew a score or two of yards, and, again alighting, \n. recommenced their dalliance with the surf wave ; and \nthus they bore me company along the beach, the types \nof pleasant fantasies, till, at its extremity, they took \nwing over the ocean and were gone. After forming a \n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 507 \n\nfriendship mth these small surf spirits, it is really \nworth a sigh to find no memorial of them save their \nmidtitiidinous little tracks in the sand. \n\nWhen we have paced the length of the beach it is \npleasant and not improfitable to retrace our steps, and \nrecall the whole mood and occupation of the mind \nduring the former passage. Our tracks being all dis- \ncernible will guide us with an observing consciousness \nthrough every unconscious wandering of thought and \nfancy. Here we followed the surf in its reflux to \npick up a shell which the sea seemed loath to relin- \nquish. Here we foimd a sea-weed, with an immense \nbrown leaf, and trailed it behind us by its long snake- \nlike stalk. Here we seized a live horseshoe by the tail, \nand coimted the many claws of the queer monster. \nHere we dug into the sand for pebbles, and skipped \nthem upon the siu'face of the water. Here we wet \nour feet while examining a jelly-fish which the waves, \nhaving just tossed it up, now sought to snatch away \nagain. Here we trod along the brink of a fresh-water \nbrooklet which flows across the beach, becoming shal- \nlower and more shallow, till at last it sinks into the \nsand and perishes in the effort to bear its little tribute \nto the main. Here some vagary appears to have be- \nwildered us ; for our tracks go roimd and round and \nare confusedly intermingled, as if we had found a \nlabyrinth upon the level beach. And here, amid our \nidle pastime, we sat down upon almost the only stone \nthat breaks the surface of the sand, and were lost in \nan unlooked-for and overpowering conception of the \nmajesty and awfulness of the great deep. Thus, by \ntracking our footprints in the sand, we track our own \nnature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon \nit, when it never dreams of being so observed. Such \nglances always make us wiser. \n\n\n508 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nThis extensive beach affords room for another pleas* \nant pastime. With your staff you may write verses — \nlove verses, if they please you best — and consecrate \nthem with a woman's name. Here, too, may be in- \nscribed thoughts, feelings, desires, warm outgusliings \nfrom the heart's secret places, which you would not \npour upon the sand without the certainty that, almost \nere the sky has looked upon them, the sea will wash \nthem out. Stir not hence till the record be effaced. \nNow — for there is room enough on your canvas — \ndraw huge faces — huge as that of the Sphmx on \nEgyptian sands — and fit them with bodies of cor- \nresponding immensity, and legs which might stride \nhalf-way to yonder island. Child's play becomes mag- \nnificent on so grand a scale. But, after all, the most \nfascinating employment is simply to write your name \nin the sand. Draw the letters gigantic, so that two \nstrides may barely measure them, and three for the \nlong strokes ! Cut deep that the record may be per- \nmanent ! Statesmen and warriors and poets have \nspent their strength in no better cause than this. Is \nit accomplished ? Return then in an hour or two and \nseek for this mighty record of a name. The sea will \nhave swept over it, even as time rolls its effacing waves \nover the names of statesmen and warriors and poets. \nHark, the surf wave laughs at you ! \n\nPassing from the beach I begin to clamber over the \ncrags, making my difficult way among the ruins of a \nrampart shattered and broken by the assaidts of a \nfierce enemy. The rocks rise in every variety of atti- \ntude : some of them have their feet in the foam, and \nare shagged half-way upward with sea-weed ; some \nhave been hollowed almost into caverns by the im- \nwearied toll of the sea, which can afford to spend cen- \n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 609 \n\nturies in wearing away a rock, or even polishing a \npebble. One huge rock ascends in monumental shape, \nwith a face like a giant's tombstone, on which the veins \nresemble inscriptions, but in an unknown tongue. We \nwill fancy them the forgotten characters of an antedi- \nluvian race ; or else that Nature's own hand has here \nrecorded a mystery, which, could I read her language, \nwould make mankind the wiser and the happier. How \nmany a thing has troubled me with that same idea ! \nPass on and leave it unexplained. Here is a narrow \navenue, which might seem to have been hewn through \nthe very heart of an enormous crag, affording passage \nfor the rising sea to thunder back and forth, filling it \nwith tmnidtuous foam, and then leaving its floor of \nblack pebbles bare and glistening. In this chasm \nthere was once an intersecting vein of softer stone, \nwhich the waves have gnawed away piecemeal, while \nthe granite walls remain entire on either side. How \nsharply, and with what harsh clamor, does the sea rake \nback the pebbles, as it momentarily withdraws into its \nown depths ! . At intervals the floor of the chasm is \nleft nearly dry ; but anon, at the outlet, two or three \ngreat waves are seen struggling to get in at once ; \ntwo hit the walls athwart, while one rushes straight \nthrough, and all three thunder as if with rage and \ntriumph. They heap the chasm with a snow-drift of \nfoam and spray. While watching this scene, I can \nnever rid myself of the idea that a monster, endowed \nwith life and fierce energy, is striving to burst his \nway through the narrow pass. And what a contrast, \nto look through the stormy chasm, and catch a glimpse \nof the calm bright sea beyond ! \n\nMany interesting discoveries may be made among \nthese broken cliffs. Once, for example, I found a \n\n\n510 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ndead seal, which a recent tempest had tossed into the \nnook of the rocks, where his shaggy carcass lay rolled \nin a heap of eel-grass, as if the sea-monster sought to \nliide himself from my eye. Another time, a shark \nseemed on the point of leaping from the surf to swal- \nlow me ; nor did I, wholly without dread, aj)proach \nnear enougfh to ascertain that the man-eater had al- \nready met his own death from some fisherman in the \nbay. In the same ramble I encountered a bird — a \nlarge gray bird — but whether a loon, or a wild goose, \nor the identical albatross of the Ancient Mariner, w^as \nbeyond my ornithology to decide. It reposed so natur- \nally on a bed of dry sea-weed, with its head beside its \nwing, that I almost fancied it alive, and trod softly \nlest it should suddenly spread its wings skyward. But \nthe sea-bird would soar among the clouds no more, nor \nride upon its native waves, so I drew near and pulled \nout one of its mottled tail-feathers for a remembrance. \nAnother day, I discovered an immense bone wedged \ninto a chasm of the rocks ; it was at least ten feet \nlong, curved like a cimeter, bejewelled wdth barnacles \nand small sheU-fish, and partly covered wdth a growth \nof sea-weed. Some leviathan of former ages had used \nthis ponderous mass as a jawbone. Ciu'iosities of a \nminuter order may be observed in a deep reservoir, \nwhich is replenished with water at every tide, but be- \ncomes a lake among the crags, save when the sea is at \nits height. At the bottom of this rocky basin grow \nmarine plants, some of which tower high beneath the \nwater and cast a shadow in the simshine. Small fishes \ndart to and fro, and hide themselves among the sea- \nweed ; there is also a solitary crab, who appears to \nlead the life of a hermit, commiming with none of the \nother denizens of the place ; and likewise several five- \n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 611 \n\nfingers — for I know no other name than that which \nchildi'en give them. If your imagination be at all ac- \ncustomed to such freaks, you may look down into the \ndepths of this pool, and fancy it the mysterious depth \nof ocean. But where are the hulks and scattered tim- \nbers of sunken ships ? — where the treasures that old \nOcean hoards? — where the corroded cannon? — where \nthe corpses and skeletons of seamen who went down in \nstorm and battle ? \n\nOn the day of my last ramble (it was a September \nday, yet as warm as summer), what shoidd I behold \nas I approached the above described basin but three \ngirls sitting on its margin, and — yes, it is veritably so \n— laving their sno^vy feet in the sunny water ! These, \nthese are the warm realities of those three visionary \nshapes that flitted from me on the beach. Hark ! their \nmerry voices as they toss up the water with their feet ! \nThey have not seen me. I m-ust shrink beliind this \nrock and steal away again. \n\nIn honest truth, vowed to solitude as I am, there \nis somethino- in this encounter that makes the heart \nflutter with a strangely pleasant sensation. I know \nthese girls to be realities of flesh and blood, yet, \nglancing at them so briefly, they mingle like kindred \ncreatures with the ideal beings of my mind. It is \npleasant, likewise, to gaze do\\\\Ti from some high crag, \nand watch a group of cliildren, gathering pebbles and \npearly shells, and playing with the surf, as with old \nOcean's hoary beard. Nor does it infringe upon my \nseclusion to see yonder boat at anchor off the shore, \nswinging dreamily to and fro, and rising and sinking \nwith the alternate swell ; wliile the crew — four gen- \ntlemen, in roundabout jackets — are busy with their \nfishing-lines. But, with an inward antipathy and a \n\n\n512 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nheadlong flight, do I eschew the presence of any medi- \ntative stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim staff, \nhis sauntering step, his shy demeanor, his observant \nyet abstracted eye. From such a man, as if another \nself had scared me, I scramble hastily over the rocks, \nand take refuge in a nook which many a secret hour \nhas given me a right to call my own. I would do \nbattle for it even with the churl that should produce \nthe title deeds. Have not my musings melted mto its \nrocky walls and sandy floor, and made them a portion \nof myself ? \n\nIt is a recess in the line of cliffs, walled round by a \nrough, high precipice, which almost encircles and shuts \nin a little space of sand. In front, the sea appears as \nbetween the pillars of a portal. In the rear, the preci- \npice is broken and intermixed with earth, wliich gives \nnourishment not only to clinging and twining shrubs, \nbut to trees, that gripe the rock with their naked roots, \nand seem to struggle hard for footing and for soil \nenough to live upon. These are fir-trees ; but oaks \nhang their heavy branches from above, and throw \ndown acorns on the beach, and shed their withering \nfoliage upon the waves. At this autumnal season the \nprecipice is decked with variegated splendor ; trailing \nwreaths of scarlet flaunt from the summit downward ; \ntufts of yellow-flowering shrubs, and rose-bushes, with \ntheir reddened leaves and glossy seed berries, sprout \nfrom each crevice ; at every glance, I detect some new \nlight or shade of beauty, all contrasting with the stern, \ngray rock. A rill of water trickles down the cliff \nand fills a little cistern near the base. I drain it at a \ndraught, and find it fresh and pure. This recess shall \nbe my dining hall. And what the feast ? A few bis- \ncuits made savory by soaking them in sea- water, a tuft \n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE. 513 \n\nof samphire gathered from the beach, and an apple for \nthe dessert. By this time the little rill has filled its \nreservoir again ; and, as I quaff it, I thank God more \nheartily than for a civic banquet, that He gives me \nthe healthfid appetite to make a feast of bread and \nwater. \n\nDinner being over, I throw myself at length upon \nthe sand, and, basking in the sunshine, let my mind \ndisport itself at will. The walls of this my hermitage \nhave no tongue to tell my follies, though I sometimes \nfancy that they have ears to hear them, and a soid to \nsympathize. There is a magic in this spot. Dreams \nhavmt its precincts and flit around me in broad sun- \nlight, nor require that sleep shall blindfold me to real \nobjects ere these be visible. Here can I frame a story \nof two lovers, and make their shadows live before me \nand be mirrored in the tranquil water, as they tread \nalong the sand, leaving no footprints. Here, should I \nwill it, I can simunon up a single shade, and be myself \nher lover. Yes, dreamer, — but your lonely heart will \nbe the colder for such fancies. Sometimes, too, the \nPast comes back and finds me here, and in her train \ncome faces which were gladsome when I knew them, \nyet seem not gladsome now. Would that my hiding- \nplace were lonelier, so that the past might not find \nme ! Get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen \nto the murmur of the sea, — a melancholy voice, but \nless sad than yours. Of what mysteries is it telling ? \nOf sunken ships and whereabouts they lie ? Of isl- \nands afar and undiscovered, whose tawny children are \nunconscious of other islands and of continents, and \ndeem the stars of heaven their nearest neighbors? \nNothing of all this. What then ? Has it taiked for \n\nso many ages and meant nothing all the wliile ? No ; \nVOL. I. 33 \n\n\n514 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nfor those ages find utterance in the sea's unchanging \nvoice, and warn the listener to withdraw his interest \nfrom mortal vicissitudes, and let the infinite idea of \neternity pervade his soul. This is wisdom ; and, there- \nfore, will I spend the next half hour in shaping little \nboats of driftwood, and launching them on voyages \nacross the cove, with a feather of a sea-gull for a sail. \nIf the voice of ages tell me true, this is as wise an oc- \ncupation as to build ships of five hundred tons, and \nlaunch them forth upon the main, bound to \" far \nCathay.\" Yet, how would the merchant sneer at me ! \nAnd, after all, can such pliilosophy be true? Me- \ntliinks, I could find a thousand arguments against it. \nWell, then, let yonder shaggy rock, mid-deep in the \nsurf — see ! he is somewhat wrathful, — he rages and \nroars and foams — let that tall rock be my antagonist, \nand let me exercise my oratory like hun of Athens, \nwho bandied words with an angry sea and got the \nvictory. My maiden speech is a triumphant one ; for \nthe gentleman in sea-weed has nothing to offer in re- \nply, save an immitigable roaring. His voice, indeed, \nwill be heard a long while after mine is hushed. Once \nmore I shout and the cliffs reverberate the sound. Oh, \nwhat joy for a shy man to feel himself so solitary, that \nhe may lift his voice to its highest pitch without haz- \nard of a listener ! But, hush I — be silent, my good \nfriend ! — whence comes that stifled laughter ? It was \nmusical, — but how should there be such music in my \nsolitude? Looking upwards, I catch a glimpse of \nthree faces, peeping from the summit of the cliff, like \nangels between me and their native sky. Ah, fair \ngirls, you may make yourselves merry at my eloquence, \n— but it was my turn to smile when I saw your white \nfeet in the pool ! Let us keep each other's secrets. \n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE. 515 \n\nThe simshine has now passed from my hermitage, \nexcept a gleam ui^on the sand just where it meets the \nsea. A crowd of gloomy fantasies will come and \nhaunt me if I tarry longer here in the darkening \ntwilight of these gray rocks. This is a dismal place \nin some moods of the mind. Climb we, therefore, the \nprecipice, and pause a moment on the brink, gazing \ndown into that hollow chamber by the deep where we \nhave been, what few can be, sufficient to our own pas- \ntime — yes, say the word outright ! — self-sufficient to \nour own happiness. How lonesome looks the recess \nnow, and dreary too — like all other spots where hap- \npiness has been ! There lies my shadow in the depart- \ning sunsliine with its head upon the sea. I will pelt \nit with pebbles. A hit ! a hit ! I clap my hands \nin triimiph, and see ! my shadow clapping its unreal \nhands, and claiming the trimnph for itself. What a \nsimpleton must I have been all day, since my own \nshadow makes a mock of my fooleries ! \n\nHomeward ! homeward ! It is time to hasten home. \nIt is time ; it is time ; for as the sun sinks over the \nwestern wave, the sea grows melancholy, and the surf \nhas a saddened tone. The distant sails appear astray, \nand not of earth, in their remoteness amid the desolate \nwaste. My spirit wanders forth afar, but finds no \nresting-place and comes shivering back. It is time \nthat I were hence. But grudge me not the day that \nhas been spent in seclusion, which yet was not solitude, \nsince the great sea has been my companion, and the \nlittle sea-birds my friends, and the wind has told me \nbis secrets, and airy shapes have flitted aromid me \nin my hermitage. Such companionship works an \neffect upon a man's character, as if he had been \nadmitted to the society of creatures that are not \n\n\n516 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nmortal. And when, at noontide, I tread the crowded \nstreets, the influence of this day will still be felt ; so \nthat I shall walk among men kindly and as a brother, \nwith affection and sympathy, but yet shall not melt \ninto the indistinguishable mass of hmnan-kind. I shall \nthink my own thoughts, and feel my own emotions, \nand possess my individuality unviolated. \n\nBut it is good, at the eve of such a day, to feel and \nknow that there are men and women in the world. \nThat feeling and that knowledge are mine at this \nmoment ; for, on the shore far below me, the fishing \nparty have landed from their skiff, and are cooking \ntheir scaly prey by a fire of driftwood, kindled in the \nangle of two rude rocks. The three visionary girls \nare likewise there. In the deepening twilight, while \nthe surf is dashed near their hearth, the ruddy gleam \nof the fire throws a strangle air of comfort over the \nwild cove, bestrewn as it is with pebbles and sea-weed, \nand exposed to the \" melancholy main.\" Moreover, \nas the smoke climbs up the precipice, it brings with it \na savory smell from a pan of fried fish and a black \nkettle of chowder, and reminds me that my dinner was \nnothing but bread and water, and a tuft of samphire \nand an apple. Methinks the party might find room \nfor another guest at that flat rock which serves them \nfor a table ; and if spoons be scarce, I could pick up \na clamshell on the beach. They see me now ; and — \nthe blessing of a hungry man upon him ! — one of \nthem sends up a hospitable shout — halloo. Sir Soli- \ntary ! come down and sup with us ! The ladies wave \ntheir handkerchiefs. Can I decline ? No ; and be it \nowned, after all my solitary joys, that this is the sweet \nest moment of a Day by the Sea-Shore. \n\n\nEDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. \n\nThere is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy \nthan, while gazing at a figure of melancholy age, to \nrecreate its youth, and, without entirely obliterating \nthe identity of form and features, to restore those \ngraces which time has snatched away. Some old \npeople, especially women, so age-worn and woful are \nthey, seem never to have been young and gay. It is \neasier to conceive that such gloomy phantoms were \nsent into the world as withered and decrepit as we \nbehold them now, with sympathies only for pain and \ngrief, to watch at death-beds and weep at funerals. \nEven the sable garments of their ^\\ddowhood appear \nessential to their existence ; all their attributes com- \nbine to render them darksome shadows, creeping \nstrangely amid the sunshine of hiunaii life. Yet it is \nno unprofitable task to take one of these dolefid creat- \nures, and set fancy resolutely at work to brighten the \ndim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the \nashen cheek with rose color, and repair the shrunken \nand crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in \nthe old matron's elbow-chair. The miracle being \nwrought, then let the years roll back again, each sad- \nder than the last, and the whole weight of age and \nsorrow settle dowoi upon the youthful figure. Wrin- \nkles and furrows, the handwriting of Time, may thus \nbe deciphered, and fomid to contain deep lessons of \nthought and feeling. Such profit might be derived \nby a skilful observer from my much-respected friend, \n\n\n518 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nthe Widow Toothaker, a nurse of great repute, who \nhas breathed the atmosphere of sick-chambers and \ndying breaths these forty years. \n\nSee ! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth, \nwith her gown and upper petticoat drawn upward, \ngathering thriftly into her person the whole warmth \nof the fire, which, now at nightfall, begins to dissi- \npate the autumnal chill of her chamber. The blaze \nquivers capriciously in front, alternately glimmering \ninto the deepest chasms of her wrinkled visage, and \nthen permitting a ghostly dimness to mar the outlines \nof her venerable figure. And Nurse Toothaker holds \na teaspoon in her right hand, with which to stir up \nthe contents of a tmnbler in her left, whence steams \na vapory fragrance, abhorred of temperance societies. \nNow she sips — now stirs — now sips again. Her sad \nold heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of \nGeneva, which is mixed half and half with hot water, \nin the tumbler. All day long she has been sitting \nby a death-pillow, and quitted it for her home only \nwhen the spirit of her patient left the clay and went \nhomeward too. But now are her melancholy medita- \ntions cheered, and her torpid blood warmed, and her \nshoulders lightened of at least twenty ponderovis years, \nby a draught from the true Fountain of Youth in a \ncase bottle. It is strange that men should deem that \nfoimt a fable, when its liquor fills more bottles than \nthe congress water ! Sip it again, good nurse, and see \nwhether a second draught will not take off another \nscore of years, and perhaps ten more, and show us, \nin jour high-backed chair, the blooming damsel who \nplighted troths with Edward Fane. Get you gone. \nAge and Widowhood I Come back, unwedded Youth! \nBut, alas ! the charm will not work. In spite of fancy's \n\n\nEDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. 519 \n\nmost potent spell, I can see only an old dame cower- \ning over the lire, a picture of decay and desolation, \nwhile the November blast roars at her in the chimney, \nand fitfid showers rush suddenly against the window. \n\nYet there was a time when Rose Grafton — such \nwas the pretty maiden name of Nurse Toothaker — \npossessed beauty that woidd have gladdened this dim \nand dismal chamber as with sunshine. It won for her \nthe heart of Edward Fane, who has since made so \ngreat a figure in the world and is now a grand old \ngentleman, with powdered hair, and as gouty as a \nlord. These early lovers thought to have walked hand \nin hand through life. They had wept together for \nEdward's little sister Mary, whom Rose tended in her \nsickness, partly because she was the sweetest chUd \nthat ever lived or died, but more for love of him. She \nwas but three years old. Being such an infant, Death \ncould not embody his terrors m her little corpse ; nor \ndid Rose fear to touch the dead child's brow, though \nchill, as she curled the silken hair around it, nor to \ntake her tiny hand and clasp a flower within its fin- \ngers. Afterward, when she looked through the pane \nof glass in the coffin lid, and beheld Mary's face, it \nseemed not so much like death, or life, as like a wax- \nwork, wrought into the perfect image of a child asleep, \nand dreaming of its mother's smile. Rose thought \nher too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and \nwondered that an angel did not snatch up little Mary's \ncoffin, and bear the slumbering babe to heaven, and \nbid her wake immortal. But when the sods were laid \non little Maiy, the heart of Rose was troubled. She \nshuddered at the fantasy, that, in grasping the child's \ncold fingers, her virgin hand had exchanged a first \ngTeeting with mortality, and could never lose the \n\n\n520 TWICE-TOLD TALES \n\nearthly taint. How many a greeting since ! But as \nyet, she was a fair young girl, with the dew-drops of \nfresh feeling in her bosom ; and instead of Rose, which \nseemed too mature a name for her haK-opened beauty, \nher lover called her Rosebud. \n\nThe rosebud was destined never to bloom for Ed- \nward Fane. His mother was a rich and haughty dame \nwith all the aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. \nShe scorned Rose Grafton's humble parentage, and \ncaused her son to break his faith, though, had she let \nhim choose, he would have prized his Rosebud above \nthe richest diamond. The lovers parted, and have \nseldom met again. Both may have visited the same \nmansions, but not at the same time ; for one was bid- \nden to the festal hall, and the other to the sick-cham- \nber ; he was the guest of Pleasure and Prosjjerity, and \nshe of Anguish. Rose, after their separation, was \nlong secluded within the dwelling of Mr. Toothaker, \nwhom she married ^^ith the revengeful hope of break- \ning her false lover's heart. She went to her bride- \ngroom's arms with bitterer tears, they say, than young \ngirls ought to shed at the threshold of the bridal \nchamber. Yet, though her husband's head was getting \ngray, and his heart had been cliilled with an autumnal \nfrost. Rose soon began to love him, and wondered at \nher own conjugal affection. He was all she had to \nlove ; there were no children. \n\nIn a year or two, poor Mr. Toothaker was visited \nwith a wearisome infirmity, which settled in his joints, \nand made him weaker than a child. He crept forth \nabout his business, and came home at dinner time and \neventide, not wdth the manly tread that gladdens a \nwife's heart, but slowly, feebly, jotting do\\\\Ti each duU \nfootstep with a melancholy dub of his staff. We must \n\n\nEDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. 521 \n\npardon his pretty wife, if she sometimes blushed to \nown him. Her visitors, when they heard him coming, \nlooked for the appearance of some old, old man ; but \nhe dragged his nerveless limbs into the parlor — and \nthere was Mr. Toothaker ! The disease increasing, \nhe never went into the sunshine, save with a staff in \nhis right hand and his left on his wife's shoulder, \nbearing hea\\'ily dowaiward, like a dead man's hand. \nThus, a slender w^oman, still looking maiden-like, she \nsupported his tall, broad-chested frame along the path- \nway of their little garden, and plucked the roses for \nher gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly, as to \nan infant. His mind was palsied with liis body; its \nutmost energy was peevishness. In a few months \nmore, she helped him up the staircase, with a pause at \nevery step, and a longer one upon the landing-place, \nand a heavy glance behind, as he crossed the threshold \nof his chamber. He knew, poor man, that the pre- \ncincts of those four walls would thenceforth be his \nworld — liis world, his home, his tomb — at once a \ndw^elling and a burial-place, till he were borne to a \ndarker and a narrower one. But Rose was with him \nin the tomb. He leaned upon her in his daily passage \nfrom the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back \nagain from the weary chair to the joyless bed — his \nbed and hers — their marriage-bed ; till even this \nshort journey ceased, and his head lay all day upon \nthe pillow, and hers all night beside it. How long \npoor Mr. Toothaker was kept in misery ! Death \nseemed to draw near the door, and often to lift the \nlatch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull into the \nchamber, nodding to Rose, and pointing at lier hus- \nband, but still delayed to enter. •\" This bedridden \nwretch cannot escape me ! \" quoth Death. \"I will go \n\n\n522 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nforth and run a race with the swift, and fight a battle \nwith the strong, and come back for Toothaker at my \nleisure ! \" Oh, when the deliverer came so near, in the \ndidl anguish of her worn-out sympathies, did she never \nlong to Qvj, \" Death, come in ! \" \n\nBut, no ! We have no right to ascribe such a wish \nto our friend Rose. She never failed in a wife's duty \nto her poor sick husband. She murmured not, though \na glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to her as \nhim, nor answered peevishly, though his complaining \naccents roused her from her sweetest dream, only to \nshare his wretchedness. He knew her faith, yet nour- \nished a cankered jealousy ; and when the slow disease \nhad chilled all his heart, save one lukewarm spot, \nwhich Death's frozen fingers were searching for, his \nlast words were : \" What would my Rose have done \nfor her first love, if she has been so true and kind to \na sick old man like me ! \" And then his poor soul \ncrept away, and left the body lifeless, though hardly \nmore so than for years before, and Rose a widow, \nthough in truth it was the wedding-night that wid- \nowed her. She felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr. \nToothaker was buried, because his corpse had retained \nsuch a likeness to the man half alive, that she heark- \nened for the sad murmur of his voice, bidding her \nshift liis pillow. But all through the next winter, \nthough the gi'ave had held him many a month, she \nfancied him calling from that cold bed, \" Rose ! Rose ! \ncome put a blanket on my feet ! \" \n\nSo now the Rosebud was the Widow Toothaker. \nHer troubles had come early, and, tedious as they \nseemed, had passed before all her bloom was fled. \nShe was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or, \nwith a widow's cheerful gravity, she might have won \n\n\nEDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. 523 \n\na widower, stealing into his heart in the very guise of \nhis dead wife. But the Widow Toothaker had no \nsuch projects. By her watchings and continual cares \nher heart had become knit to her first husband with \na constancy which changed its very nature, and made \nher love him for his infirmities, and infirmity for his \nsake. When the palsied old man was gone, even her \nearly lover coidd not have supplied his place. She \nhad dwelt in a sick-chamber, and been the companion \nof a half -dead wretch, till she could scarcely breathe in \na free air, and felt ill at ease with the healthy and \nthe happy. She missed the fragrance of the doctor's \nstrdf . She walked the chamber with a noiseless foot- \nfall. If visitors came in she spoke in soft and sooth- \ning accents, and was startled and shocked by their \nloud voices. Often, in the lonesome evening, she \nlooked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with al- \nmost a hope of recognizing a ghastly face upon the pil- \nlow. Then went her thoughts sadly to her husband's \ngrave. If one impatient throb had ^vronged him in \nhis lifetime, — if she had secretly repined because \nher buoyant youth was imprisoned with his torpid age, \n— if ever, while slumbering beside him, a treacherous \ndream had admitted another into her heart, — yet the \nsick man had been preparing a revenge which the \ndead now claimed. On his painfid pillow he had cast \na spell around her ; his groans and misery had proved \nmore captivating charms than gayety and youthful \ngrace; in his semblance Disease itself had won the \nRosebud for a bride ; nor could liis death dissolve the \nnuptials. By that indissoluble bond she had gained a \nhome in every sick-chamber, and nowhere else: there \nwere her brethren and sisters ; tliither her husband \nBununoned her with that voice which had seemed to \n\n\n524 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nissue from the grave of Toothaker. At length she \nrecognized her destiny. \n\nWe have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the \nwidow ; now we see her in a separate and insulated \ncharacter ; she was, in all her attributes. Nurse Tooth- \naker. And Nurse Toothaker alone, with her own \nshrivelled lips, could make known her experience in \nthat capacity. What a history might she record of \nthe great sicknesses in which she has gone hand in \nhand with the exterminating angel ! She remembers \nwhen the small-pox hoisted a red banner on almost \nevery house along the street. She has witnessed when \nthe typhus fever swept off a whole household, young \nand old, all but a lonely mother, who vainly shrieked \nto follow her last loved one. Where would be Death's \ntriumph, if none lived to weep? She can speak of \nstrange maladies that have broken out, as if sponta- \nneously, but were found to have been imported from \nforeign lands, with rich silks and other merchandise, \nthe costliest portion of the cargo. And once, she rec- \nollects, the people died of what was considered a new \npestilence, till the doctors traced it to the ancient \ngrave of a young girl, who thus caused many deaths \na hundred years after her own burial. Strange, that \nsuch black mischief shoidd lurk in a maiden's grave ! \nShe loves to tell how strong men fight with fiery \nfevers, utterly refusing to give up their breath ; and \nhow consumptive virgins fade out of the world, \nscarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing \nthem to a far coiintry. Tell us, thou fearful woman ! \ntell us the death secrets ! Fain would I search out the \nmeaning of words, faintly gasped with intermingled \nsobs and broken sentences, half audibly spoken be- \ntween earth and the judgment seat ! \n\n\nEDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. 525 \n\nAn awful woman ! She is the patron saint of young \nphysicians, and the bosom friend of old ones. In \nthe mansions where she enters, the inmates provide \nthemselves black garments ; the coffin maker follows \nher ; and the bell tolls as she comes away from the \nthreshold. Death himself has met her at so many a \nbedside, that he puts forth his bony hand to greet \nNurse Toothaker. She is an awful woman I And, \noh ! is it conceivable, that this handmaid of human \ninfirmity and affliction — so darkly stained, so thor- \noughly imbued with all that is saddest in the doom of \nmortals — can ever again be bright and gladsome, \neven though bathed in the simshine of eternity ? By \nher long communion with woe has she not forfeited \nher inheritance of immortal joy ? Does any germ of \nbliss survive within her? \n\nHark ! — an eager knocking at Nurse Toothaker's \ndoor. She starts from her drowsy reverie, sets aside \nthe empty tumbler and teaspoon, and lights a lamp \nat the dim embers of the fire. Rap, rap, rap ! again ; \nand she hurries adown the staircase, wondering which \nof her friends can be at death's door now, since there \nis such an earnest messenger at Nurse Toothaker's. \nAgain the peal resounds, just as her hand is on the \nlock. \" Be quick. Nurse Toothaker ! \" cries a man on \nthe doorsteps ; \" old General Fane is taken with the \ngout in his stomach, and has sent for you to watch by \nhis death-bed. Make haste, for there is no time to \nlose ! \" \" Fane ! Edward Fane ! And has he sent for \nme at last ? I am ready ! I will get on my cloak \nand begone. So,\" adds the sable-gowned, ashen-^ds- \naged, funereal old figure, \" Edward Fane remembers \nhis Rosebud ! \" \n\nOur question is answered. There is a germ of bliss \n\n\n526 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nwithin her. Her long-hoarded constancy — her mem- \nory of the bliss that was — remaining amid the gloom \nof her after life like a sweet-smelling flower in a cof- \nfin, is a symbol that all may be renewed. In some \nhappier clime the Rosebud may revive again with aJl \nthe dewdrops in its bosom. \n\n\nTHE THREEFOLD DESTINY. \n\nA FAIRY LEGEISTD. \n\nI HAVE sometimes produced a singidar and not un- \npleasing effect, so far as my own mind was concerned, \nby imagining a train of incidents in wliicli the spirit \nand mechanism of the fairy legend slioidd be combined \nwith the characters and manners of familiar life. In \nthe little tale wliich follows, a subdued tinge of the \nwild and wonderful is thrown over a sketch of New \nEngland personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped, \nwithout entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. \nRather than a story of events claiming to be real, it \nmay be considered as an allegory, such as the wi\"iters \nof the last century would have expressed in the shape \nof an Eastern tale, but to which 1 have endeavored to \ngive a more life-like warmth than could be infused into \nthose fanciful pi'oductions. \n\nIn the twilight of a smnmer eve, a tall, dark figure, \nover which long and remote travel had thrown an out- \nlandish aspect, was entering a village, not in \" Fairy \nLonde,\" but within our own famdiar boimdaries. The \nstaff on which this traveller leaned had been his com- \npanion from the spot where it grew, in the jimgles of \nHindostan ; the hat that overshadowed liis sombre \nbrow had shielded him from the suns of Spain : but \nhis cheek had been blackened by the red-hot wind of \nan Arabian desert, and had felt the frozen breath of \nan Arctic region. Long sojourning amid wild and \n\n\n528 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ndangerous men, he still wore beneath his vest the ata- \nghan which he had once struck into the throat of a \nTurkish robber. In every foreign clime he had lost \nsomething of his New England characteristics ; and, \nperhaps, from every people he had unconsciously bor- \nrowed a new peculiarity ; so that when the world-wan- \nderer again trod the street of his native village it is \nno wonder that he passed mirecognized, though excit- \ning the gaze and curiosity of all. Yet, as his arm \ncasually touched that of a young woman who was \nwending her way to an evening lecture she started, \nand almost uttered a cry. \n\n\" Ralph Cranfield ! \" was the name that she half \narticulated. \n\n\" Can that be my old playmate. Faith Egerton ? \" \nthought the traveller, looking round at her figure, but \nwithout pausing. \n\nRalph Cranfield, from his youth upward, had felt \nhimself marked out for a high destiny. He had im- \nbibed the idea — we say not whether it were revealed \nto him by witchcraft, or in a dream of prophecy, or \nthat his brooding fancy had palmed its own dictates \nupon him as the oracles of a Sibyl ! — but he had im- \nbibed the idea, and held it firmest among his articles \nof faith, that three marvelloiis events of his life were \nto be confirmed to him by three signs. \n\nThe first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the \none on which his youthful imagination had dwelt most \nfondly, was the discovery of the maid who alone, of all \nthe maids on earth, could make him happy by her love. \nHe was to roam around the world till he shoidd meet \na beautiful woman wearing on her bosom a jewel in \nthe shape of a heart ; whether of pearl, or ruby, or \nemerald, or carbimcle, or a changeful opal, or perhaps \n\n\nTHE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 529 \n\na priceless diamond, Ralph Cranfield little cared, so \nloug as it were a heart of one peculiar shape. On \nencountering- this lovely stranger, he was boimd to \naddress her thus : \" Maiden, I have brought you a \nheavy heart. May I rest its weight on you ? \" And \nif she were his fated bride — if their kindred souls \nwere destined to form a union here below, which all \neternity shoidd only bind more closely — she would \nreply, with her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, — \n\" This token, which I have worn so long, is the assur- \nance that you may ! \" \n\nAnd, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief \nthat there was a mighty treasure liidden somewhere in \nthe earth, of which the burial-place would be revealed \nto none but him. When his feet should press upon \nthe mysterious spot, there would be a hand before him \npointing downward — whether carved of marble, or \nhewn in gigantic dimensions on tire side of a rocky \nprecipice, or perchance a hand of flame in empty air, \nhe could not tell ; but, at least, he w^ould discern a \nhand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath \nit the Latin word Effode — Dig ! and digging there- \nabouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones, \nor of whatever else the treasure might consist, would \nbe certain to reward his toil. \n\nThe third and last of the miraculous events in the \nlife of this hioh-destined man was to be the attainment \nof extensive influence and sway over his fellow-crea- \ntures. Whether he were to be a king and founder of \nan hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of a peo- \nple contending for their freedom, or the apostle of a \npurified and regenerated faith, was left for futurity to \nshow. As messengers of the sign by which Ralph \nCranfield might recogiiize the summons, three vener- \n\nTOL. I. 84 \n\n\n530 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\nable men were to claim audience of him. The chief \namong them, a dignified and majestic person, arrayed, \nit may be supposed, in the flowing garments of an an- \ncient sage, would be the bearer of a wand or prophet's \nrod. \"With this wand, or rod, or staff, the venerable \nsage would trace a certain figure in the air, and then \nproceed to make known his heaven-instructed message : \nwhich, if obeyed, must lead to glorious residts. \n\nWith this proud fate before him, in the flush of his \nimaginative youth, Ralph Cranfield had set forth to \nseek the maid, the treasure, and the venerable sage \nwith his gift of extended empire. And had he foimd \nthem ? Alas ! it was not with the aspect of a triumph- \nant man, who had achieved a nobler destiny than all \nhis fellows, but rather with the gloom of one strug- \ngling against peculiar and continual adversity, that he \nnow passed homeward to his mother's cottage. He \nhad come back, btit only for a time, to lay aside the \npilgrim's staff, trusting that his weary manhood would \nregain somewhat of the elasticity of youth, in the spot \nwhere his threefold fate had been foreshown him. \nThere had been few changes in the village ; for it \nwas not one of those thriving places where a year's \nprosperity makes more than the havoc of a century's \ndecay ; but like a gray hair in a yoimg man's head, \nan antiquated little town, full of old maids, and aged \nelms, and moss-grown dwellings. Few seemed to be \nthe changes here. The drooping elms, indeed, had a \nmore majestic spread ; the weather-blackened houses \nwere adorned with a denser thatch of verdant moss ; \nand doubtless there were a few more gravestones in \nthe burial ground, inscribed with names that had once \nbeen familiar in the village street. Yet, simiming up \nall the mischief that ten years had wrought, it seemed \n\n\nTHE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 531 \n\n\nli \n\n\nscarcely more than if Ealph Cranfielcl had gone fortl \nthat very morning, and dreamed a day-dream till the \ntwilight, and then tm-ned back again. But his heart \ngrew cold because the village did not remember him \nas he remembered the village. \n\n\" Here is the change ! \" sighed he, striking his hand \nupon his breast. \" Who is tliis man of thought and \ncare, weary with world-wandering and heavy with dis- \nappointed hopes ? The youth returns not, who went \nforth so joyously ! \" \n\nAnd now Kalph Cranfield was at his mother's gate, \nin front of the small house where the old lady, ^\\ith \nslender but sufficient means, had kept herself com- \nfortable during her son's long absence. Admitting \nhimself within the enclosure, he leaned against a \ngreat, old tree, trifling wdtli his own impatience, as \npeople often do in those intervals when years are \nsummed into a moment. He took a minute survey \nof the dwelling — its windows brightened with the \nsky gleam, its doorway, with the haK of a millstone \nfor a step, and the faintly-traced path waving thence to \nthe gate. He made friends again with his childhood's \nfriend, the old tree against which he leaned ; and \nglancing his eye adown its trvmk, beheld something \nthat excited a melancholy smile. It was a half oblit- \nerated inscription — the Latin word Effode — which \nhe remembered to have carved in the bark of the tree, \nwith a whole day's toil, when he had first begim to \nmuse about his exalted destiny. It might be accounted \na rather singular coincidence, that the bark just above \nthe inscription, had put forth an excrescence, shaped \nnot unlike a hand, with the forefinger pointing ob- \nliquely at the word of fate. Such, at least, was its \nappearance in the dusky light. \n\n\n532 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\"Now a credulous man,\" said Ralph Cranfield care- \nlessly to himself, \"might suppose that the treasure \nwhich I have sought round the world lies bui'ied, after \nall, at the very door of my mother's dwelling. That \nwould be a jest indeed ! \" \n\nMore he thought not about the matter ; for now the \ndoor was opened, and an elderly woman appeared on \nthe threshold, peering into the dusk to discover who it \nmight be that had intruded on her premises, and was \nstanduig in the shadow of her tree. It was Ralph \nCranfield's mother. Pass we over their greeting, and \nleave the one to her joy and the other to his rest, — \nif quiet rest be found. \n\nBut when morning broke, he arose with a troubled \nbrow ; for his sleep and his wakefidness had alike been \nfull of dreams. All the fervor was rekindled with \nwhich he had biu-ned of yore to unravel the threefold \nmystery of his fate. The crowd of his early visions \nseemed to have awaited him beneath his mother's roof, \nand thronged riotously around to welcome his return. \nIn the well-remembered chamber, on the pillow where \nhis infancy had slumbered, he had passed a wilder \nnight than ever in an Arab tent, or when he had re- \nposed his head in the ghastly shades of a haunted for- \nest. A shadowy maid had stolen to his bedside, and \nlaid her finger on the scintillating heart ; a hand of \nflame had glowed amid the darkness, pointing down- \nward to a mystery within the earth ; a hoary sage had \nwaved his prophetic wand, and beckoned the dreamer \nonward to a chair of state. The same phantoms, \nthough fainter in the daylight, still flitted about the \ncottage, and mingled among the crowd of familiar faces \nthat were drawn thither by the news of Ralph Cran- \nfield's return, to bid him welcome for his mother's \n\n\nTHE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 633 \n\nsake. There they found him, a tall, dark, stately man \nof foreign aspect, courteous in demeanor and mild of \nspeech, yet with an abstracted eye, which seemed often \nto snatch a glance at the invisible. \n\nMeantime the \\vidow Cranfield went bustling about \nthe house, full of joy that she again had somebody to \nlove, and be carefid of, and for whom she might vex \nand tease herself with the petty troubles of daily life. \nIt was nearly noon when she looked forth from the \ndoor, and descried three personages of note coming \nalong the street, through the hot sunshine and the \nmasses of elm-tree shade. At length they reached her \ngate and undid the latch. \n\n\"See, Ralph ! \" exclaimed she, with maternal pride, \n\" here is Squire Hawkwood and the two other select- \nmen, coming on purpose to see you ! Now do tell them \na good long story about what you have seen in foreign \nparts.\" \n\nThe foremost of the three visitors. Squire Hawk- \nwood, was a very pompous, but excellent old gentle- \nman, the head and prune mover in all the affairs of \nthe village, and universally acknowledged to be one \nof the sagest men on earth. He wore, according to \na fashion even then becoming antiquated, a three- \ncornered hat, and carried a silver-headed cane, the use \nof which seemed to be rather for flourishing in the air \nthan for assisting the progress of his legs. His two \ncompanions were elderly and respectable yeomen, who, \nretaining an ante-revolutionary reverence for rank and \nhereditary wealth, kept a little in the Squire's rear. \nAs they approached along the pathway, Ralph Cran- \nfield sat in an oaken elbow chair, half unconsciously \ngazing at the three visitors, and enveloping their \nhomely figures in the misty romance that pervaded \nhis mental world. \n\n\n534 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" Here,\" thought he, smiling at the conceit, \"here \ncome three eldei'ly personages, and the first of the \nihree is a venerable sage with a staff. What if this \nembassy should bring me the message of my fate ! \" \n\nWhile Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, \nRalph rose from his seat and advanced a few steps to \nreceive them , and his stately figure and dark coun- \ntenance, as he bent courteously towards his guests, had \na natural dignity, contrasting well with the bustling \nimportance of the Squire. The old gentleman, accord- \ning to invariable custom, gave an elaborate prelim- \ninary flourish with his cane in the air, then removed \nhis three-cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, and \nfinally proceeded to make known liis errand. \n\n\"My colleagues and myself,\" began the Squire, \n\" are burdened with momentous duties, being jointly \nselectmen of this village. Our minds, for the space \nof three days past, have been laboriously bent on the \nselection of a suitable person to fill a most important \noffice, and take upon himself a charge and rule which, \nwisely considered, may be ranked no lower than those \nof kings and potentates. And whereas you, our \nnative townsman, are of good natural intellect, and \nwell cultivated by foreign travel, and that certain va- \ngaries and fantasies of your youth are doubtless long \nago corrected ; taking' all these matters, I say, into \ndue consideration, we are of opinion that Providence \nhath sent you hither, at this juncture, for our very \npurpose.\" \n\nDuring this harangue, Cranfield gazed fixedly at \nthe speaker, as if he beheld something mysterious and \nunearthly in his pompous little figure, and as if the \nSquire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage, \ninstead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, \n\n\nTHE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 535 \n\nvelvet breeches and silk stockings. Nor was his won- \nder without sufficient cause ; for the floui'ish of the \nSquire's staff, marvellous to relate, had described pre- \ncisely the signal in the air which was to ratify the \nmessage of the prophetic Sage whom Cranfield had \nsought aroimd the world. \n\n\"And what,\" inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a \ntremor in his voice, \" what may this office be, which \nis to equal me with kings and potentates? \" \n\n\"No less than instructor of our village school,\" an- \nswered Squire Hawkwood ; \" the office being now \nvacant by the death of the venerable Master Whita- \nker, after a fifty years' incumbency.\" \n\n\" I will consider of your proposal,\" replied Ralph \nCranfield, hurriedly, \" and will make known my de- \ncision within three days.\" \n\nAfter a few more words the village dignitary and \nhis companions took their leave. But to Cranfield's \nfancy their images were still present, and became \nmore and more invested with the dim awf ulness of \nfigures which had first appeared to him in a dream, \nand afterwards had shown themselves in his wakinof \nmoments, assuming homely aspects among familiar \nthings. His mind dwelt upon the featiu-es of the \nSquire, till they grew confused with those of the vis- \nionary Sage, and one appeared but the shadow of the \nother. The same ^dsage, he now thought, had looked \nforth ujion him from the Pyramid of Cheops ; the \nsame form had beckoned to him among the colon- \nnades of the Alhambra ; the same figure had mistily \nrevealed itself through the ascending steam of the \nGreat Geyser. At every effort of his memorj\" he rec- \nognized some trait of the dreamy Messenger of Des- \ntiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important, little \n\n\n536 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\ngreat man of the village. Amid such musings Ralph \nCranfield sat all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing \nand vaguely answering his mother's thousand ques- \ntions about his travels and adventures. At sunset \nhe roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the \naged elm-tree, his eye was again caught by the sem- \nblance of a hand pointing downward at the half-ob- \nliterated inscription. \n\nAs Cranfield walked down the street of the village, \nthe level sunbeams threw liis shadow far before him ; \nand he fancied that as his shadow walked among dis- \ntant objects, so had there been a presentiment stalking \nin advance of liim throughout his life. And when he \ndrew near each object, over which his tall shadow had \npreceded him, still it proved to be one of the familiar \nrecollections of his infancy and youth. Every crook \nin the pathway was remembered. Even the more tran- \nsitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in \nby-gone days. A company of cows were grazing on \nthe grassy roadside, and refreshed him with their fra- \ngrant breath. \" It is sweeter,\" thought he, \" than \nthe perfume which was wafted to our ship from the \nSpice Islands. The round little figure of a child \nrolled from a doorway, and lay laughing almost be- \nneath Cranfield's feet. The dark and stately man \nstooped down and, lifting the infant, restored him to \nhis mother's arms. \" The children,\" said he to liim- \nseK — and sighed and smiled — \" the children are to \nbe my charge ! \" And while a flow of natural feeling \ngushed like a well-spring in his heart, he came to a \ndwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. A \nsweet voice, which seemed to come from a deep and \ntender soul, was warbling a plaintive little air within. \n\nHe bent his head and passed through the lowly \n\n\nTHE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 537 \n\ndoor. As his foot sounded upon the threshold, a \nyoung woman advanced from the dusky interior of \nthe house, at first hastily, and then with a more uncer- \ntain step, till they met face to face. There was a \nsingular contrast in their two figures : he dark and \npicturesque — one who had battled with the world, \nwhom all suns had shone upon, and whom all winds \nhad blown on a varied course ; she neat, comely, and \nquiet — quiet even in her agitation, as if all her \nemotions had been subdued to the peaceful tenor of \nher life. Yet their faces, all unlike as they were, had \nan expression that seemed not so alien, a glow of \nkindred feeling flashing upward anew from half -extin- \nguished embers. \n\n\" You are welcome home ! \" said Faith Egerton. \n\nBut Cranfield did not immediately answer ; for his \neye had been caught by an ornament in the shape of \na Heart which Faith wore as a brooch upon her \nbosom. The material was the ordinary white quartz ; \nand he recollected having liimself shaped it out of \none of those Indian arrowheads which are so often \nfound in the ancient haunts of the red men. It was \nprecisely on the pattern of that worn by the visionary \nMaid. When Cranfield departed on his shadowy \nsearch he had bestowed this brooch, in a gold setting, \nas a parting gift to Faith Egerton. \n\n\" So, Faith, you have kept the Heart ! \" said he at \nlength. \n\n\" Yes,\" said she, blushing deeply ; then more gayly, \n\" and what else have you brought me from beyond the \nsea ? \" \n\n\" Faith ! \" replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the \nfated words by an uncontrollable impidse, \" I have \nbrought you nothing but a heavy heart ! May I rest \nits weight on you? \" \n\n\n538 TWICE-TOLD TALES. \n\n\" This token which I have worn so long,\" said \nFaith, laying her tremulous finger on the Heart, \"is \nthe assurance that you may ! \" \n\n\" Faith ! Faith ! \" cried Cranfield, clasping her in \nhis arms, \" you have interpreted my wild and weary \ndream ! \" \n\nYes, the wild dream was awake at last. To find \nthe mysterious treasure, he was to till the earth around \nhis mother's dwelling, and reap its products ! Instead \nof warlike command, or regal or religious sway, he \nwas to rule over the village children ! And now the \nvisionary Maid had faded from his fancy, and in her \nplace he saw the playmate of his childhood ! Would \nall who cherish such wild wishes but look around \nthem, they would oftenest find their sphere of duty, \nof prosperity, and happiness, within those precincts \nand in that station where Providence itseK has cast \ntheir lot. Happy they who read the riddle without a \nweary world search, or a lifetime spent in vain 1 \n\n\nTHE END. \n\n\nt\\ \n\n\nPLEASE DO NOT REMOVE \nCARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET \n\nUNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY \n\n\nPS Hawthorne, Nathaniel \nIf^TO Twice-told tales \n\nAl cl3th ed.3 \n1886 \n\n\n","title":"Twice-told Tales","updated_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.082268Z","urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:twice-told-tales","version":1,"withdrawn_reason":null},"urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:twice-told-tales","version_history":[{"change_note":"accessioned from the Internet Archive, item twicetoldtales00hawtuoft","changed_by":"archive-ingest 0.1.0","recorded_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:26.477060Z","version":1}]}