Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022223261 _=1 nDO09e0 from an ®l& HDanee " He was as pale as Death." —Am. a., Vol. HI American tlutborg in i^rose anb ipoetri^ IN TWELVE VOLUMES MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE WITH FRONTISPIECE IN DUOGRAPH NEW YORK P. F. COLLIER fcf SON MCMIII 3 -pc /i7/57^^' ;Qg r»f t.hoA day! It had grown sacred in connection with the artificial 28 Hawthorne's woeks life against which we inveighed; it had been a home for many years in spite of all ; it was my home, too ; and, with these thoughts, it seemed to me_that_alHhe artiftce and con- V6iitionalism"oni!elvasTuran impalpable thinness upon its sm'Tace7'"aHTl~tbB*Hjh«--dep^"%elow^^ none the worse for _ Oidoe, ^s we~Turne3!^ur boat to the bank, there was a cloud in the shape of an immensely gigantic figure of a hound crouched above the house, as if keeping guard over it. Gaz- ing at this symbol, I prayed that the upper influences might long protect the institutions that had grown out of the heaxL r If ever my readers should decide to give up civilized life, cities, houses, and whatever moral or material enormities, in addition to these, the perverted ingenuity of our race has contrived, let it be in the early autumn. Then Nature will jlove him better than at any other season, and will take him to her bosom with a more motherly tenderness. I could scarcely endure the roof of the old house above me in those first autumnal days. How early in the summer, too, the prophecy of autumn comes! — earlier in some years than in others, sometimes even in the first weeks of July. There is no other feeling like what is caused by this faint doubtful yet real perception — if it be not, rather, a foreboding — of the year's decay, so blessedly sweet and sad in the same breath. !Did I say that there was no feeling like it? Ah! but there is I — a half-acknowledged melancholy like to this — when we fetand in the perfect vigor of our life, and feel that time has jiow given us all his flowers, and that the next work of his never-idle fingers must be to steal them one by one away ! ! I have forgotten whether the song of the cricket be not as early a token of autumn's approach as any other — that •song which may be called an audible stillness; for, though I very loud and heard afar, yet the mind does not take note of it as a sound, so completely is its individual existence merged among the accompanying characteristics of the season. Alas for the pleasant summer time! In August the grass is still verdant on the hills and in the valleys; tl;.i MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 20 foliage of the trees is as dense as ever and as green; the flowers gleam forth in richer abundance along the margin of the river and by the stone walls and deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid now as they were a month ago ; and yet in every breath of wind and in every beam of sunshine we hear the whispered farewell and behold the parting smile of a dear friend. There is a coolness amid all the heat — a mildness in the blazing noon. Not a breeze can stir but it thrills us with the breath of autumn. A pen- sive glory is seen in the far golden gleams, among the shad- ows of the trees. The flowers, even the brightest of them — and they are the most gorgeous of the year — ^have this gentle sadness wedded to their pomp, and typify the character of" the deliciotis time, each within itself. The brilliant cardinal- flower has never seemed gay to me, \ Still later in the season Nature's tenderness waxes stronger. It is impossible not to be fond of our mother now, for she is so fond of us. At other periods she does not make this impression on me, or only at rare intervals, but in those genial days of autumn, when she has perfected her harvests and accomplished every needful thing that was given her to do — then she overflows with a blessed super- fluity of love. She has leisure to caress her children now. It is good to J3fi_alive, and, at such times. Thank Heaven for breath! yes, for mere breath, when it is made up of a heavenly breeze like this. It comes with a real kiss upon our cheeks. It would linger fondly around us, if it might, but since it must be gone, it embraces us with its whole kindly heart and passes onward to embrace likewise the next things that it meets. A blessing is flung abroad and scat- tered far and wide over the earth, to be gathered up by all who choose. I recline upon the still unwithered grass and whisper to myself, "O perfect day! O beautiful world! O beneficent God !" And it is the promise of a blessedeternity, ' for our Creator woulffneyeThave made such lovely dayaSii? £ave giv epT us the deep hearte to enjoy them above and beyond all thought unTess^we j\rere m^ant to be imDaortal. 30 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS T his sunshine is the golden pledge thereof. It beams through the gates of pliraBG^^a^d^Kows usg^^ By an3"Fy^in a little time — the outward world puts on a drear austerity. On some October morning there is a heavy hoar-frost on the grass and along the tops of the fences, and at sunrise the leaves fall from the trees of our avenue without a breath of wind, quietly descending by their own weight. AH summer long they have murmured like the noise of waters; they have roared loudly while the branches were wrestling with the thunder-gust; they have made music both glad and solemn; they have attuned my thoughts by their quiet sound as I paced to and fro beneath the arch of intermingling boughs. Now, they can only rustle under my feet. Henceforth_the-grayj)arsonage ba-_ •"gins to assume a larger importance, and draws torEs~Bxeside — for the abomination of the air-tight stove is reserved till wintry weather — draws closer and closer to its fireside jjhe ^yagjajot impulses that had gone wandering about through jthe summer. j When summer was dead and buried, the Old Manse (became as lonely as a hermitage. Not that ever — in my ' time, at least — it; had been thronged with company. But at no rare intervals we welcomed some friend out of the dusty glare and tumult of the world and rejoiced to share with him the tran spajgBt_abggurity that was floating over us. In one respect our precincts were like the Enchanted Ground through which the pilgrim travelled on his wav t o the Celestial City. The guests, each and all, felt a slum- brous influence upon them; they fell asleep in chairs or took a more deliberate siesta on the sofa, or were seen stretched among the shadows of the orchard, looking up dreamily through the boughs. They could not have paid a more acceptable compliment to my abode, nor to my own quaU- ties as a host. I held it as a proof that they left their cares behind them as they passed between the stone gateposts at the entrance of our avenue, and that the so-powerful opiate was the abundance of peace and quiet within and all around MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 31 US. Others could give them pleasure and amusement or' instruction — these could be picked up anywhere — but it was for me to give them rest. Rest in a life of trouble! What better could be done for those weary and world- worn spirits? for him whose career of perpetual action was impeded and] harassed by the rarest of his powers and the richest of his acquirements? for another, who had thrown his ardent heart from earliest youth into the strife of politics, and now, pre- chance, began to suspect that one hfetime is too brief for the! accomplishment .of aaxififtS.J™^'' ^oi" ^^^ o^^ whose feminine nature had been imposed the heavy gift of intellectual power such as a strong man might have staggered under, and with it the necessity to act upon the world? In a word, not to multiply instances, what better could be done for anybody who came within our magic circle than to throw the spell of a magic spirit over him? And when it had wrought its full effect, then we dismissed him with but misty reminis- cences, as if he had been dreaming of us. Wgrg. I to adopt a pet idea, as so many people do, and fondle it in my embraces to the exclusion of all others^ it would be that the great want which mankind labors under at this present period is — sleep! The world should reclines its vast head on the first convenient pillow and take an age-j long nap. It has gone distracted through a morbid activity, ' and, while preternatura llv wide-awake, is nevertheless tor- mented by visions that"seem real to it now, butwouH a's- ^umo3EeiFTfil6''iaspTOt;aM''chira"^^^^^ all~"thmgs oiice, set right by an interval o/, sound repose. This is the only method of getting rid of old delusions and avoiding new ones — of regenerating our race, so that it might in due time awake as an infant out of dewy slumber, of restoring to us the simple perception of what is right and the single-hearted desire to achieve it, both of which have long been lost in con- sequence of this weary activity of brain and torpor or passion of the heart that now afflict the universe. Stimulants — the only mode of treatment hitherto attempted — cannot quell the disease; they do but heighten the delirium. S^ ftAWtHOENE'S WORKS Let not the above paragraph ever be quoted against the author, for, though tinctured with its modicum fof truth, it is the result and expression of what he knew, while he was writing it, to be but a distorted survey of the state and ucDspects of mankind. There were circumstances around (^which made it difficult to'view the woridnpfecisely as it exigtsj-f<»', severe "Sffd sober as^ was the DliT Manse, it was necessaiy^to go butra TOTe]wax,beyond its threshold before meeting with stranger moral shapes of men than migET hk,V6 beeifir^OTSouiitSfeS^. elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand miles. ' These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the widespreading influence of a great original thinker who had his earthly abode at the opposite extremity of our village. His mind acted upon other minds of a certain con- stitution with wonderful magnetism, and drew many men upon long pilgrimages to speak with him face to face. Young visionaries to whom just so much of insight had been im- parted as to make life all a labyrinth around them came to seek the clew that should guide them out of their self^ involved bewilderment. Gray-headed theorists whose sys- teSyat3ffiiF~aj3'^~Eaii flnally imprisoned them in an iron frame-work travelled painfully to his door, not to ask dehv- erance, but to invite the free spirit into their own thraldom. People that had lighted on a new thought or a thought that they fancied new came to Emerson, as the finder of a glit- tering gem hastens to a lapidary to ascertain its quality and value. Uncertain, troubled, earnest wanderers through the midnight of a moral world beheld its intellectual fire as a beacon burning on a hiUtop, and, climbing the difficult ascent, looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects unseen before— mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses of a creation among the chaos — but also, as was unavoidable, it attracted bats and owls, and the whole host of night-birds, which flapped their dusky wings against the gazer's eyes, and sometimes were mistaken for fowls of angelic feather. Such MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 33 delusions always hover nigh -whenever a beacon-fire of truth is kindlejd' Forjm;£self^_thOTehad been epochs of my Ufe when I too might have asked fifiluapr,Q|jhpt the master- word that should solv e me the riddle of t he uni verse, but n ow, being happy, I felt £13 if there were no question to be. put, and tEei?efOTe admired Emerson as a poet of -deep beauty and austere tenderness, but sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the wood-paths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure, intellectual gleam diffused about his presence like the garment of a shin- ing one, and he so quiet, so simple, so vsdthout pretension, encountering each man alive as if expecting to receive more than he could impart. A nd, in truth, the heart of many an ordinary man had, perchance, inscriptionswhichTEe could not read. But it was impossible to dwell in bis vicinity without inhaling more or less the mountain-atmosphere of his lofty thought, which in the brains of some people wrought a singular giddiness, new truth being as heady as new wine. Never was a poor little country village infested with such a variety of queer, strangely-dressed, oddly-behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves to be important agents of the world's destiny, yet were simply bores of a very intense water. Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of per- sons who crowd so closely about an original thinker as to draw in his unuttered breath, and thus to become imbued with a false originality. This triteness ^f„ novelty is enough to make any man of common sense blaspheme at all ,ids.as oFTepTi^ffla century's standing, and"pr^Jhat the world may be petrified and rendered immovable in precisely the worst moral and physical Btate that it^ ever yet arrived at rather than Be benefited by such schemes of such philosophers. " And now I begin to feel — and perhaps should have sooner felt — ^that we have talked enough of the Old Manse. Mine honored reader, it may be, will vilify the poor author as an egotist for babbling through so many pages about a moss- grown country parsonage, and his life within its walls and 34 Hawthorne's works on the river and in the woods, and the InfluenceB that wrought upon him from all these sources. My conscience, however, does not reproach me with betraying anything too sacredly individual to be revealed by a human spirit to its brother or sister-spirit. How narrow — how shallow and scanty too — is the stream of thought that has been flowing from my pen, compared with the broad tide of dim emotions, ideas and associations which swell around me from that portion of my existence ! How little have I told! and of that little, how almost nothing is even tinctured with any quahty that makes it exclusively my own I Has the reader gone wandering hand in hand with me through the inner passages of my being, and have we groped to- gether into all its chambers and examined their treasures or their rubbish? Not so. We have been standing on the green feward, but just within the cavern's mouth, where the common sunshine is free to penetrate, and where every footstep is therefore free to come. I have appealed Jo^no sentiment or sensibilities save such as are diffused among us all. So far as I am a man of really individual attributes, I veil my face, nor am I, nor have I ever been, one of those supremely hospitable people who serve up their own hearts delicately fried, with brain sauce, as a tidbit for their beloved public. ""Glancing back over what I have written, it seems but the scattered reminiscences of a single summer. In fairy- land there is no measurement of time, and in a spot so sheltered from the turmoil of life's ocean three years hasten away with a noiseless flight, as the breezy sunshine chases the cloud-shadows across the depths of a still valley. Now came hints, growing more and more distinct, that the owner of the old house was pining for his native air. Carpenters next appeared, making a tremendous racket among the out- buildings, strewing green grass with pine-shavings and chips of chestnut joints, and vexing the whole antiquity of the place with their dis cordant renovations. ' Soon, moreover they divested our abode of the veirbf woodbine which had MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 36 crept over a large portion of its southern face. All the aged mosses were cleared unsparingly away, and there were hor- riBle^wTESBpere^aBouTTniihing up the external walls with a coat of paint — a purpose as little to my taste as might be that of rouging the venerable cheeks of one's grandmother. But the hand that renovates is always more sacrilegious t han tha t wEich'" destroys, la fine, we gathered up our householagoods, drank a farewell cup of tea, in our pleas- ant little breakfast-room — delicately fragrant tea, an unpur- chasable luxury, one of the many angel-gifts that had fallen like dew upon us — and passed forth between the tall stone gateposts as uncertain as the wandering Arabs where our tent might next be pitched. Providence took me by the hand, and — an oddity of dispensation which, I trust, there is no irreverence in smUing at — has led me, as the news- papers announce while I am writing from the Old Manse, into a custom-house. As a story-teller I have often con- trived strange vicissitudes for my imaginary personages, but none like this. The treasure of intellectual gold which I had hoped to find in our secluded dwelling had never come to light. No profound treatise of ethics, no philosophic history — no novel, even, that could stand unsupported on its edges. All that I had to show, as a man of letters, were t hese few igJLea^Jid essaya which had blossomed^out like,, flowers in the calm sumaaeE of jny heart and mind. Save editing (an easy task) the journal of my friend of many years, the African Cruiser, I had done nothing else. "With these idle weeds and wither- ing blossoms I have intermixed some that were produced long ago — old, faded things, reminding me of flowers pressed between the leaves of a book — and now offer the bouquet, such as it is, to any whom it may please. TJIhese^fijiful. sketches, with so little of external life about them, yet claiming 'no profunHity of purpose, so^Served^ven* While tKey'&SmeSm^s^irir^q frank, often but half in earnfig^fcj and neiver, when most so, expressing jgij^fasJonlyt^Jbou which they profess to image — such trifies, I truly feel, af- 36 Hawthorne's works ford no solid basis for a literary reputation. NeverthelesBj the public— if my limited number of readers, whom I ven- ture to regard rather as a circle of friends, may be termed a public — will receive them the more kindly as the last offer- ing, the last collection, of this nature which it is my purpose ever to put forth. Unless I could do better, I have done enough in this kind. For myself, the book will always retain one charm, as reminding me of the river with its delightf td solitudes, and of the avenue, the garden and the orchard, and especially the dear Old Manse, with the Uttle study on its western side and the sunshine glimmering through the willow-branches while I wrote. Let the reader, if he wiU do me so much honor, imagine himself my guest, and that, having seen whatever may be worthy of notice witliin and about the Old Manse, he has finally been ushered into my study. There, after seating him in an a,ntique elbow-chair — an heirloom of the house — I take forth a roll of manuscript, and entreat his attention to the following tales — an act of personal inhospitality, how- ever, which I never was guilty of, nor ever will be even to worst my enemy. THE BIRTHMARK !N" the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science — an eminent proficient in every branch of nat- ural philosophy — who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual aflBnity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace-smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days, when the comparatively recent discovery of elec- tricity, and other kindred mysteries of nature, seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE HI depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the im- agination, the spirit, and even the heart, might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force, and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer pos- sessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control over nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any sec- ond passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two, but it could only be by intertwining it- self with his love of science and uniting the strength of the latter to its own. Sudh a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger, until he spoke. "Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?" "No, indeed," said she smihng; but, perceiving the seri- ousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth, it has been so often called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so." "Ah! upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband, "but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana; you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect — which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty — shocks me as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection." "Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt, at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot love what shocks you." To explain this conversation it must be mentioned that in the centre of Georgiana's left cheek there was a singular 38 HAWTHOKNE*S WORKS mark deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In the usual state of her complexion — a healthy though delicate bloom — ^the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness. "When she blushed, it gradually be- came more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the tri- umphant rush of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But if any shifting emotion caused her to turn pale, there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an al- most fearful distinctness. Its shape bore not a Uttle simi- larity to the human hand, though of the smallest pigmy size. Georgiana's lovers were wont to say that some fairy at her birth-hour had laid her tiny hand upon the infant's cheek, and left this impress there in token of the magic en- dowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a desperate swain would have risked hfe for the priv- ilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by this fairy sign-manual varied exceedingly according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidious persons — ^but they were exclusively of her own sex~ affirmed that the bloody hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the effect of Georgiana's beauty, and rendered her counte- nance even hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say that one of those small blue stains which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine observers, if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wish- ing it away that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage — for he thought little or nothing of the matter before — Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself. Had she been less beautiful — if Envy's self could have found aught else to sneer at — he might have felt his affection heightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now stealing forth MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 89 again, and glimmering to and fro with every pulse of emo- tion that throbbed within her heart. But, seeing her other- wise so perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanitywhich N ature in one sh ape oFaSothersta^^meBfaceabiy on all her pr oductions, eithe r to"Tmidy-thafr~they are temporary 3^d^^^6> ^^ th at their peitecgbn^ mtgt belvfought byjtoil a nd pain. Th ecrimson hanJe xpressedithe ineludible grip inlvSich mortality clutch ee lEhe highest and purest of earthly mold, degrading them int o kindred witE the lo west, an d evenjgjAihajggryJxoitaa,,.]!]^. wK^ t^eir yisIBle frames return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as the symbol of his wife's liability to sin, sorrow, decay and death, Aylmer's sombre imagination was not long in rendering the birthmark a frightful object, causing him more trouble and horror than ever Georgiana's beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight. At all the seasons which should have been their happiest he invariably, and without intending it — nay, in spite of a purpose to the contrary — reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at first appeared, it so connected itself with in- numerable trains of thought and moods of feeling that it became the central point of all. "With the morning twilight Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife's face and recognized the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at the evening hearth, his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of the wood- fire, the spectral hand that wrote mortality where he would fain have worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but a glance, with the peculiar ex- pression that his face often wore, to change the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness, amid which the crimson hand was brought strongly out like a bass-relief of ruby on the whitest marble. Late one night, when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly to betray the stain on the poor wife's cheek, she herself for the first time voluntarily took up the subject. Vol. 3 •' " *B 40 Hawthorne's works "Do you remember, my dear Aylmer," said she, with a feeble attempt at a smile— "have you any recollection of a dream last night about this odious hand?" "None — ^none whatever," replied Aylmer, starting; but then he added in a dry, cold tone, afiEected for the sake of concealing the real depth of his emotion, "I might well dream of it, for before I fell asleep it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy." ' ' And you did dream of it, ' ' continued Georgiana, hastily ; for she dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had to say — "a terrible dream. I wonder that you can forget it. Is it possible to forget this one expression? — 'It is in her heart now: we must have it out.' Reflect, my hus- band; for by all means I would have you recall that dream." The mind is in a sad state when Sleep the all-involving cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers thorn to break forth, affrighting this ac- tual life with secrets that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered his dream. He had fancied him- self with his servant Aminadab, attempting an operation for the removal of the birthmark. But the deeper went the knife, the deeper sank the hand, until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have caught hold of Georgiana's heart, whence, however, her husband was inexorably resolved to cut or wrench it away. When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his mem- ory, Aylmer sat in his wife's presence with a guilty feeling. Truth often finds its way to the mind close-muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we practice an unconscious self- deception during our waking moments. Until now he had not been aware of the tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over his mind, and of the lengths which he might find in his heart to go for the sake of giving himself peace. "Aylmer," resumed Georgiana, solemnly, "I know not what may be the cost to both of us to rid me of this fatal birthmark. Perhaps its removal may cause cureless de- MOSSES FROM AST OLD MANSE 41 Lurmity. Or, it may be, the stain goes as deep as life itself. Again, do we know that there is a possibility, on any teruts, of unclasping the firm grip of this little hand which was laid upon me before I came into the world?" "Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject," hastily interrupted Aylmer; "I am convinced of the perfect practicability of its removal." "If there be the remotest possibility of it," continued Georgiana, "let the attempt be made, at whatever risk. Danger is nothing to me, for life, while this hateful mark makes me the object of your hcffror and disgust — life is a burden which I would fling down with joy. Either remove tiiis dreadful hand or take my wretched Ufe. You have deep science; all the world bears witness of it. You have achieved great wonders; cannot you remove this little, little mark which I cover with the tips of two small fingers? la this beyond your power, for the sake of your own peace and to save your poor wife from madness?" "Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife!" cried Aylmer, raptur- ously. "Doubt not my power. I have already given this matter the deepest thought— thought which might almost have enlightened me to create a being less perfect than your- self. Georgiana, you have led me deeper than ever into the heart of Science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dear cheek as faultless as its fellow, and then, most be- loved, what will be my triumph when I shall have corrected what Nature left imperfect in her fairest work I Even Pyg- malion, when bis sculptured woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will be." "It is resolved, then," said Georgiana, faintly smiling. "And, Aylmer, spare me not, though you should find the birthmark take refuge in my heart at last." Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek — ^her right cheek, not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand. The next day Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had formed whereby he might have opportunity for the iii- tense thought and constant watchfulness which the proposed 48 HAWTHORNE'S -WORKS operation would require, while Georgiana, likewise, would enjoy the perfect repose essential to its success. They were to seclude themselves in the extensive apartments occupied' by Aylmer as a laboratory, and where during his toilsome youth he had made discoveries in the elemental powers of nature that had roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe. Seated calmly in this laboratory, the pale philosopher had investigated the secrets of the highest cloud-region and of the profoundest minds; he had satisfied himself of the causes that kindled and kept alive the fires of the volcano, and had explained the mystery of fountains and how it is that they gush forth, some so bright and pure and others with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth. Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which ITaturo assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air and from the spiritual world to create and foster man, her masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling recogni- tion of Jhejtruth„,againsLwhJQh_alL seekers sooner or later stumble — that our g reat cr eati ve mother , while she amuses us witB~ap^jently working in the broadest sunshine,_is yet severely careful to keep her own secrets,, and^ in spite of her pretended "5pCTmgs3 shows us nothing but results. Shejier- mits "us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to^mend, andj_^like a 3"6alou's"^tentee, "oil no account to make. " Now, however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations — ^not, of course, with such hopes or wishes as first suggested them, but because they involved much physiological truth and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana. As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory Georgiana was cold and tremulous. Aylmer looked cheer- fully into her face with intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense glow of the birthmark upon the whiteness of her cheek that he could not restrain a strong convulsive shudder. His wife fainted. MOSSES PKOM AN OLD MANSE 43 "Aminadab! Aminadab!" shouted Aylmcr, stamping riolently on the floor. Forthwith there issued from an inner apartment a man )f low stature but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging ibout his visage, which was grimed with the vapors of the 'urnace. This personage had been Aylmer's underworker luring his whole scientific career, and was admirably fitted :or that oflSce by his great mechanical readiness and the skill vith which, while incapable of comprehending a single prin- ;iple, he executed all the practical details of his master's sxperiments. With his vast strength, his shaggy hair, his ;moky aspect, and the indescribable earthiness that incrusted lim, he seemed to represent man's physical nature, while Aylmer's slender figure and pale, iniellectuat tace were no ess apt a typeoF tEe spinluaTelement. 'Throw openme~^ooroF"the Eoudoir, Aminadab," said ^ylmer, "and burn a pastille." "Yes, master," answered Aminadab. looking intently at he l ifeless fo rm of Georgiana; a nd then he muttered_tojiim.- e lf, "it she were my wife. I'd nev eE...part with, that birth- narfeT'^' ""w"hen Georgiana recovered consciousness, she found her- elf breathing an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the jentle potency of which had recalled her from her death-like aintness. The scene around her looked like enchantment, ^ylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre rooms vhere he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits ato a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the se- luded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with ;orgeous curtains which imparted the combination of grand- ur and grace that no other species of adornment can achieve, .nd as they fell from the ceiling to the floor their rich and londerous folds, concealing all angles and straight lines, ap- peared to shut in the scene from inflnite space. For aught Jeorgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds. Lnd Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have in- erfered with his chemical processes, had supplied its place 44 HAAVTHORNE'S WORKS with perfumed lamps emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, empurpled radiance. He now knelt by his wife's side, watching her earnestly, but without alarm, for he was confident in his science, and felt that he could draw a m^c circle round her within which no evil might intrude. "Where am I? Ah! I remember," said Georgiaua, faintly; and she placed her hand over her cheek to hide the terrible mark from her husband's eyes. ' ' Fear not, dearest, ' ' exclaimed he. "Do not shrink from me. Beheve me, Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single im- perfection, since it will be such a rapture to remove it." "Oh, spare me!" sadly replied his wife. "Pray, do not look at it again. I never can forget that convulsive shudder. " In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her mind from the burden of actual things, Aylmer now put in practice some of the light and playful secrets which science had taught him among its piofoimder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless ideas and forms of unsubstantial beauty, came and danced before her, imprinting their momentary footsteps on beams of l^ht. Though she had some indis- tinct idea of the method of these optical phenomena, still the illusion was almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that her husband possessed sway over the spiritual world. Then, again, when she felt a wish to look forth from her seclusion, immediately, as if her thoughts were answered, the proces- rfon of external existence flitted across a screen. The scenery and the flgures of actual life were perfectly represented, but with that bewitching yet indescribable difference which al- ways makes a picture, an image or a shadow, so much more attractive than the original. When wearied of this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes upon a vessel containing a quantity of earth. She did so, with little interest at first, but was soon startled to perceive the germ of a plant shooting upward from the soil. Then came the slender stalk ; the leaves grad- ually unfolded themselves, and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower. "It is magical," cried Georgiana; "I dare not touch it." MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 45 "Nay, pluck it," answered Aylmer — "pluck it and inhale its brief perfume while you may. The flower will wither in a few moments, and leave nothing save its brown seed- vessels ; but thence may be perpetuated a race as ephenaeral as itself." But Georgiana had no soonef touched the flower than the whole plant suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black, as if by the agency of fire. "There was too powerful a stimulus," said Aylmer, thoughtfully. To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her portrait by a scientific process of his own invention. It was to be effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of metal. Georgiana assented, but on looking at the result was affrighted to find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable, while the minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek should have been. Aylmer snatched the metallic plate and threw it into a jar of corrosive acid. Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals of study and chemical experiment he came to her flushed and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke in glowing language of the resources of his art. He gave a history of the long dynasty of the al- chemists, who spent so many ages in quest of the universal solvent by which the golden principle might be elicited from all things vile and base. Aylmer appeared to believe that by the plainest scientific logic it was altogether within the limits of possibility to discover this long-sought medium ; but, he added, a philosopher who should go deep enough to acquire the power would attain too lofty a wisdom to stoop to the ex- ercise of it. Fot less singular were his opinions in regard to the Elixir Vitae. He more than intimated that it was at his option to concoct a liquid that should prolong life for years , -^perhaps interminably — ^but that it would produce a discord in nature which all the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would find cause to curse, 46 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS , "Aylmer, are you in earnest?" asked Georgiana, looking at Him with amazement and fear. "It is terrible to possess such power, or even to dream of possessing it." "Oh, do not tremble, my love," said her husband; "I would not wrong either you or myself by working such in- harmonious effects upon our lives. But I would have you consider how trifling, in comparison, is the skill requisite to remove this little hand." At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank as if, a red-hot iron had touched her cheek. Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his voice in the distant furnace-room giving directions to Aminadab, whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response, more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours of absence Aylmer reap- peared, and proposed that she should now examine his cab- inet of chemical products and natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial in which, he remarked, was contained a gentle yet most powerful fra- grance capable of impregnating all the breezes that blow across a kingdom. They were of inestimable . value, the contents of that Httle vial; and as he said so he threw some of the perfume into the air and filled the room with piercing and invigorating delight. "And what is this?" asked Georgiana, pointing to a small crystal globe containing a gold-colored liquid. "It is so beautiful to the eye that I could imagine it the Elixir of Life." "In one sense it is," replied Aylmer — "or, rather, the Elixir of Immortality. It is the most precious poison that ever was concocted in this world. By its aid I could appor- tion the hfetime of any mortal at whom you might point your finger. The strength of the dose would determine whether he were to linger out yeafs or drop dead in the midst of a breath. No king on his guarded throne could keep his life, if I, in my private station, should deem that the welfare of millions justified me in depriving him of it." MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 47 "Why do you keep such a terrific drug?" inquired Georgiana, in horror. "Do not mistrust me, dearest," said her husband, smil- ing; "its virtuous potency is yet greater than its harmful one. But see! here is a powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this in a vase of water frecldes may be washed away as easily as the hands are cleansed. A stronger infusion would take the blood out of the cheek and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost." "Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek?" asked Georgiana, anxiously. "Oh, no!" hastily repUed her husband; "this is merely superficial. Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper." In 'his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute inquiries as to her sensations, and whether the confinement of the rooms and the temperature of the atmosphere agreed with her. These questions had such a particular drift that Georgiana began to conjecture that she was already subjected to certain physical influences, either breathed in with the fragrant air or taken with her food. She fancied, likewise — but it might be altogether fancy — that there was a stirring up of her system, a strange, in- definite sensation creeping through her veins and tingling, half painfully, half pleasurably, at her heart. Still, when- ever she dared to look into the mirror, there she beheld her- self pale as a white rose and with the crimson birthmark stamped upon her cheek. Not even Aylmer now hated it so much as she. To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it necessary to devote to the processes of combination and analysis, Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientific library. In many dark old tom^s she met with chapters full of romance and poetry. They were the works of the philosophers of the Middle Ages, such as Albertus Magnus, Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and the famous friar who created the prophetic Brazen Head. All these 48 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS ^ antique naturalists stood in advance of their centuries, yet were imbued with some of their credulity, and therefore were believed, and perhaps imagined thamseives, to have acquired from the investigation of nature a power above nature, and from physics a sway over the spiritual world. Hardly less curious and imaginative were the early vdumes of the Transactions of the Royal Society, in which the members, knowing little of the limits of natural possibility, were continually recording wonders or proposing methods whereby wonders might be wrought. But to Georgiana the most engrossing volume was a large folio from her husband's own hand in which he had recorded every experiment of his scientific caieer, with its original aim, the methods adopted for its development and its final success or failure, with the circumstances to which either event was attributable. The book, in truth, was both the histciry and emblem of his ardent, ambitious, imaginative, yet practical and laborious life. He handled physical details as if there were nothing beyond them, yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed himself from materialism by his strong and eager aspiration toward the infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earth assumed a soul. Georgiana, as she read, reverenced Aylmer, and loved him more profoundly than ever, but with less entire dependence on his judgment than heretofore. Much as he had accomplished, she could not but observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably failures, if compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were the merest pebbles, and felt to be so by himself, in comparison with the inestima- ble gems which lay hidden beyond his reach. The volume rich with achievements that had won renown for its author was yet as melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad confession and continued exemplifi- cation of the shortcomings of the composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter, and of the de- spair that assails the higher nature at finding itself so mis- erably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every maa MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 49 of genius, in whatever sphere, might recognize the image of his own experience in Aylmer's journal. So deeply did these reflections afPect Georgiana that she laid her face upon the open volume and burst into tears. In this situation she was found by her husband. "It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer's book," said he, with a smile, though his countenance was uneasy and dis- pleased. "Georgiana, there are pag^ ja that volume which I can scarcely glance over and keep my senses. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you." "It has made me worship you more than ever," said she. "Ah! wait for this one success," rejoined he, "then wor- ship me if you will. I shall deem myself hardly unworthy of it. But come ! I have sought you for the luxury of your voice; sing to me, dearest." So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave with a boyish exuberance of gayety, assuring her that her seclusion would endure but a little longer, and that the result was already certain. Scarcely had he departed, when Georgiana fell irresistibly impelled to follow him. She had forgotten tc inform Aylmer of a symptom which for two or three houn past had begun to excite her attention. It was a sensatior in the fatal birthmark — ^not painful, but which induced £ restlessness throughout her system. Hastening after hei husband, she intruded for the first time into the laboratory, The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, thai hot and feverish worker, with the intense glow of its fire which by the quantities of soot clustered above it seemet to have been burning for ages. There was a distilling ap paratus in full operation. Around the room were retorts tubes, cylinders, crucibles and other apparatus of chemica research. An electrical machine stood ready for immediati use. The atmosphere felt oppressively close, and was taintee with, gaseous odors which had been tormented forth by th( processes of Science. The severe and homely simplicity o the apartment, with its naked walls and brick pavement HAWTHORNE'S WORKS )ked strange, accustomed as Georgiana had become to the atastic elegance of her boudoir. But what chiefly — indeed, nost solely — drew her attention was the aspect of Aylmer nself. He was pale as death, anxious and absorbed, and hung er the furnace as if it depended upon his utmost watchf ul- ss whether the liquid which it was distilling should be the aught of immortal happiness or misery. How different )m the sanguine and joyous mien that he had assumed for jorgiana's encouragement! "Carefully now, Aminadab! Carefully, thou human achine! Carefully, thou man of clay!" muttered Aylmer, Dre to himself than his assistant. "ISTow, if there be a ought too much or too little, it is all over." ' ' Hoh ! hoh ! ' ' mumbled Aminadab. ' ' Look, master, look ! ' ' Ayhner raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, en grew paler than ever, on beholding Georgiana. He shed toward her and seized her arm with a grip that left e print of his fingers upon it. "Why do you come hither? Have you no trust in your isband?" cried he, impetuously. "Would you throw the ight of that fatal birthmark over my labors? It is not well )ne. Go, prying woman, go!" "Nay, Aylmer," said Georgiana, with a firmness of hich she possessed no stinted endowment, "it is not you lat have a right to complain. You mistrust your wife, bu have concealed the anxiety with which you watch the jvelopment of this experiment. Think not so unworthily ' me, my husband. Tell me all the risk we run, and fear jt that I shall shrink, for my share in it is far less than jur own!" "No, no, Georgiana!" said Aylmer, impatiently; "it Lust not be." "I submit," replied she, calmly. "And, Aylmer, I shall aaff whatever draught you bring me, but it will be on the ime principle that would induce me to take a dose of poison ' offered by your hand." MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 61 "My noble wife!" said Aylmer, deeply moved; "I knew not the height and depth of your nature until now. Nothing shall be concealed. Know, then, that this crimson hand, superficial as it seems, has clutched its grasp into your being with a strength of which I had no previous conception. I have already administered agents powerful enough to do aught except to change your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried ; if that fails us, we are ruined ! ' ' "Why did you hesitate to tell me this?" asked she. "Because, Georgiana," said Aylmer, in a low voice, "there is danger." " 'Danger' ! There is but one danger — that this horrible stigma shall be left upon my cheek," cried Georgiana. "Re- move it, remove it, whatever be the cost, or we shall both go mad." "Heaven knows your words are too true," said Aylmer, sadly. "And now, dearest, return to your boudoir. In a httle while all will be tested." He conducted her back, and took leave of her with a sol- emn tenderness which spoke far more than his words how much was now at stake. After his departure Georgiana became wrapped in mus- ings. She considered the character of Aylmer, and did it completer justice than at any previous moment. Her heart exulted while it trembled at his honorable love, sc pure and lofty that it would accept nothing less than perfec- 'don, nor miserably make itself contented with an earthlier nature than he had dreamed of. She felt how much more precious was such a sentiment than that meaner kind which would have borne with the imperfection for her sake, and have been guilty of treason to holy love by degrading its perfect idea to the level of the actual. And with her whole spirit she prayed that for a single moment she might satisfy his highest and deepest conception. Longer than one mo- ment, she well knew, it could not be, for his spirit was ever on the march, ever ascending, and each instant required something that was beyond the scope of the instant before. hawthokne's wokks he sound of her husband's footsteps aroused her. He a crystal goblet containing a liquor colorless as water, right enough to be the draught of immortality. Aylmer pale, but it seemed rather the consequence of a highly- ght state of mind and tension of spirit than of fear or t. The concoction of the draught has been perfect," said L answer to Georgiana's look. "Unless all my science deceived me, it cannot fail." Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer," observed n£e, "I might wish to put off this birthmark of mortality iliuquishing mortality itself, in preference to any other ). Life is but a sad possession to those who have at- d precisely the degree of moral advancement at which ad. "Were I weaker and blinder, it might be happiness ; I stronger, it might be endured hopefully ; but, being i I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most die." You are fit for heaven without tasting death," replied husband. "But why do you speak of dying? The ght cannot fail. Behold its effect upon this plant." •n the window-seat there stood a geranium diseased with w blotches, which had overspread all its leaves. Aylmer ed a small quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which ■ew. In a little time, when the roots of the plant had Q up the moisture, the unsightly blotches began to be iguished in a living verdure. There needed no proof," said Georgiana quietly. "Give he goblet; I joyfuUy stake all upon your word." Drink, then, thou lofty creature!" exclaimed Aylmer, fervid admiration. "There is no taint of imperfection hy spirit. Thy sensible frame, too, shall soon be all 3Ct." Ihe quaffed the liquid, and returned the goblet to his I. 'It is grateful," said she, with a placid smile. "Me- ks it is like water from a heavenly fountain, for it con- MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 53 tciius I know not what of unobtrusive fragrance and deli- ciousness. It allays a feverish thirst that had parched me for many days. Now, dearest, let me sleep. My earthly senses are closing over my spirit like the leaves aroimd the heart of a rose at sunset." She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it required almost more energy than she could command to pro- nounce the faint and lingering syllables. Scarcely had they loitered through her lips ere she was lost in slumber. Ayl- mer' sat by her side, watching her aspect with the emotions proper to a man the whole value of whose existence was involved in the process now to be tested. Mingled with this mood, however, was the philosophic investigation character- istic of the man of science. Not the minutest symptom escaped him. A heightened flush of the cheek, a slight irregularity of breath, a quiver of the eyelid, a hardly per- ceptible tremor through the frame — such. were the details which as the moments passed he wrote down in his folio volunae. Intense thought had set its stamp upon every pre- vious page of that volume, but the thoughts of years were all concentrated upon the last. While thus employed he failed not to gaze often at the fatal hand, and not without a shudder. Yet once, by a strange and unaccountable impulse, he pressed it with his lips. His spirit recoiled, however, in the very act, and Georgiana, out of the midst of her deep sleep, moved un- easily and murmured, as if in remonstrance. Again Aylmer resumed his watch. Nor was it without avail. The crim- son hand, which at first had been strongly visible upon the marble paleness of Georgiana's cheek, now grew more faintly outlined. She remained not less pale than ever, but the birthmark with every breath that came and went lost some- what of its former distinctness. Its presence had been aw- ful; its departure was more awful still. "Watch the stain of the rainbow fading out of the sky, you wiU know how that mysterious symbol passed away. "By Heaven, it is wellnigh gone!" said Aylmer to him- Hawthorne's works in almost irrepressible ecstasy. "I can scarcely trace )w. Success! Success! And now it is like the faintest -color; the slightest flush of blood across her cheek would ■come it. But she is so pale!" le drew aside the window-curtain and suffered the light atural day to fall into the room and rest upon her cheek, the same time he hear d a gross, hoarse chuckle whic h lad long known as his serv ant Aminadab's expression slight. 'Ah," clod! Ah, earthly mass!" cried Aylmer, laughing - sort of frenzy. "You have served me well! Matter spirit — earth and heaven — have both done their part in Laugh, thing of the senses! You have earned the t to laugh." These exclamations broke Georgiana's sleep. She slowly losed her eyes and gazed into the mirror which her hus- i had arranged for that purpose. A faint smile flitted ■ her lips when she recognized how barely perceptible now that crimson hand which had once blazed forth 1 such disastrous brilliancy as to scare away all their piness. But then her eyes sought Aylmer's face with a ble and anxiety that he could by no means account for. 'My poor Aylmer!" murmured she. 'Poor? Nay — richest, happiest, most favored!" ex- ned he. "My peerless bride, it is successful. You perfect!" 'My poor Aylmer!" she repeated with a more than hu- L tenderness. "You have aimed loftily; you have done .y. Do not repent that with so high and pure a feehng have rejected the best the earth could offer. Aylmer, ■est Aylmer, I am dying." Mas, it was too true ! The fatal hand had grappled with mystery of Ufe, and was the bond by which an angelio it kept itself in union with a mortal frame. As the last ison tint of the birthmark — ^that sole tok en 'of human arfection — ^faded from her cheek, the parting breath of now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 55 soul, lingering a moment near her husband, took its heaven- ward flight. Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was hqard again. Thus ever does the gross fatality of earth exult in its invariable triumph over the immortal essence which in this dim sphere of half development demands the com- pleteness of a higher state. Yet, had Aylmer reached a pro- founder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happi- ness which would have woven his mortal life of the selfsame texture with the celestial. The momentary circumstance i was too strong for him : he failed to look beyond the shad- J [ owy scope of time, and, living once for all in eternity, to find the perfect future in the present. A SELECT PARTY A MAN of fancy made an entertainment at one of his castles in the air, and invited a select number of dis- tinguished personages to favor him with their pres- ence. The mansion, though less splendid than many that have been situated in the same region, was nevertheless of a magnificence such as is seldom witnessed by those acquainted only with terrestrial architecture. Its strong foundations and massive walls were quarried out of a ledge of heavy and sombre clouds which had hung brooding over the earth, apparently as dense and ponderous as its own granite, throughout a whole autumnal day. Perceiving that the general effect was gloomy — so that the airy castle looked like a feudal fortress, or a monastery of the Middle Ages, or a state-prison of our own times, rather than the home of pleasure and repose which he intended it to be — the owner, regardless of expense, resolved to gild the exterior from top to bottom. Fortunately, there was just then a flood of even- ing sunshine in the air. This, being gathered up and poured abundantly upon the roof and walls, imbued them with a kind of solemn cheerfulness, while the cupolas and pinnacles 56 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS were made to glitter with the purest gold, and all the hun- dred windows gleamed with a glad hght asjf the edifice itself -(Efire rejoicing in its heart. And now, if the people ' of the lower world chanced to be looking upward out of the turmoil of their petty perplexities, they probably mistook the castle in the air for a heap of sunset-clouds to which the magic of light and shade had imparted the aspect of a fan- tastically-constructed mansion. To such beholders it was unreaLbecause they lacked the imaginative faith. Had they teen worthy to pass within its portal, they would have recog- nized the truth that the dominions w hidi the spirit conguers 4o rJ^ae ^ among unreahties become a thousand times more real than the earth whereon they stamp their feet, saying "This is solid and~substantial! This may be called a fact!" At the appointed hour the host stood in his great saloon to receive the company. It was a vast and noble room, the vaulted ceiling of which was supported by double rows of gigantic pUlars that had been hewn entire out of masses of variegated clouds. So brilliantly were they polished, and so exquisitely wrought by the sculptor's sHU, as to resemble the finest specimens of emerald, porphyry, opal and chryso- lite, thus producing a delicate richness of effect which their immense size rendered not incompatible with grandeur. To each of these piUars a meteor was suspended. Thou- sands of these ethereal lustres are continually wandering about the firmament, burning out to waste, yet capable of imparting a useful radiance to any person who has the art of converting them into domestic purposes. As managed in the saloon, they are far more economical than ordinary lamplight. Such, however, was the intensity of their blaze that it had been found expedient to cover each meteor with - a globe of evening mist, thereby muffling the too potent glow , and soothing it into a mild and comfortable splendor. It was like the brilliancy of a powerful yet chastened imagination — a light which seemed to hide whatever was unworthy to be noticed and give effect to every beautiful and noble attri- \ bute. The guests, therefore, as they advanced up the centre MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 57 of the saloon, appeared to better advantage than evgr before in their lives. The first that entered, with old-fashioned punctuality, was a venerable figure in the costume of bygone days, with his white hair flowing down over his shoulders and a rev- erend beard upon his breast. He leaned upon a staff, the tremulous stroke of which, as he set it carefully upon the floor, re-echoed through^ the saloon at every footstep. Recog- nizing at once this celebrated personage, whom it had cost him a vast deal of trouble and research to discover, the host advanced nearly three-fourths of the distance down between the pillars to meet and welcome him. "Venerable sir," said the Man of Fancy, bending to the floor, "the honor of this visit would never be forgotten were my term of existence to be as happily prolonged as your own." The old gentleman received the compliment with graci^s condescension ; he then thrust up his spectacles over his fore- head and appeared to take a critical survey of the saloon. "Never, within my recollection," observed he, "have I entered a more spacious and noble hall. But are you sure that it is built of solid materials, and that the structure will be permanent?" "Oh, never fear, my venerable iriend," rephed the host. "In reference to a lifetime like your own, it is true, my castle may well be called a temporary edifice, but it will endure long enough to answer all the purposes for which it was erected." But we forget that the reader has not yet been made acquainted with the guest. It was no other than that uni- versally-accredited character so constantly referred to in all seasons of intense cold or heat — he that remembers the hot Sunday and the cold Friday, the witness of a past age whose negative reminiscences find their way into every newspaper, yet whose antiquated and dusky abode is so overshadowed by accumulated years and crowded back by modem edifices that none but the Man of Fancy could have discovered it. 58 hawthoknb's works It was, jn short, that twin-brother of Time and great-grand- sire of mankind and hand-and-glove associate of all forgotten men and things, the Oldest Inhabitant. The host would willingly have drawn him into conversation, but succeeded only in eliciting a few remarks as to the oppressive atmos- phere of this present summer evening, compared with one which the guest had experienced about fourscore years ago. The old gentleman, in fact, was a good deal overcome by his journey among the clouds, which to a frame so earth-in- crusted by long continuance in a lower region was unavoid- ably more fatiguing than to younger spirits. He was there- fore conducted to an easy-chair well cushioned and stuffed with vaporous softness, and left to take a little repose. The Man of Fancy now discerned another guest, who stood so quietly in the shadow of one of the piLLars that he might easily have been overlooked. "My dear sir," exclaimed the host, grasping him warmly by the hand, "allow me to greet you as the hero of the even- ing. Pray do not take it as an empty compliment; for if there were not another guest in my castle, it would be entirely pervaded with your presence!" "I thank you," answered the unpretending stranger, "but though you happened to overlook me, I have not just arrived. I came very early, and, with your permission, shall remain after the rest of the company have retired." And who does the reader imagine was this unobtrusive guest? It was the famous performer of acknowledged im- possibilities — a character of superhuman capacity and virtue, and, if his enemies are to be credited, of no less remarkable weaknesses and defects. With a generosity of which he alone sets us the example, we will glance merely at his "nobler attributes. He it is, then, who prefers the interests of others to his own and a humble station to an exalted one. Careless of fashion, custom, the opinions of men and the influence of the press, he assimilates his life to the standard of ideal rectitude, and thus proves himself the one indgpen* i dent citizen of our free country. In point of ability many MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 59 people declare him to be tho only mathematician capable of squaring the circle, the only mechanic acquainted with the principle of perpetual motion, the only scientific philosopher who can compel water to run uphill, the only writer of the age whose genius is equal to the production of an epic poem, and, 'finally — so various are his accomplishments — the only professor of gymnastics who has succeeded in jimiping down his own throat. "With all these talents, however, he is po far from being considered a member of good society that it is the severest censure of any fashionable assemblage to affirm that this remarkable individual was present. Public orators, lecturers and theatrical performers particularly eschew his company. For especial reasons, we are not at liberty to disclose his name, and shall mention only one other trait — a most singular phenomenon in natural philosophy — that when hehappgns to cast his eyes upon a looking-glass he beholds(^obodyyeflected there. Several"~^'her guests now made their appearance, and among them, chattering with immense volubihty, a brisk little gentleman of universal vogue in private society, and not unknown in the public journals under the title of Mon- sieur On-Dit. The name would seem to indicate a French- man, but, whatever be his country, he is thoroughly versed in all the languages of the day, and can express himself quite as much to the purpose in English as in any other tongue. No sooner were the ceremonies of salutation over than this talkative little person put his mouth to the host's ear and whispered three secrets of state, an important piece of commercial intelligence and a rich item of fashionable scandal. He then assured the Man of Fancy that he would not fail to circulate in the society of the lower world a minute description of this magnificent castle in the air, and of the festivities at which he had the honor to be a guest. So say- ing, Monsieur On-Dit made his boTf and hurried from one to another of the company, with all of whom he seemed tc be acquainted, and to possess some topic of interest or amuse- ment for every mdividual. Coming at last to the Oldesl 60 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS Inhabitant, who was slumbering comfortably in the easy chair, he applied his mouth to that venerable ear. "What do you say?" cried the old gentleman, starting from his nap and putting up his hand, to serve the purpose of an ear-trumpet. Monsieur On-Dit bent forward again and repeated his communication. "Never, within my memory," exclaimed the Oldest In- habitant, lifting his hands in astonishment, "has so remark- able an incident been heard of." Now came in the Clerk of the Weather, who had been invited out of deference to his official station, although the host was well aware that his conversation was likely to con- tribute but little to the general enjoyment. He soon, indeed, got into a comer with his acquaintance of long-ago, the Old- est Inhabitant, and began to compare notes with him in reference to the great storms, gales of wind, and other atmospherical facts, that had occurred during a century past. It rejoiced the Man of Fancy that his venerable and much-respected guest had met with so congenial an asso- ciate. Entreating them both to make themselves perfectly at home, he now turned to receive the Wandering Jew. This personage, however, had latterly grown so common by mingling in all sorts of society and appearing at the beck of every entertainer that he could hardly be deemed a proper guest in a very exclusive circle. Besides, being covered with dust from his continual wanderings along the highways of the world, he really looked out of place in a dress-party; so that the host felt relieved of an incommodity when the restless individual in question, after a brief stay, took his departure on a ramble toward Oregon. The portal was now thronged by a crowd of shadowy people with whom the Man of Fancy had been acquainted in his visionary youth. He had invited them hither for the sake of Observing how they would compare — ^whether advan- tageously or otherwise— with the real characters to whom his maturer life had introduced him. They were beings of MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 6l crude imagination such as glide before a young man's eye and pretend to be actual inhabitants of the earth — ^the wise and witty with whom he would hereafter hold intercourse, the generous and heroic friends whose devotion would be re- quited with his own, the beautiful dream- woman who would become the helpmate of his human toils and sorrows, and at once the source and partaker of his happiness. Alaa) it is not good for the full-grown mian to look too closely at these old acquaintances, but rather to reverence them at a distance through tiie medium of years that have gathered duskily between. There was something laughably untrue in their pompous stride and exaggerated sentiment; th^ were neither human nor tolerable likenesses of humanity, bnt fantastic maskers, rendering heroism and nature alike ri- diculous by the grave absurdity of their pretensioDS to such attributes. And, as for the peerless dream-lady, behold I there advanced up the saloon with a movement like a jointed doll a sort of wax figure of an angel, a creature as cold as moonshine, an artifice in petticoats, with an intellect of pretty phrases and only the semblance of a heart, yet in all these particulars the true type of a young man's imaginary mis- tress. Hardly could the host's punctilious courtesy restrain a smile as he paid his respects to this unreality and met the sentimental glance with which the Dream sought to remind him of their former love passages. "No, no, fair lady!" murmured he, between sighing and smiling; "my taste is changed. I have learned_tolovewhat Natur e makes better than my own creations in the guise of womanhood." ™~' ' ' " ■ ' "Ah,Taise one!" shrieked the Dream-lady, pretending to faint, but dissolving into thin air, out of which came the deplorable murmur of her voice. "Tour inconstancy has annihilated me." "So be it," said the cruel Man of Fancy to himself; "and a good riddance, too!" Together with these shadows, and from the same region, there had come an uninvited multitude of shapes which at 62 Hawthorne's wokks any time during his life had tormented the Man of Fancj in his moods of morbid melancholy, or had haunted him ir the delirium of fever. The walls of his castle m the air were not dense enough to keep them out, nor would the strcngesl of earthly architecture have availed to their exclusion. Here were those forms of dim terror which had beset hina at th< entrance of life, waging warfare with his hopes. Here wen strange uglinesses of earlier date such as haunt children ii the night time. He was particularly startled by the visioi of a deformed old black woman whom he imagined as lurk ing in the garret of his native home, and who when he wai an infant had once come to his bedside and grinned at hin in the crisis of a scarlet fever. This same black shadow with others almost as hideous, now glided among the pillari of the magnificent saloon, grinning recognition, until th( man shuddered anew at the forgotten terrors of his child hood. It amused him, however, to observe the black worn an, with the mischievous caprice peculiar to such beings steal up to the chair of the Oldest Inhabitant and peep inti his half -dreamy mind. "Never, within my memory," muttered that venerabl personage, aghast, "did I see such a face!" /^ Almost immediately after the unrealities just describe arrived a number of guests whom incredulous readers ma; be inclined to rank equally among creatures of imaginatioE The most noteworthy were an Incorruptible Patriot, a Schola without pedantry, a Priest without worldly ambition and Beautiful Woman without pride or coquetry, a Married Pai whose hfe had never been disturbed by incongruity of fee ing, §. ..Reformer untrammelled by his theory, and a Poe who felt no jealousy toward othef'votafies~of the lyre. I truth, however, the host was not one of the cynics who coi sider these patterns of excellence without the fatal flaw sue rarities in the world, and he had invited them to his sele< party chiefly out of humble deference to the judgment ( \ society which pronounces them almost impossible to be m( with. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MAKSB 6a "In my younger days," observed the Oldest Inhabitant, "such characters might be seen at the corner of every street." Be that as it might, these specimens of perfection proved i to- be-notiialf _sQjei!iertaj5ing^ompaiiions as people with the ordinary_aJnaKaji£a.Qflaults. "-— - — But now appeared a stranger whom the host had no sooner recognized than, with an abundance of courtesy unlavished on any other, he hastened down the whole length of the saloon in-order to pay him emphatic honor. Yet he was a young man in poor attire, with no icsignia of rank or acknowledged eminence, nor anything to distinguish him among the crowd except a high white forehead, beneath which a pair of deep-set eyes were glowing with warm hght. It was such a light as never illuminates the earth save when a great heart burns as the household fire of a grand intellect. And who was he? "Who but the _Mgg ter- Ge nius for whom^ Qur country is looking anxiou sly jnto_Jhe_mist~of ~Gme~a8 denied to fulfil the great mission of creating an AmericaBT literature, hewing it,JiSjt were, out of the unwrought^'gn^ ite o£ our intellectualjipiatagSi^JFrom him, whether molded in the form of an epic poem or assuming a guise altogether new, as the spirit itself may determine, we are to receive our first great original work which shall do all that remains to be achieved for our glory among the nations. How this child of a mighty destiny had been discovered by the Man of Fancy it is of little consequence to mention. Suffice it that he dwells as yet unhonored among men, unrecognized by those who have known him from his cradle; the 'noble countenance which should be distinguished by a halo diffused around it passes daily amid the throng of people, toiling and troubling themselves about the trifles of a moment, and none pay reverence to the worker of immortality. Nor does it matter much to him, in his triumph over all the ages, though a generation or two of his own times shall do themselves the wrong to disregard him. By this time Monsieur On-Dit had caught up the stranger's 64 HAWTHORNE'S WOKKS name and destiny, and was busily whispering the intelligen among the other guests. "Pshaw!" said one; "there can never be an Americi geniuB." "Pish!" cried another; "we have already as good poe as any in the world. For my part I desire to see i better." And the Oldest Inhabitant, when it was proposed to i troduce him to the Master- Genius, begged to be excuse observing that a mau who had been honored with the a quaintance of D wight, Freneau and Joel Barlow might 1 allowed a little austerity of taste. The saloon was now fast filling up by the arrival of oth remarkable characters, among whom were noticed Da-v Jones, the distinguished nautical personage, and a rud careleBsly-dressed, harum-scarum sort of elderly fello known by the nickname of Old Harry. The latter, hoAi ever, after being shown to a dressing-room, reappeared wil his gray hair nicely combed, his clothes brushed, a clea dicky on his neck, and altogether so changed in aspect ; to merit the more respectful appellation of Venerable Henr John Doe and Richard Roe came arm in arm, accompanie by a Man of Straw, a Fictitious Endorser, and severaL-pe sons jssfhe-had ao-^cistettce except- as v.oters in^t^sely-TOi "^^d_9l©GtiQns. The celebrated Seatsfield, who now enterei was at first supposed to belong to the same brotherhood, ui til he made it apparent that he was a real man of flesh ar blood and had his earthly domicile in Germany. Among tl latest comers, as might reasonably be expected, arrived guest from the far future. "Do you know him? Do you know him?" whispere , Monsieur On-Dit, who seemed to be acquainted with ever body. "He is the representative of Posterity — the man i an age to come." "And how came he here?" asked a figure who was e\ dently the prototype of the fashion-plate in a magazine, ai mieht be taken to renresent the vanities of tbf> nassi'ncr m MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 65 ment. "The fellow infringes upon our rights by coming before his time." "But you forget where we are," answered the Man of Fancy, who overlieard the remark, "The lower earth, it is true, will be forbidden ground to him for many long years henoe, but a castle in the air ia a sort of no-man's land where Posterity may make acquaintance with us on equal terms." No sooner was his identity known than a throng of guests gathered about Posterity, all expressing the most generous interest in his welfare, and many boasting of the sacrifices which they had made or were willing to make, in his behalf. Some, with as much secrecy as possible, desired his judgment upon certain copies of verses or great manuscript rolls of prose ; others accosted him with the familiarity of old friends, taking it for granted that he was perfectly cognizant of their names and characters. At length, finding himself thus beset. Posterity was put quite beside his patience. "Gentlemen — ^my good friends," cried he, breaking loose from a misty poet who strove to hold him by the button — "I pray you to attend to your own business and leave me to take care of mine. I expect t ooweyou_nothing„ unless it be cer- tai n national debts, and other mcumbrag^sand impediments, physical and nio^a], which I shall finjd^ittrpublfigonie.jenough to^ remove fromjny path. As to your verses, pray read them to your contemporaries. Your names are as strange to me as your faces; and even were it otherwise — let me whisper you a secret — the cold, icy memory which one generation may retain of another is but a poor recompense to barter life for. Yet if your heart is set on being known to me, the surest — tlie only — method is to live truly and wisely for your own age, whereby, if the native force be in you, you may likewise live for posterity. " "It is nonsense," murmured the Oldest Inhabitant, who as a man of the past felt jealous that all notice should be withdrawn from himself to be lavished on the future — "sheer nonsense — to waste so much thought on what only is to be." To divert the minds of his guests, who were considerably 66 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS abashed by this little incident, the Man of Fancy led them through several apartments of the castle, receiring their compliments upon the taste and varied magnificence that were displayed in each. One of these rooms was filled with moonlight which did not enter through the window, but was the aggregate of all the moonshine that 'it Scattered around the earth on a summer night while no eyes are awake to enjoy its beauty. Airy spirits had gathered it up wherever they found it — gleaming on the broad bosom of a lake, or silvering the meanders of a stream, or glimmering among the wind-stirred boughs of a wood — and had garnered it in one spacious hall. Along the walls, illuminated by the mild intensity of the moonshine, stood a multitude of ideal statues, the original conceptions of the great works of ancient or mod- em art which the sculptors did but imperfectly succeed in putting into marble. For it is not to be supposed that the pure idea of an immortal creation ceases to exist : it is only necessary to know where they_aEg„deEosited, in order to ob- tain possession of them. In the alcoves of another vast apartment was arranged a splendid library the volumes of which were inestimable because they consisted not of actual performances, but of the works which the authors only planned without ever finding the happy season to achieve them. To take familiar instances, here were the untold tales of Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims, the unwritten cantos of the "Faery Queen," the conclusion of Cole- ridge's "Christabel," and the whole of Dryden's projected epic on the subject of King Arthur. The shelves were crowded, for it would not be too much to affirm that every author has imagined and shaped out in his thought more and far better works than those which actually proceeded from his pen. And here, likewise, were the unrealized con- ceptions of youthful poets who died of the very strength of their own genius before the world had caught one inspired i murmur from their lips. When the peculiarities of the library and statue-gallery were explained to the Oldest Inhabitant, he appeared infi- MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE &i nitely perplexed, and exclaimed, with more energy than usual, that he had never heard of such a thing within his memory, and, moreover, did not at all understand how it could be. "But my brain, I think," said the good old gentleman, "is getting not so clear as it used to be. You young folks, I suppose, can see your way through these strange matters; For my part I give it up." "And so do I," muttered the Old Harry. "It is enough to puzzle the — Ahem!" Making as Uttle reply as possible to these observations, the Man of Fancy prebeded the company to another noble saloon, the pillars of which were solid golden sunbeams taken v out of the sky in the first hour in the morning. Thus, as they retained all their living lustre, the room was filled with the most cheerful radiance imaginable, yet not too dazzling to be borne with comfort and delight. The windows were beautifully adorned with curtains made of the many-colored V" clouds of sunrise, all imbued with virgin light and hanging in magnificent festoons from the ceiling to the fioor. More- over, there were fragments of rainbows scattered through >^ the room ; so that the guests, astonished at one another, re- ciprocally saw their heads made glorious by the seven pri- mary hues; or if they chose — as who would not? — tM- could ^ grasp a rainbow in the air and convert it to their own 'apparel and adornment. But the morning light and scattered rain- bows were only a type and symbol of the real wonders of the apartment. By_an_mflu^ce akin to magic, yet perfectly.^ natural, whatever m aan&-aJid-iapp5r!^mpHMj50CT led^d_i n"TEelower__w .cd.d.J3ad.i3een^ I a nJdeposited„ ui.iihe.-gd:€>0'H--Q£---Merning ^UBshABe-.-2 aA.s may well be conceived. ther£ ifQi:e.JJbLere-was material , enough to »■ supply not merely a joyous ^evening, but also a happy life- (/• tinie,' to mpf e than as many people as that spacious apart- inOTiF^ould contain. The company seemed to renew their youth, while that pattern and proverbial standard of inno- cence, the Child Unborn, frolicked to and fro among them, 68 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS comrQunicating his own unwrinkled gayety to all who had the good fortune to witness his gambols. "My honored friends," said the Man of Fancy, after they had enjoyed themselves a while, "I am now to request your presence in the banqueting-haJl, where a slight collation is awaiting you." "Ah! well said!" ejaculated a cadaverous figure who had been invited for no other reason than that he was pretty constantly in the habit of dining with Duke Humphrey. "I was beginning to wonder whether a castle in the air were provided with a kitchen." It was curious, in truth, to see how instantaneously the guegtr were Tiivertedfrom 'the high moral ssjc^meiils which th^" had been tasting with so much appafeiit ^est by a-sug- gestioBTof the moreTs^jid" as well as liquid ^ddight8_of_the f estive bo ard. They thronged eagerly^ in the rear of the host, who now ushered them into a lofty and extensive hall, from end to end of which was arranged a table glittering all over with iimumerable dishes and drinking-vessels of gold. It is an jaB£.ertain point whether these rich articles^ of plate were made for the occasion out of molten sunbeams or recOTered^fjiim the wrecks of Spanish galleons that had lain_for_ages^^tha_bottom of the sea. The upper end of the table was overshadowed by a canopy beneath which was placed a chair of elaborate magnificence, which the host himself declined to occupy, and besought his guests to as- sign it to the worthiest among them. As a suitable hom- age to his incalculable antiquity and eminent distinction, the post of honor was at first tendered to the Oldest Inhabitant. He, however, eschewed it, and requested the favor of a bowl of gruel at a side-table, where he could refresh himself with a quiet nap. There was some little hesitation as to the next candidate, until Posterity took the Master-Genius of our country by the hand and led him to the chair of state be- neath the princely canopy. When once they beheld him in his true place, the company acknowledged the justice of the selection by a long thunder-roll of vehement applause. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSH 69 Then was served up a banquet, combining, if not all the delicacies of the season, yet all the rarities which careful purveyors had met with in the flesh, fish and vegetable markets of the land of Nowhere. The bill of fare being unfortunately lost, we can only mention a phoenix, roasted in its own flames, cold potted birds of Paradise, ice-creams from the Milky Way and whipsyllabubs and flummery from the Paradise of Fools, whereof there was a very great con- sumption. As for drinkables, the temperance people con- tented themselves with water, as usual, but it was the water of the Fountain of Youth, the ladies sipped Nepenthe, the love-lorn, the careworn and the sorrow-stricken were sup- plied with brimming goblets of Lethe, and it was shrewdly conjectured that a certain golden vase from which only the more distinguished guests were invited to partake contained nectar that had been mellowing ever since the days of clas- sical mythology. The cloth being removed, the company, as usual, grew eloquent over their liquor, and delivered them- selves of a succession of brilliant speeches, the task of re- porting which we resign to the more adequate ability of Counsellor Gill, whose indispensable co-operation the Man of Fancy had taken the precaution to secure. When the festivity of the banquet was at its most ethereal point, the Clerk of the Weather was observed to steal from the table and thrust his head between the purple and golden curtains of one of the windows. "My fellow-guests," he remarked, aloud, after carefully noting the signs of the night, "I advise such of you as live at a distance to be going as soon as possible, for a thunder- storm is certainly at hand." "Mercy on me!" cried Mother Carey, who had left her brood of chickens and come hither in gossamer drapery, with pink silk stockings; "how shall I ever get home?" All now was confusion and hasty departure, with but little superfluous leavetaking. The Oldest Inhabitant, how- ever, true to the rule of those long-past days in which his courtesy had been studied, paused on the threshold of the 70 Hawthorne's works meteor-lighted hall to express his vast satisfaction at the entertainment. "Never, within my memory," observed the gracious old gentleman, "has it been my good fortune to spend a pleas- anter evening, or in more select society." The wind here took his breath away, whirled his three- cornered hat into infinite space, and drowned what further comphments it had been his purpose to bestow. Many of the company had bespoken will-o'-the-wisps to convoy them home, and the host, in his general beneficence, had engaged the Man in the Moon, with an immense horn lantern, to be the guide of such desolate spinsters as could do no better for themselves. But a blast of the rising tempest blew out all their Ughts in the twinkhng of an eye. How in the dark- ness that ensued the guests contrived to.g.et, back to earth, or whether ihe greater part of them contrived to get back at all, or are still wandering among clouds, mists and puffs of tempestuous wind, "bruised by the beams and rafters of the overthrown castle in the air and deluded by all sorts of un- realities, are points that concern themselves much more than the writer or the public. People should think of these mat- ters before they trust themselves on a pleasure-party into the realm of Nowhere. YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN YOUNG Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street of Salem village, but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife. And Faith, as the wife was aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the wind play with the pink ribbons of her cap, while she called to Goodman Brown. "Dearest heart," whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear, "prythee put off your journey until sunrise and sleep in your own bed to-night.. MOSSES FBOM AN OLD MANSE 71 A lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts that she's afeared of herself sometimes. Pray tarry with me this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year." "My love and my Faith," replied young Goodman Brown, "of all nights in the year, this one night must I tarry away from thee. My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back again, must needs be done 'twixt now and sunrise. What, my sweet pretty wife ! Dost thou doubt me already, and we but three months married?" "Then God bless you," said Faith with the pink ribbons. "And may you find all well when you come back!" "Amen!" cried Goodman Brown. "Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no harm will come to thee." So they parted, and the young man pursued his way until, being about to turn the corner by the meeting-house, he looked back and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him with a melancholy air, in spite of her pink ribbons. "Poor little Faith!" thought he, for his heart smote him. "What a wretch am I, to leave her on such an errand! She talks of dreams, too. Methought, as she spoke, there was trouble in her face, as if a dream had warned her what work is to be done to-night. But no, no! 'twould kill her to think it. Well, she's a blessed angel on earth, and after this one night I'll cling to her skirts and follow her to heaven." With this excellent resolve for the future, Goodman Brown felt himself justified in making more haste on his present evil purpose. He had taken a dreary road, dark- ened by all the gloomiest trees of the forest, which barely stood aside to let the narrow path creep through, and closed immediately behind. It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such a soUtude — that the traveller knows not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the thick boughs overhead, so that with lonely footsteps he may yet be passing through an unseen multitude. "There may be a devilish Indian behind every tree," said Vol. 3 "^ •' ' *C 72 hawthoene's works Goodman Brown to himself; and he glanced fearfully be- hind him as he added, "What if the devil himself should be at my very elbow?" His head being turned' back, he passed a crook of the road, and, looking forward again, beheld the figure of a man in grave and decent attire seated at the foot of an old tree. He rose at Goodman Brown's approach, and walked onward side by side with him. "You are late, Goodman Brown," said he. "The clock of the Old South was striking as I came through Boston, and that is ftdl fifteen minutes agone." "Faith kept me back awhile," replied the young man with a tremor in his voice caused by the sudden appearance of his companion, though not wholly unexpected. It was now deep dusk in the forest, and deepest in that part of it where these two were journeying. As nearly as could be discerned, the second traveller was about fifty years old, apparently in the same rank of life as Goodman Brown, and bearing a considerable resemblance to him, though per- haps more in expression than features. Still, they might have been taken for father and son. And yet, though the elder person vras as simply clad as the younger, and as sim- ple in manner too, he had an indescribable air of one who knew the world, and would not have felt abashed at the governor's dinner-table or in King "William's court, were it possible that his affairs should call him thither. But the only thing about him that could be fixed upon as remark- able was his staff, which bore the likeness of a great black snake so curiously vrrought that it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle itself Hke a living serpent. This, of course, naust have been an ocular deception, assisted by the uncertain light. "Come, Goodman Brown!" cried his fellow-traveller; "this is a dull pace for the beginning of a journey. Take my staff, if you are so soon weary." "Friend," said the other, exchanging his slow pace for a fiall stop, "having kept covenant by meeting thee here, it is MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 73 my purpose now to return whence I came. I hare scruples touching the matter thou wotst of." "Sayest thou so?" replied he of the serpent, smiling apart. "Let us walk on, neyertheless, reasoning as we go ; and if I convince thee not, thou shalt turn back. We are but a little way in the forest yet." "Too far — ^too far!" exclaimed the goodman, uncon- sciously resuming his walk. "My father never went into the woods on such an errand, nor his father before him. We have been a race of honest men and good Christians since the days of the martyrs, and shall I be the first of the name of Brown that ever took this path and kept — " " 'Such company,* thou wouldst say," observed the elder person, interrupting his pause. "Well said, Goodman Brown 1 I have been as well acquainted with your fam- ily as with ever a one among the Puritans; and that's no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather the constable when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem, and it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot kindled at my own hearth to set fire to an Indian vil- lage in King Philip's War. They were my good friends, both, and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you for their sake." "If it be as thou sayest," replied Goodman Brown, "I marvel they never spoke of these matters. Or, verily, I marvel not, seeing that the least rumor of the sort would have driven them from New England. We are a people of prayer and good works to boot, and abide no such wickedness." "Wickedness or not," said the traveller with the twisted staff, "I have a very general acquaintance here in New Eng- land. The deacons of many a church have drtmk the com- munion wine with me, the selectmen of divers towns make me their chairman, and a majority of the Great and General Court are firm supporters of my interest. The governor and I, too— But these are state secrets." 74 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS "Can this be so?" cried Goodman Brown, with a stare of amazement at his undisturbed companion. "Howbeit, I have nothing to do with the governor and council : they have their own ways, and are no rule for a simple husband- man like me. But were I to go on with thee, how should I meet the eye of that good old man our minister at Salem vil- lage? Oh, his voice would make me tremble both Sabbath- day and lecture-day." Thus far the elder traveller had listened with due grav- ity, but now burst into a fit of irrepressible mirth, shaking himself so violently that his snake-like staff actually seemed to wriggle in sympathy. "Ha! ha! ha!" shouted he, again and again; then, com- posing himself, "Well, go on, Goodman Brown, go on; but prythee don't kiU me with laughing!" "Well, then, to end the matter at once," said Goodman Brown, considerably nettled, "there is my wife. Faith. It would break her dear little heart, and I'd rather break my own." "N"ay, if that be the case," answered the other, "e'en go thy ways, Goodman Brown. I would not for twenty old women like the one hobbling before us that Faith should come to any harm." As he spoke he pointed his staff at a female figure on the path, in whom Goodman Brown recognized a very pious and exemplary dame who had taught him his catechism in youth, and was still his moral and spiritual adviser, jointly with the minister and Deacon Gookin. "A marvel tnily that Goody Cloyse should be so far in the wilderness at nightfall," said he. "But with your leave, friend, I shall take a cut through the woods tm^til we have left this Christian woman behind. Being a stranger to you, she might ask whom I was consorting with and whither I was going." "Be it so," said his fellow-traveUer. "Betake you to the woods and let me keep the path. " Accordingly, the young man turned aside, but took care MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 75 to watch his companion, who advanced softly along the road until he had come within a staff's length of the old dame. She, meanwhile, was making the best of her way, with sin- gular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some indis- tinct words — a prayer, doubtless — as she went. The travel- ler put forth his staff and touched her withered neck with what seemed the serpent's tail. "The devil!" screamed the pious old lady. "Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?" observed the traveller, confronting her and leaning on his writhing stick. "Ah, forsooth! and is it Your Worship, indeed?" cried the good dame. "Yea, truly is it, and in the very image of my old gossip Goodman Brown, the grandfather of the silly fellow that now is. But would Your Worship believe it? My broomstick hath strangely disappeared — stolen, as I sus- pect, by that unhanged witch Goody Cory, and that, too, when I was all anointed with the juice of smallage and cinque-foil and wolfsbane — " "Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a new-born babe," said the shape of old Goodman Brown. "Ah! Your Worship knows the recipe," cried the old lady, cackUng aloud. "So, as I was saying, being all ready for the meeting, and no horse to ride on, I made up my mind to foot it; for they tell me there is a nice young man to be taken into communion to-night. But now Your Good Wor- ship will lend me your arm, and we shall be there in a twinkling." "That can hardly be," answered her friend. "I may not spare you my arm. Goody Cloyse, but here is my staff, if you will." So saying, he threw it down at her feet, where, perhaps, it assumed life, being one of the rods which its owner had formerly lent to the Egyptian magi. Of this fact, however, Goodman Brown could not take cognizance. He had cast up his eyes in astonishment, and, looking down again, be- held neither Goody Cloyse nor the serpentine staff, but his 76 hawthornb's wokks fellow-traveller alone, who waited for him as cahnly as if nothing had happened. "That old woman taught me my catechism!" said the yomag man; and thwe was a world of meaning in this sim- ple comment. They continued to walk onward, while the elder traveller exhorted his companion to make good speed and persevere in the path, discoursing so aptly that his arguments seemed rather to spring up in the bosom of his auditor than to be suggested by himself. As they went he plucked a branch of maple, to serve for a walking-stick, and began to strip it of the twigs and httle boughs, w^hich were wet with evening dew. The moment his fingers touched them they became strangely withered and dried up, as with a week's sunshine. Thus the pair proceeded at a good free pace, until suddenly, in a gloomy hollow of the road, Goodman Brown sat himself down on the stimip of a tree and refused to go any further. "Friend," said he, stubbornly, "my mind is made up. Not another step will I budge on this errand. What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the devil, when I thought she was going to heaven? Is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?" "You will think better of this by and by," said his ac- quaintance, composedly. "Sit here and rest yourself awhile; and when you feel like moving again, there is my staff to help you along." Without more words he threw his com- panion the maple stick, and was as speedily out of sight as if he had vanished into the deepening gloom. The young man sat a few moments by the roadside, ap- plauding himself greatly and thinking with how cleat a con- science he should meet the minister in his morning walk, nor shrink from the eye of the good old Deacon Gookin. And what calm sleep would be his that very night, which was to have been spent so wickedly, but purely and sweetly now in the arms of Faith! Amid these pleasant and praiseworthy meditations Goodman Brown heard the tramp of horses along the road, and deemed it advisable to conceal himself within MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 77 the verge of the forest, conscious of the guilty purpose that had brought him thither, though now so happily turned from it. On came the hoof-tramps and the voices of the riders — two grave old voices conversing soberly as they drew near. These mingled sounds appeared to pass along the road within a few yards of the young man's hiding-place, but, owing, doubtless, to the depth of the gloom at that particular spot, neither the travellers nor their steeds were visible. Though their figures brushed the small boughs by the wayside, it could not be seen that they intercepted even for a moment the faint gleam from the strip of bright sky athwart which they must have passed. Goodman Brown alternately crouched and stood on tip-toe, pulling aside the branches and thrusting forth his head as far as he durst, without discerning so much as a shadow. It vexed him the more because he could have sworn, were such a thing possible, that he recognized the voices of the minister and Deacon Gookin jogging along quietly, as they were wont to do when bound to some ordina- tion or ecclesiastical council. While yet within hearing one of the riders stopped to pluck a switch. "Of the two, reverend sir," said the voice like the dea- con's, "I had rather miss an ordination dinner than to-night's meeting. They teU me that some of our community are to be here from Falmouth and beyond, and others from Con- necticut and Rhode Island, besides several of the Indian pow- wows, who after their fashion knew almost as much deviltry as the best of us. Moreover there is a goodly young woman to be taken into communion." "Mighty well, Deacon Gookin!" replied the solenm old tones of the minister. "Spur up, or we shall be late. Noth- ing can be done, you know, until I get on the ground." The hoofs clattered again, and the voices talking so strangely in the empty air passed on through the forest, where no church had ever been gathered nor solitary Chris- tian prayed. Whither, then, could these holy men be jour- neying so deep into the heathen wilderness? Young Good- 78 Hawthorne's works man Brown caught hold of a tree for support, being ready to sink down on the ground, faint and overburdened with the heavy sickness of heart. He looked up to the sky, doubt- ing whether there really was a heaven above him ; yet there was the blue arch and the stars brightening in it. ""With Heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil 1" cried Goodman Brown. While he still gazed upward into the deep arch of the firmament and had lifted his hands to pray, a cloud — ^though no wind was stirring — hurried across the zenith and hid the brightening stars. The blue sky was still visible except directly overhead, where this black mass of cloud was sweeping swiftly northward. Aloft in the air, as if from the depths of the cloud, came a confused and doubtful sound of voices. Once the listener fancied that he could distin- guish the accents of townspeople of his own, men and wom- en, both pious and ungodly, many of whom he had met at the communion-table, and had seen others rioting at the tavern. The next moment, so indistinct were the sounds, he doubted whether he had heard aught but the murmur of the old forest whispering without a wind. Then came a stronger swell of those familiar tones heard daily in the sun- shine at Salem village, but never until now from a cloud of night. There was one voice of a young woman uttering lamentations, yet with an uncertain sorrow, and entreating for some favor which perhaps it would grieve her to obtain. And all the unseen multitude, both saints and sinners, seemed to encourage her onward. "Faith!" shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation; and the echoes of the forest mocked him, crying, "Faith! Faith!" as if bewildered wretches were seeking her all through the wilderness. The cry of grief, rage and terror was yet piercing the night, when the unhappy husband held his breath for a response. There was a scream, drowned immediately in a louder murmur of voices fading into far^ff laughter, as the dark cloud swept away, leaving the clear and silent sky MOSSES PROM AN OlS) MANSE 79 above Goodman Brown. But something fluttered lightly- down through the air and caught on the branch of a tree. The young man seized it, and beheld a pink ribbon. "My Faith is gone!" cried he, after one stupefied mo- ment. "There is no good on earth, and sin is but a name! — Come, devil, for to thee is this world given!" And maddened with despair, so that he laughed loud and long, did Goodman Brown grasp his staff and set forth again at such a rate that he seemed to fly along the forest-path rather than to walk or run. The road grew wilder and drear- ier and more faintly traced, and vanished at length, leaving him in the heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing onward with the instinct that guides mortal man to evil. The whole forest was peopled with frightful sounds — ^the creaking of the trees, the howling of wild beasts and the yell of Indians — while sometimes the wind tolled like a distant church-bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar around the traveller, as if all Nature were laughing him to scorn. But he was himself the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not from its other horrors. "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Goodman Brown, when the wind laughed at him. "Let us hear which will laugh loudest; think not to frighten me with your deviltry! Come, witch! come, wizard! come, Indian pow-wow! come, devil himself! And here comes Goodman Brown. You may as well fear him as he fear you." In truth, aU through the haunted forest there could be nothing more frightful than the figure of Goodman Brown. On he flew among the black pines, brandishing his staff with frenzied gestures, now giving vent to an inspiration of horrid blasphemy, and now shouting forth such laughter as set all the echoes of the forest laughing like demons around him. The fiend in his own shape is less hideous than when he rages in the breast of man. Thus sped the demoniac on his course, until, quivering among the trees, he saw a red light before him, as when the felled trunks and branches of a clearing have been set on fire and throw up their lurid blaze 80 Hawthorne's wokks against the sty at the hour of midnight. He paused in a lull of the tempest that had driven him onward, and heard the swell of what seemed a hymn rolling solemnly from a distance with the weight of many voices. He knew the tune; it was a familiar one in the choir of the village meet- ing-house. The verse died heavily away, and was length- ened by a chorus — not of human voices, but of all the sounds of the benighted wilderness pealing in awful harmony to- gether. Goodman Brown cried out, and his cry was lost to his own ear by its unison with the cry of the desert. In the interval of silence he stole forward until the light glared full upon his eyes. At one extremity of an open space hemmed in by the dark wall of the forest arose a rock bearing some rude natural resemblance either to an altar or a pulpit, and surroimded by four blazing pines, their tops aflame, their stems untouched, like candles at an evening meeting. The mass of foliage that had overgrown the sum- mit of the rock was all on fire, blazing high into the night and fitfully illuminating the whole field. Each pendent twig and leafy festoon was in a blaze. As the red light rose and fell a numerous congregation alternately shone forth, then disappeared in shadow, and again grew, as it were, out of the darkness, peopling the heart of the solitary woods at once. "A grave and dark-clad company!" quoth Goodman Brown. In truth, they were such. Among them, quivering to and fro between gloom and splendor, appeared faces that would be seen next day at the council-board of the province, and others which Sabbath after Sabbath looked devoutly heavenward and benignantly over the crowded pews from the holiest pulpits in the land. Some afl&rm that the lady of the governor was there. At least, there were high dames well known to her, and wives of honored husbands, and widows a great multitude, and ancient maidens all of ex- cellent repute, and fair young girls who trembled lest their mothers should espy them. Either the sudden gleams of MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 81 light flashing over the obscure field bedazzled Goodman Brown, or he recognized a score of the church-members of Salem village famous for their especial sanctity. Good old Deacon Gookin had arrived, and waited at the skirts of that venerable saint, his reverend pastor. But irreverently consorting with these grave, reputable and pious people, these elders of the church, these chaste dames and dewy virgins, there were men of dissolute lives and women of spotted fame — ^wretches given over to all mean and filthy vice, and suspected even of horrid crimes. It was strange to see that the good shrank not from the wicked, nor were the sinners abashed by the saints. Scattered, also, among their pale-faced enemies were the Indian priests, or pow- wows, who had often scared their native forest with more hideous incantations than any known to EngUsh witch- craft. "But where is Faith?" thought Goodman Brown, and as hope came into his heart he trembled. Another verse of the hymn arose — a slow and mournful strain such as the pious love, but joined to words which expressed all that our nature can conceive of sin and darkly hinted at far more. Unfathomable to mere mortals is the lore of fiends. "Verse after verse was sung, and still the chorus of the desert swelled between like the deepest tone of a mighty organ. And with the final peal.of that dreadful anthem there came a sound as if the roaring wind, the rush- ing streams, the howling beasts, and every other voice of the unconverted wilderness, were mingling and according with the voice of guilty man in homage to the prince of all. The four blazing pines threw up a loftier flame, and obscurely discovered shapes and visages of horror on the smoke- wreaths above the impious assembly. At the same moment the fire on the rock shot redly forth, and formed a glowing arch above its base, where now appeared a figure. "With rever- ence be it spoken, the apparition bore no slight similitude, both in garb and manner, to some great divine of the New England churches. 83 Hawthorne's works "Bring forth the converts!" cried a voice that echoed through the field and rolled into the forest. At the word Goodman Brown stepped forth from the shadow of the trees and approached the congregation, withi whom he felt a loathful brotherhood by the sympathy of all that was wicked in his heart. He could have wellnigh sworn that the shape of his own dead father beckoned him' to advance, looking downward from a smoke-wreath, while a woman with dim features of despair threw out her hand to warn him back. "Was it his mother? But he had no power to retreat one step nor to resist even in thought when the minister and good old Deacon Gooldn seized his arms and led him to the blazing rock. Thither came, also, the slender form of a veiled female, led between Goody Cloyse, that pious teacher of the catechism, and Martha Carrier, who had received the devil's promise to be queen of hell. A rampant hag was she! And there stood the proselytes, beneath the canopy of fire. "Welcome, my children," said the dark figure, "to the communion of your race ! Ye have found thus young your nature and your destiny. My children, look behind you!" They turned, and flashing forth, as it were, in a sheet of flame, the fiend- worshippers were seen ; the smile of weU come gleamed darkly on every visage. "There," resumed the sable form, "are all whom ye have reverenced from youth. Ye deemed them holier than your- selves and shrank from your own sin, contrasting it with their lives of righteousness and prayerful aspirations heaven- ward. Yet here are they all in my worshipping assembly! This night it shall be granted you to know their secret deeds — how hoary-bearded elders of the church have whispered wanton words to the young maids of their households, how many a woman eager for widow's weeds has given her hus- band a drink at bedtime and let him sleep his last sleep in her bosom, how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their father's wealth, and how fair damsels — blush not, sweet ones I — have dag little graves in the garden and bid- MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 83 den me, the sole guest, to an infant's funeral. By tte sym- pathy of your human hearts for sin ye shall scent out all the places — whether in church, bedchamber, street, field or forest — ^where crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood-spot. Far more than this : it shall be yours to penetrate in every bosom the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies more evil impulses than human power— than my power at its utmost — can make manifest in deeds. And now, my children, look upon each other." They did so, and by the blaze of the hell-kindled torches the wretched man beheld his Faith, and the wife her hus- band, trembling before that unhallowed altar. "Lo! there ye stand, my children," said the figure, in a deep and solemn tone, almost sad with its despairing awfulness, as if his once angelic nature could yet mourn for our miserable race. "Depending upon one another's hearts, ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream ; now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind; evil must be your only happiness. "Welcome, again, my children,'' to the communion of your race!" ""Welcome!" repeated the fiend-worshippers, in one cry of despair and triumph. And there they stood, the only pair, as it seemed, who were yet hesitating on the verge of wickedness in this dark world. A basin was hollowed naturally in the rock. Did it contain water reddened by the lurid light? or was it blood, or perchance a liquid flame? Herein did the Shape of Evil dip his iiand, and prepare to lay the mark of baptism upon their foreheads, that they might be partakers of the mystery of sin, more conscious of the secret guilt of others, both in deed and thought, than they could now be of their own. The husband cast one look at his pale wife, and Faith at him. "What polluted wretches would the next glance show them to each other, shuddexing alike at what they 'disclosed and what they saw! 84 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS "FaithI Faithl-' cried the husband. "Look up to Heaven, and resist the wicked one!" Whether Faith obeyed he knew not. Hardly had he spoken when he found himself amid calm night and soli- tude, listening to a roar of the wind which died heavily away through the forest. He staggered against the rock and felt it chill and damp, while a hanging twig that had been all on fire besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew. The next morning young Goodman Brown came slowly into the street of Salem village, staring around him like a bewildered man. The good old minister was taking a walk along the graveyard to get an appetite for breakfast and meditate his sermon, and bestowed a blessing, as he passed, on Goodman Brown; he shrank from the venerable saint as if to avoid an anathema. Old Peacon Gookin was at do- mestic worship, and the holy words of his prayer were heard through the open window. ''What Gdd doth the wizard pray to?" quoth Goodman Brown. Goody Cloyse, that excellent old Christian, stood in the early sunshine, at her own lattice, catechising a little girl who had brought her a pint of morn- ing's milk; Goodman Brown snatched away the child as from the grasp of the fiend himself. Turning the corner by the meeting-house, he spied the head of Faith, with the pink ribbons, gazing anxiously forth, and bursting into such joy at sight of him that she skipped along the street and almost kissed her husband before the whole village; but Goodman Brown looked sternly and sadly into her face, and passed on without a greeting. Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest, and only dreamed a wild dream of a witch-meeting? Be it so, if you will. But, alas! it was a dream of evil omen for young Goodman Brown. A stern, a sad, a darkly -meditative, a distrustful, if not a desperate, man did he become from the night of that fearful dream. On the Sabbath-day, when the congregation were singing a holy psalm, he could not listen becBjUse an anthem of sin rushed loudly upon his ear and drowned all the blessed strain. When the minister spoke MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 85 from the pulpit with power and fervid eloquence, and with his hand on the open Bible, of the sacred truths of our re- Hgion, and of saint-like lives and triumphant deaths, and of future bliss or misery unutterable, th^n did Goodman Brown turn pale, dreading lest the roof should thunder down upon the gray blasphemer and his hearers. Often, awaking sud- denly at midnight, he shrank from the bosom of Faith, and at morning or eventide, when the family knelt down at prayer, he scowled and muttered to himself, and gazed sternly at his wife, and turned away. And when he had lived long and was borne to his grave, a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grandchildren, a goodly procession, besides neighbors not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone ; for his dying hour was gloom. RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER A YOUNG man named Giovanni Guasconti came ver y- l ong ago from the mo reso uthern region of _Jta lv to pursueJm ^tiudies at thi University_of Padua. Gio- vanni, who had but a scantysupply^of gold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old edifice which looked not unworthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact, fixb ibited ovOT JtB^n- p.^y^naj^^a^J^r,r,■ma^\ Tnaaj^ xiss of a family loug since extinc t.' The young stranger, who was not unstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected that one of the ancestors of _this_family, and perhaps an occupant of this very mansion, had been pictur ed by Dan te_M.A^rtakgr..o£. th^--ia3aaoEtal ago nies of his Inferno . These reminiscences and associa- tions, together with the tendency to heartbreak natural to a young man for the first time out of his native...s2here, caused Giovanni to~sigfir"E^!vily as henooked around the desolate and ill-fumished apartment. "Holy Virgin, signor!" cried old Dame Lisabetta , who, 86 hawthoenb's woeks won by th e youth's re markable beauty of perso n, was kindly endeavOTmg to give the cJTamber a habitableair; "what a sigh was that to come out of a young man's heart! Do you find this old mansion gloomy? For the love of Heaven, then, put your head out of the window, and you will see as bright sunshine as you have left in N"aples." Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not quite agree with her that the Lombard sun- shine was as cheerful as that of Southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a garden beneath the window, and expended its fostering influences on a variety of plants which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care. "Does this ga rden belong to the house?'^ asked Giovanni. "'Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot-herbs than any that grow there now," answered old Lisa- betta. *'.^^^ that garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Bappaccini. the famous doctor who, I war- rant him, has been heard of as far as Naples. It is said that he distil s these pla pfe into medicines that are as p otent as a . charm. Oftentimes you may see the Signor fioctor at work, and perchance the signora^i s daughter , too, gathe ring the strange flowers that grow in the garden ." The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the chamber, and, commending the young man to the protection of the saints, took her departure. Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the garden beneath his window. From its ap- pearance he judged it to be one of those botanic gardens which were of earher date in Padua than elsewhere in Italy, or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once have been the pleasure-place of an opulent family ; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, sculptured with rare art, but so wofuUy shattered that jt-g gs impossible to t race the original design fro m the chaos of remaining frag - ■ jnents . The water, however, continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended to the young man's window and made him MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 87 feel as if a fountain were an immortal spirit that sung its song unceasingly, and without heeding the vicissitudes around it, while one century embodied it in marble and another scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. All about the pool into which the water subsided grew various plants that seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourishment of giganti c leaves , and in some instances flower s of gorgeous magnificence . There was on e shru b in particular, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a prof usion of purple blossom s, each of which had the luBtre"iS g~richness of a gem ; and 'the whole together made a show so resplendenttiSaif it seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs which, if less beautiful, still bore.,|L(^ens^of assiduous care, as if all had their individual virtues, known to the^ scientific mind that fostered them. Some were placed in urns rich with old carving and others in common garden-pots; some crept ser- pent-like along the ground, or climbed on high, using what- ever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage so happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study. While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a screen of leaves, and became aware that a,^rson .was at work JnJJ xe garden . His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no common laborer, but a tall, emacia ted, sallow and fiinkly-lookiTi^ ma.n 4,C§88edJn^ a^nh nlar'a gfirb of black . He was beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair, and a thin gray beard, and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which jgould never, even inh is more youthf ul days, have ex j^ssssed Trmpb warmt. !! ot~Eeart. Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scien- tific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path; it seemed asif Jiejwas lookjngjntojheir inmoatjiature, mak- 88 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS ing observations in regard to their creative essence, and dis- covering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of the deep intelligence on his part, there was _no ap proach to int imacy between, hirngp^lf a^*^ ihaaa -p-ggfttaM g existence s. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the~d i-- rect inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; for the man's demeanor w as that of on e._walking„iLBagng mali^ant influences, such as savage^ beasts or deadly; jfl^Jjes^orjevfl^spirits which, should he aliow~T^^ one moment of Ucens^wouI9_wreaiupon him some^tembie fatality. It was strangely frightfmTo the young man's imagination to see this air of insecuri ty in a person cultivating a garden — ^that most simple and in- nocent of human toils, and which had been ahke the joy and labor of the unfallen pare nts of Jihajace. Was this^arden, then, the.. Eden of the present world? and this man with such a perception ofTiarmln"what his own hands caused to grow — was he the Adam? The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or pruniag the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, de fended hi s han ds with a pair of thick gloves . E"or were these his only armor. "When, in his walk through the gar- den, he came to the magnificent plant that hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of mask over his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but con- ceal a deadher malice . But, finding his task still too danger- ous, he drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm voice of a person affected with inward disease: "-Beatrice ! Beatrice ! ' ' "Here am I, my father! What would yon?" cried a rich and youthful voice from the window of the opposite house — a voice as rich as a trop ical sunset, and which made Gio- vSnni, "though he knew not why, think of deep hues of p ur- ple or crimson and of perfumes heavily delectahla. "Are you in the garden?" MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE ' 89 "Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener, "and I need your help." Soon there emerged from under a sculptmred portal the figure of a young girl arrayed w ith as mu ch rinhneHs of tggte as the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, a^^T with a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more wo uid have been to o much . She looked redundant with life, health and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and compressed, aa it were, and ^rdled tensd v in their luxuri- a nce by her virgin-zone . Yet Giovanni's fancy must have grown morbid while he looked down into the garden, for the impression which the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were another flower, the hu man sister; ofthose vegetable onea^aaliBjautif ul as they — more beautiful than the richest of them— but still to be touched on lsus gith a glove, nor to be appr oached without a mask . As Beatrice came down the garden path it was observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of se xeJcaLlof jha plants which her. Jather had .mosj sedulously avoided. "Here, Beatrice," said the latter; "see how many need- ful offices require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my life might pay the penalty of ap- proaching it so closely as circumstances demand. Hence- forth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge." "And gladly will I unde-take it," cried again the rich tones of the young lady as sh ) bent toward the magnificent plant and opened her arms as if to embrace it. — "Yes, my s ister, my splendor, it shall be Beatrice's task to nurse and servo thee, and thou shalt reward her with thy kisses and perfume-breath, which to her is as the breath of life." Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require; and Gio- vanni, at his lofty window, rubbed his eyes, and aljiaost doubted whether it were a gJiLjending h er favorite flower or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. 90 Hawthorne's works The scene soon terminated. "Whether Doctor Rappaccini had finished his labors in the garden or that his watchful eye had caught the stranger's face, he now took his daughter's arm and retired. Night was already closing in ; oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from the plants and steal upward past the open window, and Giov anni, closing the lattice, went to his couch and dreamed~or^ rich flower and be autiful girl. Flo w er and maiden w^ediffe rent, and yet the same, and fraught with so me strange jenLJiL jBitheE^ _shape. But there is an influence in t he light of morning that ten^Jioj:Bcti%_Khateyer_errors_oi fancy.-X)!r-_ even of judg - ment, we, may -have incunied^_during the sun's decline , or among the shadows of the night, or in the less wholesome glow of moonshine. Giovanni's first movement on starting from sleep was to throw open the window and gaze down into the garden which his dreams had made so fertile of mysteries. 'He was surprised, and a little ashamed, to find how real and matter-of-fact an affair it proved to be in the fir st rays o f the sun , which gilded the dewdrops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, fought everything within j bhe H jaitfrof ordinary experience . The young^man rejoiced that in the heart of the barren city he had the privilege of overlooking this^g^oflovely and luxuriant vegetatiop. It would serve, he said to himself, as'a'symbolic langu age to ke eE Jiim in comm union with Nature. Neither the sickly and thought- worn Doctor Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter, was now visible; so that Giovanni could not de- termine how mjcb-Q£-4ihe.-angu larity which he attr ibuted tp both was_due tojtheir own qualities, and ho w mucEto his wonder-working fancy. But he was in clined to take a mos t rational vie w ofJiha_w]iQle_matter. In the course of the day he paidlSis respects to Signer Pietro Baglioni , professor of medicine in the university, a physician of eminent repute to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction. The professor was an elderly per- MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 91 sonage, apparently of genial nature and habits that might almost be called jovial; he kept the young man to dinner and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and liveli- ness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two of Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science, inhabitants of the same city, must needs be on familiar terms with one another, took an opportunity to mention the name of Doctor Eappaccini. But the pro- fessor did not respond with so much cordiality as he had anticipated. > "111 would it become a teacher of the divine art of medi- cine," said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Giovanni, "to withhold due and well-considered praise of a physician so eminently skilled as Eappaccini. But, on the other hand, I should answer it but scantily to my conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like yourself. Signer Gio- vanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold your life and death in his hands. The truth is ourworship- ful Doctor Eappaccini has as much science as any member of the faculty — with perhaps one single exception — in Padua or all Italy, but there are certain grave objections toihis profess ional character." "And what are they?" asked the young man. "Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is so inquisitive about physicians?" said the pro- fessor, with a smile. "But, as for Eappaccini, it is said of him — and I, who know the man well, can answer for its truth — that hs ca£esk^Bmtely,morefor science ^anj^jaam- Ifind- His patient s, are interesting tc7"Ei5f"nTTlyfl!a anhjpnita for some new experiment . He wouirsacrific e human li fe^ — rhis own among the rest — or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of ad dinpf ao rmi nh as a gra ia i)f_mustard- Sfisd to thfi-gxaat-heaj L^f his accumSS]te3'"S!owl sdgfi." "Methinks he is an awful man indeed," remarked Guas- conti, mentafly recalling the cold and purely intellectual as- pect of Eappaccini. "And yet," worshipful professor, is it not 93 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS a noble spirit? Are there many men capable of so spiritual a love of science? " "God forbid!" answered the prof essor somewhat testily — ^"at least, unless they take sounder views of the healing . art than those adopted by Rappaccini. It is bis theory that all me dicinal virtues are comprised within those substances wSicE"wetemi veg etable p oisons. These he cultivates with 'EIFownTb^^^TaJid is said even to have produced new varie- tie s of poison more horribly deleteriou s-than Katurj , with- out the assistance of this learned person, woidd ever have plagued the world with. That the Signor Doctor does less mischief than might be expected with such dangerous sub- stances is undeniable. Now and then, it must be owned, he has effe cted — or seemed to effect — a marvellous cure. But, torfelTyou my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he £ould re- ceive little credit for such instances of sucoess-^the y being prob ably the work of chance -^but should be held strictly accoimtable for bis failures, which may justly be considered his own work." The youth might have taken Baglioni's opinions with many grains of allowance had he known that there was a ^of essional warfare of long c pntinuauce between him a jod Docto r Rappaccini, in which the latter was generall y thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader be inclmedTb judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter tracts on both sides preserved in the medical department of ^ he Univeysity of Fadua. "I know not, most learned professor," r eturned Giovanni. after musing on what had been said of Rappaccini'g exclu- sive zeal for science — ' ^kno w no t bow dearlv this physic iaE may love b is art, butsureJj t^^ere is one object na ore dear to EimT He has aTda ughter ." " Aha ^'"oried the professor, with a laugh. "So now our friend Giovanni's secret is out I You have heard of this daughter, whom all the young men in Padua are wild abmit, ^ t hough not half a dozen have ever had t he good hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora Beatrice save thai MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 93 Rapp accini is said to have instru ctfidJiacdeeply in his.jci- encgj^ and that, young and beautiful as fame reports her, she is already qual ifi ed to fill a professor's_ cliair. Perchance her father destmesjier Jor mine. Other absurd rumorsthere be, not worth talking about or hsteningjto. So now, Signer Giovanni, drink ofif your glass ofCC^cryma^' Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with strange fantasies in reference to Doctor Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. On his way, happening to pass by a ^p rist's, he bought a fresh bouquet of flowe rs. Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air and gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to oYfi rflow with colored radiance froip the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however, as Giovanni had half hoped, half feared, woilld be the case, a figure appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal and came down be- tween the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were one of those b eings of old classic _fable that lived ji2SSLJ2[22L2^^?* ^^ again beholdingBeatrice the young man was even startled to perceive how much hgrjbeau^^ex- ceeded his rec QlLactioBjjf it— -so^brilliant, so vivid in it^-ehar- acter^JJbat she fylnwed amid the simlight. and, as Giovanni wEi^pOTed to himself, positively illuminated the more shad- owy intervals of the garden path. Her fac e being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its exp ressio n ^f simplicity and sw eetness — qualities.Jhat h^^d^ ^ertr^f^c&SLixLtn hia idea of he r character, and which made 94 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS him ask anew what manner of mortal she might^__Ho3r did he fail again to observejOTjmagne_an^analogybetween the JbSSt^n]^^HjS3Ithfi gorgeous jshrub that hung its gem- like flowers over the fountain — a resemBlance which Beatrice seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heighteniB^r both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection ot its hues. Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms as with a passionate ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace — so intimate that her feattu-es were hidden in its laafy bnsnm^anrl her gUstening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers. "Give me thv breath, mv sister." exclaimed Beatrjce, "for I am faint with c ommon au u And give me this flower "ofiffiine, which I separate with gentlest fingers from the stem, and place it 'close beside my heart." "With these words thejb gautiful daughter of Rappacc ini pluckedone of the richest bl ossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her bosom. Hut now, miless Giovanni's draughts of wine had bewildered his senses, a singular inci- dent occurred. A small orange-colored reptile of the h gg-rd or chameleon species chanced to be creeping al ong the pa tti just att hejeet. of Beatrice . It appeared to Giovanni, but at the distance from which he gazed he could scarcely have seen anything so minute — ^it appeared to him, however, that aj^ op or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower desfispdfi d-upon tjjp lii prd's head. For an instantthe rep- tile contorted itself violently, ^nd then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice ob ser ved this remarkable phenom enon and crossed lEierseK sadly^JbuiLwithouF sujan^^ ; nor did she Therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect the one appropriate charm which nothing else in the world could have supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window, bent forward and shr gak-Jaack».ajdjaurmured and trembled. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 95 Have I my senses?" said he to himself. ? Beautiful shall I, call her, or inex- "Am I awake? "What is this pressiblylerrihle? ' ' ' Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, ap- proaching closer beneath Giovanni's window; so that he was compelled to thrust his head quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense and painful curiosity which she excited. At this moment there came abeautiful insect over the garden wall; it had perhaps wandered througn tne city and found no flowers nor verdure among those antique haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Doctor Rap- paccini's shrubs had lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers thiswin^edbr ightness se e med to be attracted ^by B eatrice, and lingered mthe air and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could not be but that Giovanni Guas- conti's eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he fancied that while Beatricew2g_.gajdng_atjtl:iaJasect_mth c^iM^ dp1igbtj]t,^^^r^TaTjii fr"anfl fe ll at, her feat. Its bright wings sETvered; it wa s dead — from no cause that he could discern, unless it were the atmosphere of h er-breath. Again Beatrice' crossed herself and sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect. An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There she beheld the beautiful head of the young man — rather a QTecia£;__thBii_an Italian head, with f air^ r^ul ar . features and a glistening of gold among his rin glets — gazing down upon her like a being that hovered in midair. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw down the bouquet which he had hitherto neld in his hand. "Signora/' said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers: wear them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti ." "Thanks, signer I" replied Beatrice, with herji^jBicej^ that came forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful expression, half childish and half woman-like . '^ qnaofij: yip nr jyjft^ and would fain recompense it ,„mt.hjtis prec iguB purple floa miu-JaiLiLlJiQaa^it i£io~tlie -.air, jt will 96 Hawthorne's works not reach you . So Signor Guasconti must even content mmself with my thanks. " She hfted the bouquet fronx the ground, and then, as if inwardly ashame d a t having stepped asida dfeom her_maid- en ly reserve to respon d to a stengerlg_,gree.tin& passed swiftly homeward through the garden. But, few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his beautiful bou q uet was g.1rflflrly_bagin mng to wither iii^ her grasp. It was an idle thought: there coul d^be no pos- sibifltX-Of Ldistinguishing a. faded A qwot frnm a. fragh nnp qt BO grmt ^a distanc e. For many days after this incident the young man avoided _J]ie_sdlldaw:,that looked into Doctor Rappaccini's garden as if something ugly and m o nstrous would have jjlagted bis eye- si^ jj had he been betrayed into a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent, within the influ- ence of an ^ flinteUigible power by the cggmuiaifiaJaQn.ffihich _Jte_hadjogened_T^h_.Beairice. The wisest course would have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his lodg- ings, and Padua itself, at once ; the next wiser, to have ac- customed himself as far as possible to the familiar and daylight view of Beatrice, thus brin ging h CT ri gidly a,nd systematica lly within the limits of ordinary experie nce. Least of all, while avoiding her sight, should Giovanni have remained so near this extraordinary being that the proximity, and possibility even of intercourse, should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagination ran riot continually in producing. Guas- conti had not a deep heart — or, at all events, its depths were not sounded now — but he had a quick fancy and an ardent southern tempe rament which rose, avery instant to a higher fever-pitch . "Whether or no Beatrice possessed those terrible attributes — that fatal breath, the affinity with those so beautiful and deadly flowers — which were indicated by what Giovanni had witnessed, she ha d at I gast^nstilled a fierce and subtle poison into his system . It was not love. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 97 although her ricli beauty was a m adness to him ^ nor horror , f even while h e fancied her spirit to be imhued^ ith the same b aneful essenc e that seemed to pervade her physical frame, "but a wi ld ^SspHng"oriboth"ioy e^and j£gm)r"t£at had each parentJEL^it and bur ned like on e and sMvere d like the othe r, diovanni knew not what to dread ;"still less did he know what to hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his breast, alternately vanquishing one another and start- ing up afresh to renew the contest. Blessed are all simple ' emotions, be they dark or bright ! It is the lurid intermixt- ure of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions. Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rnpid walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates ; his footsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk was apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself arrested ; his arm was seized by a portly personage who had turned back on recognizing the young man and expended much breath in overtaking him. "Signer Giovanni! Stay, my young friend 1" cried he. "Have you forgotten me? That might well be the case if I were as much altered as yourself." It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ev^r since their first meeting, from a doubt that the professor's sagacity would look too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to re- cover himself, he stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one, and spoke like a. man in a dream : " Yes; I am Giovanni Gua gcojaia.^.gjpu are ..PEOfeagOT FietroBaglioni. ^low let"mepa8s. " "Not yet — not yet. Signer Giovanni Guasconti," said the professor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest glance. "What I BJd J grow up side by ai de with your fathOT ,..aK d shall his son pa^ me lifce a stranaaarJaJJiese old streetSLOf Padua? Stand^'stili; Signor Giovanni, for we must have a word or two before we part." "Speedily, then, most worshipful professor — speedily!" 98 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS said Giovanni, with feverish impatience. "Does not Your "Worship see that I am in haste?" Now, while he was speaking, there came a man in black along the street, stooping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and saUow hue, but'yeTso pervaded with" an expres- sion of piercing and active intellect that an observer might have easily overlooked the merely physical attributes, and have seen only this wonderful energy. As he passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice. Nevertheless, there was a peguliar quietness in the look, as if ipki-ng mere] v a speculative,^not a human^ interest in the young man. , "It is Doctor Rappaccini," whispered the professor, when the stranger had passed. "Has he ever seen your face before?" "Not that I know," answered Giovanni, starting at the name. "He has seen you! he must have seen you!" said Bag- lioni, hastily. "For some purpose or other, this man o f science is making a study of you . I know that look of his : it is the same that coldly illuminates his facea she bends over 'a bird, a ncSu se or a butterfly which in p ursuance of soroe'experimen£heJias]Kled^yjhe^ — a look as_deep j|S^[ature its£ilLJmfc. with out Nat ure's warmt h of love . Signer Giovanni, I will stake my life upoh^ you are tb, p subj ect of one of Rappaccini's expe riments ." "Will youmake a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passion- ately. "That, Signer Professor, were an untoward experi- ment." "Patience, patience!" replied the imperturbable professor. "I tell thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scien- tific interest in thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands. And the Signora Beatrice — what part does she act in this mystery?" MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 99 But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable, here broke away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm. He looked after the young man in- tently, and shook his head. "This must not be," said Baglioni to himself. "The youth is the son of my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too insufferable an impertinence in Rappaccini thus to snatch the lad out of my own hands, as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal experi- ments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to. — Per- chance, most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!" Meanwhile, Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length found himself at the door of his lodgings. A s he crossed the threshold he was met by ^d Lisabetta^ who smirked and smiled and was evidently aesirous tlo attract his attention — vainly, however, as the ebullition of his feel- ings had momentarily subsided into a cold and dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that was puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old dan^e. therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak. "Signer, signer!" whispered she, still with a" smile over the whole breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a grotesque carvinsf in wood, darkened by cent uries. "Listen, signer ! There is a private entrance into the gamen, ' ' ""What do you say?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if an inanimate thing should start into feverish life. "A private entrance into Doctor Rappaccini's garden?" "Hush, hush! Not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, put- ting her hand over his mouth. "Yes,jinto the worshipful doctor's garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young maa^aJEa dua wo uld ffire gold tobgj^aitted amon^ those flow^ s.1 Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand. "Show me the way," said hg . A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Bag- 100 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS lioni, crossed his mind that t his interposition of old _ Lisabetta might__perchance be connected wit h the intrigue , whatever "were its natur^*m whlSitheproJe^sor seemed to suppose that Doctor Rappaccini was involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, was inadequate to restrain him. The instant he was aware of the p_ossibili ty qf_a£proaching Beatric e, it see med a n absolutejaecessity of his existen ce to Bo^ s o. It mattered not whether she were angel or demon : he was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the law that whirled him onward in ever lessen- ing circles toward a result which he did not attempt to fore- shadow. And yet, strange to say, there came across him a sudden doubt whether this intense interest on his part were not delusory, whethe#it were really of so deep and positive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into an incalculable position, whether it were mt merely t he fant asy of a young man 's brain o nly sligfhtlv or not at all conn^^3 toE EHs heart. He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. His withered guide led him along several obscure pas- sages, and finally undid a door through which, as it was opened, there came the sight and sound of rustling leaves with the broken sunshine glimmering among them. Gio- vanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself through the en- tanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the hidden entrance, he stood beneath his own window, in the open area of Doctor Rappaccini's garden. How often is it the case that when impossibiUties have come to pass, and dreams have condensed their misty sub- stance -into tangible realities, we find ourselves calm and even coldly self-possessed, amid circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or agony to anticipate! Fate deUghts to thwart us thus. Passion will choose his own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly behind when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem to summon his appearance. So was it now with Gio- vanni. Day after day his pulses had throbbed with feverish MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 101 blood at the improbable idea of an interview wi t h Beatrice, and of standing with her face to face in thisvery garden, basking in the Oriental sunshine of her beauty and snatch- ing from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle of his own existence. But now there was a singular and untimely equanimity within his breast. He threw a glance around the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and perceiving that he was alone, be- gan a critical obse rvation of the plants. The a spect at one and all of them di ssatisfied him ; th eir g orgeousness seeme d^ fierce, passionate, and eve n unnatural. There was~hardly"an individual shrub which ^TwaHderef^ straying by himself through a forest would not have been startled to find growing wild, as if an unearthl ^ y face had glared at him out of the thicket. Several, also, would have ^ shocked a delicate instinct by an^ appearance of artificialness, indicating that t here had been such a commSjure^ antl, as it were, adultery of various vegetable species that the pro- duction was no longer of God's making, but the monstrous offspring of man's depraved fancy , glowing with only an e vil mockery of beauty . They were probably the result of i experiment, which in one or two cases had succeeded in mingling _plants individually lovely into a^ompound pos- sessing the questionable and ominous character that &stin- guished the whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but two or three plants in the collection, and those of a kind that he well knew to be poisonou s. While busy with these contemplations he heard the rust ling of a si lken garment , and turning beheld Beatrice emerging from be- neath the! sculptured portal. Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his deportment — whether he should apologize for his in- trusion into the garden or assume that he was there with the privity at least, if not by the desire, of Doctor Rappaccini or his daughter. pii t-Baatrine's manner p laced him at his ea se, thougb.Jba3 d.ng him still in doubt b y what agency, be had "gai ned admittanc e. She came hghtly along the path, and 103 hawthoene's works met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her fanft, hnt hr''p: htened by a simpl e and kind expression of pleasure. "You ar e a connoisseur in flowers, si^or, " said Beatrice, with a smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the window; "it is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father's rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs, for he has spent a lifetime in such studies, and t his garden is his world. " "And yourself, lady?" observed Giovanni. "If fame says true, you likewise are deeply skilled in the virtues in- dicated by these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes. ^■QHM-JBu -deig n to be my iustructress, I shoul d grqvejm aBter__scholarjQian und er Signor R a gpaccini hims elf. ' ' "Are there such "i&le rumors?" asked Beatrice, with the music of a pleasant laugh. "Do people say that I am skilled in my father's science of plants? "What a jest is there! No; though I have grown up among these flowers I know no more of them than their hues and perfume, and sometimes methinks I would fain rid myself of even that small knowl- edge. There are many flowers here — and those not the least brilliant — that shock and offend me when they meet my eye. tjBut pray, signor, do not believe these stories ab out m y science ; beheve nothing of me sa ve what you see with vour own ey es. ' ' V'kVfti'And must I believei_aU thatl have s een with my o wn ^eyes? " asked Giovanni, pointedly, while the_rgcollectiOT of former scen es made him shrink. "No, signora; you demand too little of me. Bid me believe nothing save what comes f ro3QDij^our_owTi_]ips^' ' It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep flush to her c he^. but she looked full into Giovanni's eyes and responded _to_hi s gaze of unea sy sug- jT JcinTi with a, qu e enlike haughtiness : "I do so bid you, signor," she replied. " Forget what - .^TOE. jnn may havft ffl,Ti.dedJfl-rfigajd.ia.3me ; if true tojhg MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 103 outwar d senses ^still it ma^_be _ false in its es sence. But the words of Bea&ice ~R appaccin i's lips ar e true from the .fee art ou tward ; t hose you may beljev e." — — ATervoPgiowed in her whole aspect and be amed upon Giovann i's consciousness li ke the light ^ truthltself . But while sh e spoke there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich "^^^^^l^HC^^though evanescent, ~ye? whi^ the young man, from an indefinable reluctance', scarcely dared to draw into his lu ngs" It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatric e's breath which thus embalmed her words with a straSge~HcESess, as if by steeping them in her heart. A faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni, and flitted away ; be seem ed to gaze ^ jou^h the^ beau^nl girl's eygs into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fea r. The .tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice's manner vanished; she became gay, and appeared to de rive a pure delight froni her coTtiT nuTiinn ig;itfT_tJTft_y ont>i , not Jiglike what^e maiden of a lonelv islanoh iight have felt convers- ing wit hi^Tvoyager from tke civili zed wor^\ Evidently her .g xperience o f life hpA haoTi finrifirift^^ithTiT^pi lirnita of that garden. She talked now about matters as simple as tEe daylight or summer clouds, and now asked questions in ref- erence to the city or Giovanni's distant home, his friends, his mother and his sisters — questions indicating such seclu- sion and such lack of familiarity with modes and forms that fjjf.TTQTini T-ogpr>Ti.q ft(i as if to an in fant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill that was just catching its first glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the reflections of earth and sky which were flung into its bosom. There came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a gemlike brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled up- ward among the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon there gleamed across the young man's mind a sense of wonder that he should be walking side by side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination, whom he Kad idealized in such hues of terror, in whom he had posi- Vol. 3 , *D 104 hawthobne's works tively witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes — that he should be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find her so human and so maiden-Uke. But such reflections were only momentary ; the effect of her character was too real not to make itself familiar at once. In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, and now, after many turns among its avenues, were come to the shattered fountain beside which grew the magnificent siurub with its treasury of glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused fromj t which Giovanni recog- nized as identical with that which he had^^ tributed to Be atrice's breath, bu t incomparably m ore powerful. As her eyes fell upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to he r bosom , as if her heart were throbbing "suddenly and painfully. " Tjnr tbfl first, tiTna in T ^xJifgi" murmured she, address- ing the shrub, "I had forgotten thee." "I remember, signora," said Giovanni, " ihat vou once T)mmlsedJiO.„Ee ward me with one of those l iving gems for the bouquet which I had the happy boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now t o pluck it as a memorial of this interview ." He made a step toward the shrub with extended hand. But Beatrice ■ darted, forward, utterin g, a shrig k that went through his heart like a dagger. She. caught ^isjtandarid, drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his fibres. " Touch it not ," exclaimed she, in a voice of agony — "not torJhy life! It is fatal." Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath the sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes he beheld the emaciated figure and pale in- telligence of Doctor Rappaccini, who had been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of the entrance. "So sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of Beatrice came back to his passionate musings in- vested with aU the witchery that had been gathering around MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 105 it ever since his first glimpse of her, and now likewise im- bued wit h a tender w a rmth of pfirhsh w omanhood. She was human ; her na ture was endowed with all gentle and femi- , nine qu alitiesrsEewas^wortM^ to bejTOrshipped ; she"wa8 capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of love. Those tokens which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful pecuharity in her physical and moral system were now either forgotten or by the subtle sophistry of passion transmuted into a golden crown of enchantment, rendering Reatrine the more admirable by so much as sh e was the more unique . " Whatftvp r haA looked ugly was now beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole away an d hid itself among those shapeless half -ideas which throng t"Tift"iliTn reffinn hflyntid fh" daylight of ourjgerfect conscious- ness^ '""-'"'- Thus did Giovanni spend the night, nor fell asleep until the dawn had begun to awake the slumbering flowers in Doctor Rappaccini's garden, whither his dreams doubtless led him. Ub_ rose the sun in his due season, and flinging his beams upon the young man's eyelids, awoke him to a sense o f pain . When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible of a "Burning and tingling agonv in his h and, in his right hand — t he very hand which Beatric e had grasp ed in her own when he was on the point ofplucking one of the gemlike flowers. On_the back of that hand ji.here was now a purple print like_that of four small fingers, and the likeness of a slender thumb upon his wrist. Oh, how stubbornly does love, or even that cunning semblanca-Of-lgve which flourishes in the imagina- tionj_bu£ strikes no depth of root into the heart— how stub- bornly does it Sold its faith until the moment comes when it is doomed to vanish into the mist ! Giovanni wrapped a handkerchief about his hand, and wondered what g .\i1.. thing har\ gt.img Jijm and soo n forgot_his pain in a _revOTy, of Beatrice. After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of what' we call fate. A third, a fourth, and a meet- ing with Beatrice in the garden was no longer an incident 106 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS in Giovanni's daily Kfe, but the whole space in which he might be said to Kve, for the anticipation and memory of that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for the youth's appearance, and flew to his side with confi- dence as unreserved as if they had been playmates from i/early infancy — as if they were such playmates still. If by any unwonted chance he failed to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window and sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in his chamber and echo and reverberate throughout his heart. "Giovanni, Giovanni! "Why tarriest thou? Come down!" and down he hastened into_feat _Eden of p o isonous flowers . But"mtEraIl.ihis„.intimate_famdiarity there was still a res^erye jn Beatrice.'a-.de meanor so rigidly and Invariably sus- tained that the idea of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all appreciable signs they loved- rthey had ^ looked love with eyes that conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul into the depths of the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way ; t hev had even jpoken love in those gushes of passion when their spirits darted forth in articulated breath like tongues of long-hidden flame— and yfiOhsmJUadJ8fem.JBO.se^jQf Ji^ handSjiior any sHghtest^caress^uch^^^loye claims and hal- lows. He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlet5~ of her hair ; her garment — so m arked was the j ghygical bar- ner betweenJihfina:::-Jiad^ne:ger..be£ji,wM.sd. ^^ him bv a breeze. On the few occasions when Giovanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grevjr go sad^so stem^ agdjjwithajLjTOre suc h a look of desolate separation shudder- ing at itself that not a spoken word was requisite to repel him. At such times he was startled at the horrible ausni- cions th at_rose jmqnster-jikejout of the, cavjems~Q£..b fe heaj ±. _and stared him in the face. His love grew thin and faint as the morning mist; his doubts alone had sji hstance. But when Beatrice's face brightened again after the momentary shadow, she was transformed at once f rom t he mysterious. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 107 jjue stionable being whom he had watched with so much awe and horror; sh e was now the beaut ifu l anrl iiT^ nj^TTiajvu^gjej^ ^ girl whom he ffl1.t-tb^;yiis^piritknew with a certainty beyond all other knowledge. A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's last meeting with Baglioni. One morning, however, he was dis- agreeably surprised by a visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up, as he had long been, to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no n ornpaniona except upon c ondition _ol Jh£dE„perfeGt~-S3aapath£]wEE~Es ^iresent state of feeling; such synipathy was not to^be ex-" pected from Professor Baglioni. The visitor chatted." carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of the city and the university, and then took up another topic. "iiSiXS_i£§Hi.£SMifiSJ£old classic author lately," said he, "and m«t with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince who se.nt_a,j3flaii.ti£uLagiman as,a present to Alexander the Great . She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as the sunset, but what especially distinguished her was a cer- tain rich perfume ia her breath richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander , as was natural to a youthfu l conqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnificen t stranger. But a certain sage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible ^eCTet_in„xega.rd to her." "And what was that?" asked Giovanni, tuming^is eyes downward to avoid those of the professor. "That this lovelv wom^ ." continued Baglioni, with emphasis, "h ad been nourished ^ w ith pols ona from her birth upward, until her whole nature was so imbued with them that she herse lf h ad become the deadliest p oison in existence. EfasQa^^w aa her element of life . With that rich perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison — her embrace, death . Is not this a marvellous tale?" \ 108 HAWTHORNE'S WOKKS HAoM Mish fable," answered Giov agni, nervously start- ing from his chair. "I marvel how Your "Worship finds time to read such nonsense among your graver studies." "By the by," said the professor, looking uneasily about him, "what singular fragrance is this in vour apartment? Is it the peirfumeoTyour gloves? It is faint, but delicious, "aiSd yet,'af6er 'all, by nio'means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would make me'ill. It is like the breath of a flower, but I see no flowers in the chamber." "Nor are there any," replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the professor spoke; "nor, I think, is t here any fra- graiice jixcegtjn^ YourWorsh^^ ima^aa^n. OdorSj^being a sort of element combined of t he sensual _and^ the spi ritual , are apt to deceiviTui" m TEiFma-nBer! The re collection o f a perf nine— the bare idea of it — may easily be mistaken f oE_a,.pcfiS8atjEgality.. " "Ay, but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks," said Baglioni; "and were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of some vUe, apothecary-drug^ where- with my fingers are likely enough to be imbued. Our wor- shipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, tinctures, his medicaments with odors richer t han those of ^ raby^ Doubt- less, TiK\9ii^' the ^S~£m3TEarne3~Sign^iBeam would minister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden's breath, but woe to him that sips them !" Giovanni's face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in which the professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Rappaccini was a torture to his soul, and yet the intimation of a view ofhe? character opposita to his own gave jnstantaneous distinc tness to a thousan d dim siSpiCiras which now grinned at him like so many demons^ But he strove hard to quell them, and to respond to Baglioni with a true lover's perfect faith. "Signor Professor," said he, "you were my father's friend; perchance, too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part toward his son. I would fain feel nothing toward you save respect and deference, but I pray you to observe, signor. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 109^ that there is one subject on which we must not speak. Ton Imow not the Signer a Beatrice; you cannot, therefore, esti- mate the wrong — the blasphemy, I may even say — ^that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word." "Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!" answered the professor, with a calm expression of pity. " J Trnnw this wretched ffl rl far better than yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the pnisongr ^appaccini and his poisonous daughter — ^yes, poisonous as she is beautiful. Listen, for even should you do violence to my gray hairs it shall .not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has^J jgoame a truth byTihe deep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in the person of the lovely Beatrice." Giovanni groaned and hid his face. " ^er father," continued Baglioni. "waa not TflBtrfJI^ by natural a ffection from pffering np hig..C!bi1d ijx t^jg boriib^Q.. mann er as the victim of his insane zealf or science. For — let us do him justice — he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic; "What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt, you are selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death ■ — perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with what he calls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing." "It is a dream !" muttered Giovanni to himsplf . "Surely it is a dream!" "But," resumed the professor, "be of good cheer, son of my friend ! It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly we may evftp pucce ed in bringin g back jybig_misgrable child within the limits of ordinary nature from whichJb,§j:Jather:'g madness has estr anged her. Behom" thisTittle silver vase: it was wrought by theEands of the renowned Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love-gift to the fairest dame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. XtoeJitJle sip of .thi s antidote would hav e rCTdered the. mjgt. virulent "poiimsjaf the Borgias InnosSu's ; doubt not that it will be as efficacious against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase ,510 ' HAWTHORNE'S WORKS and the precious liquid within it on your Beatrice, and hope- fully await the result." Baglioni laid a small exquisitely-wrought silver phial on the table and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effects upon the young man's mind. "We will th^rtEapBasciaLzgt/' thought he, chuckling to himself, as he descended the stairs. "But let us confess the truth of him : he is a wonderful man — a wonderful man indeed — a vile empiric, how; eyer, in his practice, and there^ fore"not to be tolerated by ihoa&jad io respect the good old rules of the med ical_ prof essio n. ' ' Throughout Giovanni's whole acquaintance with Beatrice he had occasionally, as we have said, been .h aunted by dark surmises _a&iQ_hCT charact er; yet so thoroughly had she made herself felt by him as a simple, natural, most affectionate and guileless creature that the image now held up by Pro- fessor Baglioni looked as strange and incredible as if it were not in accordance with his own original conception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with his first glimpses of the beautiful girl : he could not quite forget the bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amid the sunny air by no ostensible agency save the fragrance of her breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the pure light of her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testi- mony of the senses they might appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and more real than what we cau see with the eyes and touch with the finger. On such better evidence had Giovanni founded his confidence in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her high attributes than by any deep and generous faith on his part. But now his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the height to which the early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it ; he fell down grovelling among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure whiteness of Beatrice's image. Not that he gave her up : he did but distrust. He resolved to institute some ^decisive test that should satisfy him once for all whether MOSSES PKOM AN OLD MANSE 111 there were those dreadful peculiarities in her physical nature 1 which could not be supposed to exist without some corre- sponding naonstrosity of soul. His eyes, gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect and the flowers; but if he could witness at the distan ce of a few paces the sudden bli^t of jana fresh and healtMulj&owerln Bea- tricglfiJiaadv -therejffiCMilijie^room^ qjiesi^m. With this idea he hastened to the florist's and purchased a bouquet that was still gemmed with the morning dewdrops. It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice. Before descendin g into the ga,rdenGioyaimi failed not to look at his figure injthe mirror — ^a vanity to be expected irr^beautiful young,.jnaav^et, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a certain shal- lowness of feeling and insincerity of character. He did gaze , however, and said to himself thathis features bad never Jbg; fore p ossessed so rich a^race, nor his eyes such vivacity, nor his c heeks so warm a hueof superabundant life. ^'"' "At least," thought he, "her'poison has no t j;et insinuated it3elfjBii.o my syatem — LamjioiLcaEeE,..:topenshjn hgr^as^. ' ' With that thought Jbeturned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had never once laid aside from ms nand. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame on perceiving that those de wx-ilowera.g ere already beginning to droop ; they wore the aspect of things that had been fresh and lovely yesterday, fi-iovanni grewwhite as marble and stood mo- tionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there as at the likeness of something frightful. He remembered Baglioni's remark about the fragrance that seemed to per- vade the chamber : it must have been the poisoi an his breath . Then he shuddered— shuddered at himself. Recovering from his stupor, he_be gan to watch with curious ex e-a-soider that was busily at work hanging its web from the antique cornice of the apartment, crossing and recrossing the artful system of interwoven lines, as vigorous and active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. jGriovann i bent t oward the in- 8ecLaM.eHlitiiadAjeeEJaa^bisgi^^ 112 ' HAWTHORNE'S WORKS ceased its toil : the web vibrated with a tremor originating in the body of the small artisan. Again Giovanni sent forth a breath, deeper, longer and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his heart ; he knew not whether he were wicked or only desperate. The spider made a convulsive grip with his limbs, and hung dead across the windo w. " Accursed 1 accursed!" muttered Giovanni , addressing himself. "Hast thou grown so poisonous that this deadly insect perishes by thy breath?" At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden: "Giovanni, Giovanni! It is past the hour. Why tar- riast thou? Come down!" "Yes," muttered Giovanni, again: "gliftjg tbo only haing^ whom my breath may not slay. "Would that it might!" lie rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright and loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago his wrath and despair had been so fierce that he could ha ve de- sir ed nothing so much as to wither her by a glancfi ._but_with Eer actual presence there came influences which had too real ari exisfen^Ton5e~at once^ shaken „Qfltsj,gccllectionsot the delTcate and benign power of her feminine_nature7~which had so dften "envelop ejri^EImla rrerigious cal m ; recollec- tions of many a holy and passionate outgush of her heart, when the piu;e fountain had been unsealed from its depths and made visible in its transparency to his mental eye; rec- ollections which, had Giovanni known how to estimate them, would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was but an earthly Ulusion, and that, whatever mist of evil might seem to have gathered over her, the real Beatrice was a heavenly angel. Incapable as he was of such high faith, still her presence had not utterly lost its magic. Giovanni's rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen insensibility. Bea- trice, with a quick sp iritual sen se, immediately felt that there jro^ a. gri|lf nf b1q^,^n ess between them which neither he nor she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and came thus to the marble fountain, and to its pool of MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 113 ■water on the ground, in the midst of which grew the shrub that bore gemlike blossoms. Jjjova nni wa.a affri ghted at the e ager enjoYment— the appetite, as it were — ^with^ which he found himself i nhaEng the fr agrance'of'ther flowers."' ' ''SeS'SweT^'aSked he. abriiptTvr~' "wBftTinfl^na!ma jIt th ^rub?" ' "■My f^fth^r crpia.tp.d it,.," anawArPifl she, with Simplicity. " 'Created it! created it!' " repeated Giovanni. "What mean you, Beatrice?" ' ' He is a m an fearfully acq uainted with the s ec rets of natur e," replied Beatrice, "and at the hour ^ when I first drew breat h this pla nt sprang from the soil, the offspring of bi s .sciencgjjrf. his intellect, while I was bi^ 1^'" Qar<;bly; child. Approach it not," continued she, observing with terror that Giovanni was drawing nearer to the shrub; "it has qualities that you little dream of. But I, dearest Gio- vanni—I gr e\Y- up,^i^i^lo^medjK:itik-, the . plant, an^ , was noHxi^e d with its breath. It was my sister, and I Jojed it with a Jtjju3iaBJJ^i^TTor — alas ' liast thou not suspected it? — ^there was an awful doom." Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and trembled. But her faith in his tenderness reas- sured her and made her blush that she had doubted for an instant. " There was an awful doom," she continue d — ''the effect of mv fath er's fatal lov e of science^which estranged me •MWMWr- ' I 1. I II ■ I.. I III I t— ^ — '• -^.■.^.^^^nj^.,^-.a«»i.i. fiWli ^^^^*mi«i..M. from all societv of my kin d. Until Heav en sent thee, dear- est ,QioYannijOhj_^^Tomly_wa8 thy poor Beatrice!" "Was it a hard doom?" asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her. "Only of late" have I known how hard it was," answered she, tenderly. "Oh, yes; but my heart was torpid, and therefore quiet." Giovanni's rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning-flash out of a dark cloud. "Accursed one!" cried b e, with venomous scorn and an- ger. '^AnArS^E^^^^M^^E^^^9^^, 1;feSft_te8t sey. 114 Hawthorne's works ered me likewise from all the warm th of life and entiged me into thy region of unspeakable horror !" "Giovanni!" exclaimed Beatrice, turning her la,rge bright eyes upon his face. The force of his words had not found its way into her mind; she was merely thunderstruck. "Yes, poisonous thing!" repeated Giovanni, beside him- self with passion. "Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself — a world's wonder of hideous monstros- ity! Now — ^if our breath be, happily, as fatal to ourselves as to all others — let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred, and so die." "What has befallen me?" murmured Beatrice, with a low moan out of her heart. "Hd[;^ Virgin. pity me — a po or heartbroken child!" "Thou? Dost thou pray?" cried Giovanni, still with the same fiendish scorn. " Thy very prayers as they ^c^e from thv lips taint the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes, Jet us pray ! Let us to church and dip our fingers in the holy water at the portal : they that come after us will perish as by a pestilence. Let us sign crosses in the air : it will be scatter- ing curses abroad in the likeness of holy symbols." "Giovanni," said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief was be- yond passion, "why dost thou join thyself with me thus in those terrible words? I, it is true, ^m th e horrible thing thou namest me, but thou — what hast thou to do save with one other jih udder at my hideous misery to go forth out of ^e^^arden ji,n,djxiiiigle,'with- thy race,.aai forget t]giT|here ever crawled on earth such a maQster as poor Beaiadce?" •^""^DosQEo u pret encTignorance?" asked Giovanni, scowl- ing upon her. "Behold! This power have I gained from ihe^ucejtoSJWeTor'Rappa^^^^^ There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air in search of the food promised by the flower-odors of the fatal garden. They circled round Giovanni's head, and were evidently &ttracte4 toward him by the same influ,ei}ce MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 115 which had drawn them for an instant within the sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath among them, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice, as at least a score of the insects fell dead upon the ground. ' 'I see it! I se ejt ^!" shrieked Beatrice. "It is my fath- er's fatal science ! No, no, Giovanni, it was not I ! Never, never ! I dreamed only to love thee and be wit h thee a little time, and so to let thee pass away, leaving l)ut thine image m mine heart. For, Giovanni — beheve it — though my body be nourished with poison, my spirit is Go d^B_crgatuTe and craves love as its daily food. But my father! he has united us in this^f Ajirfnl ay^]j||pa.+,Tiy Yes, spum me! tread upon me ! kill me ! Oh, what is death, after such words as thine? But it was not I; not for a world of bliss would I have done it!" Giovanni's passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his lips. There now came across him a sense — ^mourn- ful and not without tenderness — of the intimate and peculiar relationship between Beatrice and himself . They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude which would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human hfe. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to press this insulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel to one another, who was there to be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, jjiigkfLjtherenot still be a hope of his re- Jur ning, with in thg_ljmitsj3f ordinar y nature, and leadin g Beatrice — the redeemed Beatrice — by the hand? Oh, weak and selfish and unworthy^pirit, that coulddream of an earthly union and earthly happiness as possible after such deep love had been so bitterly wronged as was Beatrice's love by Giovanni's blighting words! No, no! there could benosuch hope. ghe_must pass heavily with that broken heart ac ross the Jjorders; she must bathe her hurts in some font of Paradise and forget her grief in the light of immgr. tality , and there be well. But Giovanni did not know it. "P^ar ^patirioe," said he, approaching her, whil^ sh^ 116 HAWTHORNE'S WOR5S shrank away, as always at his approach, but now with a different impulse — "dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold ! -TheE e is a medicine, potent , as a wise physician has assured me, and almost ^cdvi ne in it s efficacy . It is composed of ingredients the most opposite to those by which thy awful father has brought this calamity upon thee and me. It is distilled of blessed herbs . Shall we not quaff it together, and thus be purified from evil?" "Give it me," said Beatrice, extending her hand to re- ceive the little silver phial which Giovanni took from his bosom. She added with_a _pe culiar emphasis, "I w ill drink, but do thou await the resuR ?"' _Jiha_B ut Baglioni's antidote to her U ps, and at the same moment the figure of Rappaccini emer ged from the_ gortal and came slowly toward the marble fountain. Sshe drew near the pale m an of sc ience seemed to gaze with a triumph - ant e xpressio n atjfcheJ)eautif]jJ^^uth^ maiden, as might an artist who^ould spend his life in achieving a picture or a group of statuary, and finally be satisfied with his success. He paused; his bent form grew erect with conscious power; he Spread out his hands over them in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his children. But those were the same hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives! Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered Very nerv- ously, and pressed her hand upon her heart. " My daughter," said Eappaccini, "thou art no longe r lonely in the world . Pluck one of those pfecious gems from thy sister-shrub, and bid thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not harm him now. My science and the sympathy between thee and him have so wrought within his system 'tEaF'EenovrstandsJapart,^^^ as TEm'^str^iSgEteroFmy pride and triumph, from or dinary women . Pass on, then, througJi the world, most dear to one an other and dreadful to all besides. " ^ "My father," said Beatrice, feebly — and stUl, as she spoke, she kept her hand upon her heart — "wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable doom upon thy child?" MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 117 « 'Miserable!' " exclaimed Rappaccini. "What mean you, foolish girl? Dost thou deem it misery to be endowed with marvellous gifts against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy, misery to be able to queU the mightiest with a breath, misery to be as terrible as thou art beautiful? Wojildgtjh ou, then, have preferred th e_gondition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil and capableofnone?^^ *T"wouI5 fain have been lovedpnot f eared , ' ' murmured Beatrice, sinking down upon the ground. "But now it mat- ters not ; I am going, father, where the evil which thou hast striven to mingle with my being will pass away like a dream — ^like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers which wiU no longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden. Fare- well, Giovanni ! Thy words of hatred are like lead within my heart, but they too will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there notfroTn the firs^t more poiso n in thy na ture than in mme r To Beatrice — so radically had her earthly part been wrought upon by Rappaccini's skiU — as poison had been life, so t he powerful an tidote was death. And thus the poor victim o f^nan^singe nuitv and "^^ thwarted nature and of the fatality that attends all such efforts of p gr- verted wisdom perished there at the feet of her father and Giovanni. Just at that moment Professor Pietro Baglioni looked forth from the window an3~called loudly^iTa tone of tri- umph mixed with horror, to the thunder-stricken man of science. " Rappaccini. Rappaccini! And is this the ups hot of your exjjemaent?" 118 hawthoenb's works MRS. BULLFROG IT makes me melancholy to see how like fools some very sensible people act in the matter of choosing wives. They perplex their judgments by a most undue atten- tion to Httle niceties of personal appearance, habits, disposi- tion, and other trifles which concern nobody but the lady herself. An unhappy gentleman, resolving to wed nothing short of perfection, keeps his heart and hand till both get so old and withered that no tolerable woman will accept them. Now, this is the very height of absurdity. A kind Provi- dence has so skilfully adapted sex to sex and the mass of individuals to each other that, with certain obvious excep- tions, any male and female may be moderately happy in the married state. The true rule is to ascertain that the match is fundamentally a good one, and then to take it for granted that all minor objections, should there be such, will vanish if you let them alone. Only put yourself beyond hazard as to the real basis of matrimonial bliss, and it is scarcely to be imagined what miiracles in the way of reconciling smaller incongruities connubial love will effect. For my own part, I freely confess that in my bachelorship I was precisely such an over-curious simpleton as I now ad- vise the reader not to be. My early habits had gifted me with a feminine sensibility and too exquisite refinement, i was the accomplished graduate of a dry-goods store where by dint of ministering to the whims of fine ladies, and suit- ing silken hose to delicate Umbs, and handling satins, rib- bons, chintzes, cahcoes, tapes, gauze and cambric needles, I grew up a very ladylike sort of a gentleman. It is not assuming too much to affirm that the ladies themselves were hardly so ladylike as Thomas Bullfrog. So painfully acute was my sense of female imperfection, and such varied excel- MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 119 lence did I require ia the woman whom I could love, that there was an awful risk of my getting no wife at all, or of being driVen to perpetuate matrimony with my own image in the looking-glass. Besides the fundamental principle al- ready hinted at, I demanded the fresh bloom of youth, pearly teeth, glossy ringlets, and the whole list of lovely items, with the utmost delicacy of habits and sentiments, a silken text- ure of mind, and, above all, a virgin heart. In a word, if a young angel just from Paradise, yet dressed in earthly fash- ion, had come and offered me her hand, it is by no means certain that I should have taken it. There was every chance of my becoming a most miserable old bachelor, when by the best luck in the world I made a journey into another State and was smitten by and smote again and wooed, won and married, the present Mrs. Bullfrog, all in the space of a fort- night. Owing to these extempore measures, I not only gave my bride credit for certain perfections which have not as yet come to light, but also overlooked a few trifling defects, which, however, glimmered on my perception long before the close of the honeymoon. Yet, as there was no mistake about the fundamental principle aforesaid, I soon learned, as will be seen, to estimate Mrs. Bullfrog's deficiencies and superfluities at exactly their proper value. The same morning that Mrs. Bullfrog and I came together as a unit we took two seats in the stage-coach and began our journey toward my place of business. There being no other passengers, we were as much alone and as free to give vent to our raptures as if I had hired a hack for the matrimonial jaunt. My bride looked charmingly in a green silk calash and riding-habit of pelisse cloth ; and whenever her red lips parted with a smUe, each tooth appeared like an inestimable pearl. Such was my passionate warmth that — we had rat- tled out of the village, gentle reader, and were lonely as Adam and Eve in Paradise — I plead guilty to no less free- dom than a kiss. The gentle eye of Mrs. Bullfrog scarcely rebuked me for the profanation. Emboldened by her indul- gence, I threw back the calash from her polished brow and 120 hawthoenb's works suffered my fingers, white and delicate as her own, to stray among those dark and glossy curls which realized my day- dreams of rich hair. "My love," said Mrs. Bullfrog, tenderly, "you will dis- arrange my curls." "Oh, no, my sweet Laura," replied I, still playing with the glossy ringlet. "Even your fair hand could not manage a curl more delicately than mine. I propose myself the pleasure of doing up your hair in papers every evening at the same time with my own." "Mr. Bullfrog," repeated she, "you must not disarrange my curls." This was spoken in a more decided tone than I had hap- pened to hear until then from my gentlest of all gentle brides. At the same time she put up her hand and took mine pris- oner, but merely drew it away from the forbidden ringlet, and then immediately released it. Now, I am a fidgety lit- tle man and always love to have something in my fingers; so that, being debarred from my wife's curls, I looked about me for any other plaything. On the front seat of the coach there was one of those small baskets in which travelling- ladies who are too delicate to appear at a public table gen- erally carry a supply of gingerbread, biscuits and cheese, cold haxn, and other light refreshments, merely to sustain nature to the journey's end. Such airy diet will sometimes keep them in pretty good flesh for a week together. Laying hold of this same little basket, I thrust my hand under the newspaper with which it was carefully covered. "What's this, my dear?" cried I, for the black neck of a bottle had popped out of the basket. "A bottle of Kalydor, Mr. Bullfrog," said my wife, coolly taking the basket from my hands and replacing it, on the front seat. There was no possibility of doubting my wife's word, but I never knew genuine Kalydor such as I use for my own complexion to smell so much like cherry-brandy. I was about to express my fears that the lotion would injure her MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 121 skin, when an accident occurred which threatened more than a skin-deep injury. Our Jehu had carelessly driven over a heap of gravel and fairly capsized the coach, with the wheels in the air and our heels where our heads should have heen. What became of my wits I cannot imagine : they have al- ways had a perverse trick of deserting me just when they were most needed ; but so it chanced that in the confusion of our overthrow I quite forgot that there was a Mrs. Bullfrog in the world. Like many men's wives, the good lady served her husband as a stepping-stone. I had scrambled out of the coach and was instinctively settling my cravat, when somebody brushed roughly by me, and I heard a smart thwack upon the coachman's ear. "Take that, you villain!" cried a strange, hoarse voice. "You have ruined me, you blackguard! I shall ne\rer be the woman I have been." And then came a second thwack, aimed at the driver's other ear, but which missed it and hit him on the nose, caus- ing a terrible effusion of blood. Now, who or what fearful apparition was inflicting this punishment on the poor fellow remained an impenetrable mystery to me. The blows were given by a person of grisly aspect with a head almost bald and sunken cheeks, apparently of the feminine gender, though hardly to be classed in the gentler sex. There be- ing no teeth to modulate the voice, it had a mumbled fierce- ness — not passionate, but stern — which absolutely made me quiver like calves'-foot jelly. Who could the phantom be? The most awful circumstance of the affair is yet to be told, for this ogre — or whatever it was — had a riding-habit like Mrs. Bullfrog's, and also a green silk calash dangling down her back by the strings. In my terror and turmoil of mind I could imagine nothing less than that the Old Mck at the moment of our overturn had annihilated my wife and jumped into her petticoats. This idea seemed the more probable since I could nowhere perceive Mrs. Bullfrog alive, nor, though I looked very sharp about the coach, could I detect any traces of that beloved woman's dead 123 Hawthorne's works body. There would have been a comfort in giving her Christian burial. "Come, sir! bestir yourself! Help this rascal to set up the coach," said the hobgoblin to me; then with a terrific screech to three countrymen at a distance, "Here, you fel- lows! Ain't you ashamed to stand off when a poor woman is in distress?" The countrymen, instead of fleeing for their lives, came running at fuU speed, and laid hold of the topsy-turvy coach. I also, though a small-sized man, went to work like a son of Anak. The coachman, too, with the blood still streaming from his nose, tugged and toiled most manfully, dreading, doubtless, that the next blow might break his head. And yet, bemauled as the poor fellow had been, he seemed to glance at me with an eye of pity, as if my case were more deplorable than his. But I cherished a hope that all would turn out a dream, and seized the opportunity, as we raised the coach, to jam two of my fingers under the wheel, trust- ing that the pain would awaken me. "Why, here we are all to rights again!" exclaimed a sweet voice, behind — "Thank you for your assistance, gen- tlemen. — My dear Mr. Bullfrog, how you perspire! Do let me wipe your face. — Don't take this httle accident too much to heart, good driver. We ought to be thankful that none of our necks are broken!" "We might have spared one neck out of the three," muttered the driver, rubbing his ear and pulling his nose to ascertain whether he had been cuffed or not. "Why, the woman's a witch!" I fear that the reader will not believe, yet it is positively a fact, that there stood Mrs. Bullfrog with her glossy ringlets curHng on her brow and two rows of Orient pearls gleaming between her parted lips, which wore a most angelic smile. She had regained her riding-habit and calash from the grisly phantom, and was in all respects the lovely woman who had been sitting by my side at the instant of our overturn. How she bad happeijed to disappear, a,nd who h^d supplied her MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 123 place, and whence she did now return, were problems too knotty for me to solve. There stood my wife : that was the one thing certain among a heap of mysteries. Nothing remained but to help her into the coach and plod on through the journey of the day and the journey of life as comfortably as we could. As the driver closed the door upon us I heard him whisper to the three countrymen : "How do you suppose a fellow feels shut up in the cage with a she-tiger?" Of course this query could have no reference to my situa- tion ; yet, unreasonable as it may appear, I confess that my feelings were not altogether so ecstatic as when I first called Mrs. Bullfrog mine. True, she was a sweet woman and an angel of a wife; but what if a Gorgon should return amid the transports of our connubial bliss and take the angel's place ! I recollected the tale of a fairy who half the time was a beautiful woman and half the time a hideous monster. Had I taken that very fairy to be the wife of my bosom? While such whims and chimeras were flitting across my fancy I began to look askance at Mrs. Bidlfrog, almost expecting that the transformation would be wrought before my eyes. To divert my mind I took up the newspaper which had covered the little basket of refreshments, and which now lay at the bottom of the coach blushing with a deep-red stain and emitting a potent spirituous fume from the contents of the broken bottle of Kalydor. The paper was two or three years old, but contained an article of several columns, in which I soon grew wonderfully interested. It was the report of a trial for breach of promise of marriage, giving the testimony in full, with fervid extracts from both the gentleman's and lady's amatory correspondence. The de- serted damsel had personally appeared in court, and had borne energetic evidence to her lover's perfidy and the strength of her blighted affections. On the defendant's part, there had been an attempt, though insufficiently sus- t^§4j to Wa^t the plawtifs phavaqtef, ^pd a plea, in miti,- 124 Hawthorne's works gation of damages, on account of her unamiable temper. A horrible idea was suggested by the lady's name. "Madam," said I, holding the newspaper before Mrs. Bullfrog's eyes — and, though a small, delicate and thin- visaged man, I feel assured that I looked very terrific — "Madam," repeated I, through my shut teeth, "were you the plaintiff in this cause?" "Oh, my dear Mr. Bullfrog!" replied my wife, sweetly; "I thought all the world knew that." "Horror! horror!" exclaimed I, sinking back on the seat. Covering my face with both hands, I emitted a deep and deathlike groan, as if my tormented soul were rending me asunder. I, the > most exquisitely fastidious of men, and whose wife was to have been the most delicate and refined of women, with all the fresh dewdrops glittering on her virgin rosebud of a heart! I thought of the glossy ring- lets and pearly teeth, I thought of the Kalydor, I thought of the coachman's bruised ear and bloody nose, I thought of the tender love-secrets which she had whispered to the judge and jury, and a thousand tittering auditors, and gave an- other groan. "Mr. Bullfrog!" said my wife. As I made no reply, she gently took my hands within her own, removed them from my face, and fixed her eyes steadfastly on mine. "Mr. Bullfrog," said she, not unkindly, yet with all the decision of her strong character, "let me advise you to over- come this foolish weakness, and prove yourself to the best of your abiUty as good a husband as I will be a wife. You have discovered, perhaps, some little imperfections in your bride. Well, what did you expect? Women are not angels; if they were, they would go to heaven for husbands — or, at least, be more difficult in their choice on earth." "But why conceal those imperfections?" interposed I, tremulously. "Now, my love, are not you a most unreasonable little man?" said Mrs, Bullfrog, patting me on the cheek. "Ought MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 125 a woman to disclose her frailties earlier than the wedding- day? Few husbands, I assure you, make the discovery in such good season, and still fewer complain that these trifles are concealed too long. Well, what a strange man you arel Poh! you are joking." "But the suit for breach of promise!" groaned I. "Ah! and is that the rub?" exclaimed my wife. "Is it possible that you view that affair in an objectionable light? Mr. Bullfrog, I never could have dreamed it. Is it an objec- tion that I have triumphantly defended myself against slan- der, and vindicated my purity in a court of justice? Or do you complain because your wife has shown the proper spirit of a woman, and punished the villain who trifled with her affections?" "But," persisted I, shrinking into a comer of the coach, however, for I did not know precisely how much contradic- tion the proper spirit of a woman would endure — "but, my love, would it not have been more dignified to treat the villain with the silent contempt he merited?" "That is all very well, Mr. Bullfrog," said my wife, slyly, "but in that case where would have been the five thousand dollars which are to stock your dry-goods store?" "Mrs. BuUfrog, upon your honor," demanded I, as if my life hung upon her words, "is there no mistake about those five thousand dollars?" "Upon my word and honor there is none," rephed she. "The jury gave me every cent the rascal had, and I have kept it all for my dear Bullfrog." "Then, thou dear woman," cried I, with an overwhelm- ing gush of tenderness, "let me fold thee to my heart! The basis of matrimonial bHss is secure, and aU thy little defects and frailties are forgiven. Nay, since the result has been so fortunate, I rejoice at the wrongs which drove thee to this blessed lawsuit, happy BuUfrog that I am!" 136 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS FIRE-WORSHIP T is a great revolution in social and domestic life — and no less so in the life of the secluded student — this almost universal exchange of the open fireplace for the cheer- less and ungenial stove. On such a naorning as now lowers around our old gray parsonage I miss the bright face of my ancient friend who was wont to dance upon the hearth and play the part of a more familiar sunshine. It is sad to turn from the cloudy sky and sombre landscape — from yonder hill with its crown of rusty black pines, the foliage of which is so dismal in the absence of the sun; that bleak pasture- land and the broken surface of the potato-field with the brown clods partly concealed by the snowfall of last night; the svrollen and sluggish river, with ice-incrusted borders, dragging its bluish-gray stream along the verge of our orchard, like a snake half -torpid with the cold — it is sad to turn from an outward scene of so little comfort and find the same sullen influences brooding within the precincts of my study. Where is that brilliant guest, that quick and subtle spirit whom Prometheus lured from heaven to civilize man- kind and cheer them in their wintry desolation, that com- fortable inmate whose smile during eight months of the year was our sufi&cient consolation for sumnaer's lingering ad- vance and early flight? Alas! blindly inhospitable, grudg- ing the food that kept him cheery and mercurial, we have thrust him into an iron prison and compel him to smoulder away his life on a daily pittance which once would have been too scanty for his breakfast. Without a metaphor, we now make our fire in an air-tight stove, and supply it with some half a dozen sticks of wood between dawn and nightfall. I never shall be reconciled to this enormity. Truly may MOSSES FROM AN oLd MANSE 137 it be said that the world looks darker for it. Ig^ one way, or another, here and therej|nd.flll_amiiBd-4JSy-tlie-Jns:sntions or^S^;;^eTfMtMogin^ha4acti^^ Epetic -and the bea utif ul out of hu man life. The domestic fire was a type of~airthese attributes, and seemed to bring might and majesty and wild Nature and a spiritual essence into our inmost home, and yet to dwell with us in such friendliness that its mysteries and marvels excited no dismay. The same mild companion that smiled so placidly in our faces was he that comes roaring out of JEtna and rushes madly up the sky like a fiend breaking loose from torment and fighting for a place among the upper angels. He it is, too, that leaps from cloud to cloud amid the crashing thunder- storm. It was he whom the Gheber worshipped with no unnatural idolatry, and it was he who devoured London and Moscow, and many another famous city, and who loves to riot through our own dark forests and sweep across our prairies, and to whose ravenous maw, it is said, the universe shall one day be given as a final feast. Meanwhile, he is the great artisan and laborer by whose aid men are enabled to build a world within a world — or, at least, to smooth down the rough creation which ITature flung to us. He forges the mighty anchor and every lesser instrument, he drives the steamboat and drags the rail-car, and it was he — this creat- ure of terrible might and so many-sided utility and all-com- prehensive destructiveness — ^that used to be the cheerful, homely friend of our wintry days, and whom we have made the prisoner of this iron cage. How kindly he was, and though the tremendous agent of change, yet bearing himself with such gentleness, so ren- dering himself a part of all lifelong and age-coeval associa- tions, that it seemed as if he were the great conservative of Nature. While a man was teue to the_ fireside, so long ^TOuld"he"Be~true3a_cpuntry andjaw, to ^ej^od whom ,h^_ fathers worshipped, to the wife of his youth, a,nd to all things else which_,MstiBct__or,religion..haye taught us to.GQnsider sacred. With how sweet humility did this elemental spirit 128 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS perform all needful offices for the household in which he was domesticated! He was equal to the concoction of a grand dinner, yet scorned not to roast a potato or toast a bit of cheese. How humanely did he cherish the schoolboy's icy fingers and thaw the old man's joints with a genial warmth which almost equalled the glow of youth! And how carefully did he dry the cowhide boots that had trudged through mud and snow, and the shaggy outside garment' stiff with frozen sleet, taking heed, likewise, to the comfort of the faithful dog who had followed his master through the storm ! When did he refuse a coal to light a pipe or even a part of his own substance to kindle a neighbor's fire? And then, at twilight, when laborer or scholar, or mortal of what- ever age, sex or degree, drew a chair beside him and looked into his glowing face, how acute, how profound, how com- I pr ehensJve, w as his sympathy with the niood of each and ajl! He pictured forth their very thoughts. To the youth- ful he showed the scenes of the adventurous life before them; to the aged, the shadows of departed love and hope; and if aU earthly things had grown distasteful, he could gladden the fireside-muser with golden glimpses of a better world. And amid this varied communion with the human soul how busily would the sympathizer, the deep moralist, the painter of magic pictures, be causing the tea-kettle to boil! *■'' 1 *^''^ ^ '^-W-^ = — -*^' 1-^-*^^ 1 ij-vA«-^ Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness that the mighty spirit, were opportunity offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his terrible embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened bones. This possibilityja£.^ad destruction only made his domestic KHanesi^e more bgau- ^tiEilCan4 touching.^ If was so sweet of him, being endowed with such power, to dwell day after day, and one long, lone- some night after another, on the dusky hearth, only now and then betraying his wild nature by thrusting his red tongue out of the chimney- top! True, he had done much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more, but his MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 139 warm heart atoned for all. He was kindly to the race of man, and they pardoned his characteristic imperfections. The good old clergyman my predecessor in this mansion was well acquainted with the comforts of the fireside. His yearly allowance of wood, according to the terms of his settlement, was no less than sixty cords. Almost an annual forest was converted from sound oak-logs into ashes in the kitchen, the parlor and this little study where now an un- worthy successor- — not in the pastoral office, but merely in his earthly abode — sits scribbling beside an air-tight stove. I love to fancy one of those fireside days while the good man, a contemporary of the Revolution, was in his early prime, some five-and-sixty years ago. Before sunrise, doubt- less, the blaze hovered upon the gray skirts of night and dissolved the frost-work that had gathered like a curtain over the small window-panes. There is something peculiar in the aspect of the morning fireside — a fresher, brisker glare, the absence of that mellowness which can be produced only by half-consumed logs and shapeless brands with the white ashes on them and mighty coals, the remnant of tree- trunks that the hungry elements have gnawed for hours. The morning hearth, too, is newly swept and the brazen andirons well brightened; so that .the cheerful fire may see its face in them. Surely it was happiness when the pastor, fortified with a substantial breakfast, sat down in his arm-chair and slippers and opened the "Whole Body of Divinity" or the "Commentary on Job," or whichever of his old folios or quartos might fall within the range of his weekly sermons.' It^^inugt Jiaye been his,i)wn.-lault^i£-the_ warmth and glowofjthisjibundant^heaTth d^ the" discourse, and keep his aud ience comfortable in spite_ ^ tbie~'i} itt e re5 t'~:B5"fthgai_.i)J^IIthat ever wrestledwith the church-steepTe., _ He reads while the heat warps the stiff covers of the volume, he writes without numbness either in his heart or fingers, and with unstinted hand he throws fresh sticks of wood upon the fire. A parishioner comes in. With what warmth of benevo- 130 HAWTHORNE'S WOKKS lence — how should he be otherwise than warm in any of his attributes? — does the minister bid him welcome and set a chair for him in so close proximity to the hearth that soon the guest finds it needful to rub his scorched shins with his great red hands! The melted snow drips from his steaming boots and bubbles upon the hearth. His puckered forehead unrav- els its entanglement of criss-cross wrinkles. We lose much of the enjoyment of fireside heat without such an opportunity of marking its genial effect upon those who have been look- ing the inclement weather in the face. In the course of the day our clergyman himself strides forth, perchance to pay a round of pastoral visits, or, it may be, to visit his mountain of a wood- pile and cleave the monstrous logs into billets suit- able for the fire. He returns with fresher life to his beloved hearth. During the short afternoon the western sunshine comes into the study and strives to stare the ruddy blaze out of countenance, but with only a brief triumph, soon to be succeeded by brighter glories of its rival. Beautiful it is to see the strengthening gleam, the deepening light, that gradually casts distinct shadows of the human figure, the table and the high-backed chairs upon the opposite wall, and at length, as twilight comes on, replenishes the room with living radiance and makes life all rose-color. Afar the wayfarer discerns the flickering flame as it dances upon the windows, and hails it as ^ beacon- light of humanity, re- niinding him,_in his cold and lonelyjath, that thewoHdis nqt_^lsnow and solitude and desolation. At evenSd^"prob- abiyptEe^study was peopled with the clergyman's wife and family, and children tumbled themselves upon the hearth- rug, and grave Puss sat with her back to the fire or gazed with a semblance of human meditation into its fervid depths. Seasonably the plenteous ashes of the day were raked over the smouldering brands, and from the heap came jets of flame and an incense of night-long smoke creeping quietly up the chimney. Heaven forgive the old clergyman! In his later life, when for almost ninety winters he had been gladdened by MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 131 the fireliglit — -when it had gleamed upon him from infancy ' to extreme age, and never without brightening his spirits as well as his visage, and perhaps keeping him alive so long — he had the heart to brick up his chimney-place and bid fare- well to the face of his old friend forever. Why did not he take an eternal leave of the sunshine too? His sixty cords of wood had probably dwindled to a far less ample supply in modern times, and it is certain that the parsonage had grown crazy with time and tempest and pervious to the cold; but still it was one of the saddest tokens of the de- cline and fall of open fireplaces that the gray patriarch should have deigned to warm himself at an air-tight stove. And I, likewise, who have found a home in this ancient , owl's nest since its former occupant took his heavenward ! flight — I, to my shame, have put up stoves in kitchen and parlor and chamber. "Wander where you will about the house, not a glimpse of the earth-born, heaven- aspiring fiend of JEtna — him that sports in the thunderstorm, the idol of the Ghebers, the devourer of cities, the forest-rioter and prairie-sweeper, the future destroyer of our earth, the old chimney-corner companion who mingled himself so sociably with household joys and sorrows — not a glimpse of this mighty and kindly one will greet your eyes. He is now an invisible presence. There is his iron cage; touch it, and he scorches your fingers. He delights to singe a gar- ment or perpetrate any other little unworthy mischief, for his temper is ruined by the ingratitude of mankind, for whom he cherished such warmth of feeling, and to whom he taught all their arts, even that of making his own prison- house. In his fits of rage he puffs volumes of smoke and noisome gas through the crevices of the door, and shakes the iron walls of his dungeon, so as to overthrow the oma - mental urn upon its summit. We tremble lest he should break forth among us. Much of his time is spent in sighs burdened with unutterable grief and long-drawn through the funnel. He amuses himself, too, with repeating all th-^^ whispers, the moans and the louder utterances or tempestu- 132 Hawthorne's works ous howls of the wind ; so that the stove becomes a micro- cosm of the aerial world. Occasionally there are strange combinations of sounds — voices talking almost articulately within the hollow chest of iron — insomuch that Fancy be- "guiles me with the idea that my firewood must have grown in that infernal forest of lamentable trees which breathed their complaints to Dante. When the listener is half asleep, he may readily take these voices for the conversation of spirits, and assign them an intelligible meaning. Anon there is a pattering noise — drip, drip, drip — as if a summer shower were f alHng within the narrow circumference of the stove. -^ These barren and tedious eccentricities are all that the air-tight stove can bestow in exchange for the invaluable moral^ influences- which we have lost by our desertion of the open fireplace. Alas ! is this world so very bright that we can afford to choke up such a domestic fountain of gladsome- ness and sit down by its darkened source without being con- scious of a gloom? It is my belief that social intercourse cannot long continue ^whESriirTias been, how tbat we have subtracted from it so important and vivifying an element as firelight. The effecfe will be more perceptible on our children and the generations that shall succeed them than on ourselves, the mechanism of whose life may remain unchanged, though its spirit be far other than it was. The sacred trust of the household fire has been transmitted in unbroken succession from the earhest ages, and faithfully cherished m spite of every dis- couragement, such as the curfew law of the Norman con- querors, until in these evil days physical science has nearly succeeded in extinguishing it. But we, at least, have our youthful recollections tinged with the glow of the hearth and our lifelong habits and associations arranged on the principle of a mutual bond in the domestic fire. Therefore, though the sociable friend be forever departed, yet in a de- gree he will be spiritually present with us, and still more ,will the_jm£tj^ forms which were once fuD of his rejoicing MOSSES PKOM AN OLD MANSE -.V 133 presence continue to rule our manners. "We shall draw our chairs together as we and our forefathers have been wont for thousands of years back, and sit around some blank and empty corner of the room, babbling wit h unreal cheerfulness of topics suitable to the homely fireadeT"" AjramaET^^. t hepast — from the ashes of bygone years and the rakea=u|r emBers of long ago — will sometimes thaw the ice about our hearts. But it must be otherwise with our successors. On the most favorable supposition, they will be acquainted with the fireside in no better shape than that of the sullen stove, and more probably they wUl have grown up amid furnace- heat in houses which might be fancied to have their founda- tion over the infernal pit whence sulphurous steams and un- breathable exhalations ascend through the apertures of the floor. There will be^oj^i^ngjto attract these poor children to one cen^reT* They wUl never behold one another through thaTpectiTiar medium of vision — ^the ruddy gleam of blazing wood or bituminous coal — which gives the human spirit so deep an insight into its fellows and md^„„aU. humanity into onejcordial heart of hearts. Domestic life — if it may still be termed domestic — will seek its separate corners and never gather itself into groups. The easy gossip, the merry yet unambitious jest, the life-like practical discussion of real matters in a casual way, the soul of truth which is so often incarnated in a simple fireside word, will disappear from earth. Conversation will contract the air of a debate, and all mortal intercourse be chilled with a fatal frost. In classic times the exhortations to fight pro arts et focis — "for the altars and the hearths" — was considered the strongest appeal that could be made to patriotism. And it seemed an immortal utterance, for all subsequent ages and people have acknowledged its force and responded to it with the full portion of manhood that nature had assigned to each. Wisely were the altar and the hearth conjoined in one mighty sentence, for the hearth too had its kindred sanctity. R elig- ion s at down besi de it — not in t he priestly robes which deco- ratedj and perhaps ^isguke^u her "aFtEe altar, but arrayed 134 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS in asimplejnatron^-garb and uttering her-4essons witluthe tenderness of a mother's voice and heart. The holy hearth! If any earthly and matenal thing — or, rather, a divine idea embodied in brick and mortar — might be supposed to possess the permanence of moral truth, it was this. All revered it. The man who did not put off his shoes upon this holy ground would have deemed it pastime to trample upon the altar5_It has been our task to uproot the hearth ; what f urthei(re^^m- is4eft^ for our children to achieve unless they overthro w the altar too?"" And by what appeal Hereafter, when the breath o?n^tile armies may mingle with the pure cold breezes of our country, shall we attempt to rouse up native valpr? Fight for your hearths? There will be none throughout the land. Fight for your Stoves? Not I, in faith. If in such a cause I strike a blow, it shall be on the invader's part, and Heaven grant that it may shatter the abomination aU to pieces! BUDS AKD BIRD-VOICES BALMY Spring — weeks later than we expected, and months later than we longed for her — comes at last to revive the moss on the roof and waUs of our old mansion. She peeps brightly into my study window, inviting me to throw it open and create a summer atmosphere by the intermixture of her genial breath with the black and cheer- less comfort of the stove. As the casement ascends, forth into infinite space fly the innumerable forms of thought or fancy that have kept me company in the retirement of this little chamber during the sluggish lapse of wintry weather — visions gay, grotesque and sad, pictures of real life tinted with nature's homely gray and russet, scenes in Dreandand bedizened with , rainbow-hues which f aded~bef ore they were - well laid on. All these may vanish now, and leave me to mold a fresh existence out of sunshine. Brooding Medita- tion may flap her dusky wings and take her owl-like flight MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 135 bUnking amid the cheerfulness of noontide. Such compan- "} ions befit the season of frosted window-panes and crackUng j fires, when the blast howls through the black ash trees of 1 our avenue, and the drifting snowstorm chokes up the wood paths and fills the highway from stone wall to stone wall. J In the spring and summer time aU sombre thoughts should follow the winter northward with the sombre and thought- ful crows. T ^old para disiacal, emnnmy. of Jife. is again in f orce^: weJive^otJojMnk nor to labor, but for the_si5aple OTi3 of being h appy; nothing~lEOT~t!K^pfesent hour Js-scorthy of man's infinite c apaS^y^ave to imbibe the^warm smile c^ heaven and sympathize wi^FtKe reviving earth. The present Spring~comes onward with fleeter footsteps because Winter lingered so unconscionably long that with her best diligence she can hardly retrieve half the allotted period of her reign. It is but a fortnight since I stood on the brink of our swollen river and beheld the accumulated ice of four frozen months go down the stream. Except in streaks here and there upon the hillsides, the whole visible universe was then covered with deep snow, the nethermost layer of which had been deposited by an early December storm. It was a sight to make the beholder torpid in the impossibility of imagining how this vast white napkin was to be removed from the face of the corpse-like world in less time than had been required to spread it there. But, who can estimate the power of gentle influences, whether_amid material desolation'or the moral winter of man's heart? There have been no tempestuous rains— even no sultry days — but a constant breath of southern winds, with now a day of kindly sunshine, and now a no less kindly mist or a soft descent of showers in which a smile and a blessing seemed to have been steeped. The snow has vanished as if by magic; whatever heaps may be hidden in the woods and deep gorges of the hills, only two sohtary specks remain in the landscape, and those I shall almost regret to miss when to-morrow I look for them in vain. Kever before, methinks, has Spring pressed so closely on Vol. 3 *B 136 hawthoene's works the footsteps pf retreating Winter. Along the roadside the green blades of grass have sprouted on the very edge of the snowdrifts. The pastures and mowing fields have not yet assumed a general aspect of verdure, but neither have they the cheerless brown tint which they wear in latter autumn, when vegetation has entirely ceased ; there is now a faint shadow of life, gradually brightening into the warm reality. Some tracts in a happy exposure — as, for instance, yonder southwestern slope of an orchard, in front of that old red farmhouse beyond the river — such patches of land already wear a beautiful and tender gree;ti to which no future luxuri- ance can add a charm. It looks unreal — a prophecy, a hope, ajransitory effect of some'Jeculiar light, wEicBrwiUr^vaQish with £Eie~sIightest motion c^ the eye. But beauty is never a delusion; not th^e verdant tracts, but the dark and barren landscape all around them is a shadow and a dream. Each moment wins some portion of the earth from death to life; a sudden^^eam^f verdm^n5rightens"along'the'simny'iIope'" of a bank which an instant ago was brown and bare. Ton look again, and, behold! an apparition of green grass! The trees in our orchard and elsewhere are as yet naked, but already appear full of life and vegetable blood. It seems as if by one magic touch they might instantaneously burst into full foliage, and that the wind which now sighs through their naked branches might make sudden music amid innu- merable leaves. The moss-grown willow tree which for forty years past has overshadowed these western windows will be among the first to put on its green attire. There are some objections to the willow: it is not a dry and cleanly tree, and impresses the beholder with an association of sliminegs. No trees, I think, are perfectly agreeable as companions un- less they have glossy leaves, dry bark and a firm and hard texture of trunk and branches. But the willow is almost the earliest to gladden us with the promise and reality of beauty in its graceful and delicate foliage, and the last to scatter its yellow, yet scarcely-withered, leaves upon the ground. All through the winter, too, its yellow twigs give MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 137 it a sunny aspect which, is not without a cheering influence even in the grayest and gloomiest day. Beneath a clouded sky it faithfully remembers the sunshine. Our old house would lose a charm were the willow to he cut down, with its golden crown over the snow-covered roof, and its heap of summer verdure. The lilac-shrubs under my study windows are likewise almost in leaf ; in two or three days more I may put forth my hand and pluck the topmost bough in its freshest green. These lilacs are very aged, and have lost the luxuriant foli- age of their prime. The heart or the judgnaen t or the moral sense _or the taste _is_ dTssatisfled jvith._thgii'_^pIvB.sent aspect. Old age is not venerable when it embodies itself in lilacs, rose-bushes, or any other ornamental shrubs; it seems as if Such plants, as they grow only for beauty, ought to flourish only in immortal youth — or, at least, to die before their sad decrepitude. Treeg of beauty are trees of Paradise, and therefore npt subject to decay by their original nature, though the y have lost that precious birthrigh t by being tfailBplan ted to anTearthly gpiL There is a kind of ludicrous unfitness in the idea of a time-stricken and grandfatherly lilac-bush. The analogy holds good in human life. Persons who can only be graceful and ornamental — who can give the world nothing but flowers — should die young, and never be seen with gray hair and wrinkles, any more than the floWer-shrubs with mossy bark and blighted foliage, like the lilacs under my window. Not that beauty is worthy of less than immortality. No; the beaiitiful should liye forever, and thence perhaps the sense of impropriety when we see it triumphed jjyerbyjime^ -4Ppl® trees, on theother tand, grow old without reproach. Let them live as long as they may, and contort themselves into whatever perversity of shape they please, and deck their withered limbs with a springtime gaudiness of pink-blossoms, still they are respect- able, even if they afford us only an apple or two in a season. Those few apples — or, at all^ events^ the remembrance jqL apples in bygone years — are the atonement which utilitari- 138 hawthoenb's wokks anism inexorably demands for the privilege jof_ lengthened life. Human flower-shrubs, if they will grow old on earth, should, besides their lovely blossoms, bear some kind of fruit that will satisfy earthly appetites, else neither man nor the decorum of nature will deem it fit that the moss should gather on them. One of the first things that strikes the attention when the white sheet of winter is withdrawn is the neglect and dis- array that lay hidden beneath it. !N'ature_is_not_clsaiily, accordin g to our_ prejudice§t.„jrhe beauty of preceding years, now transformed to brown and blighted deformity, obstructs the brightening loveliness of the present hour. Our avenue is strewn with the whole crop of autumn's withered leaves. There are quantities of decayed branches which one tempest after another has fiung down, black and rotten, and one or two vnth the ruin of a bird's nest clinging to them. In the garden are the dried bean -vines, the brown stalks of the asparagus-bed, and melancholy old cabbages which were frozen into the soil before their unthrifty cultivator could find time to gather them. How invariable throughout all the forms of life do we find these intermingled memorials of death! On t he soil of t boiight and in the garden of the hearty, as well as in the sensual world, lie withered leaves—" the ideas and feelings that we have done with. There is no wind strong enough to sweep them away ; infinite space will not gamer them from our sight. What mean they? Wh^ in ay we not be permitted to liva and enjoy as if this were tKe~flrst^"iifB' and our own the _ primal enjoyment, instead of^trea3^^]aIwayg^n -these dry bones and mouldering rdics from the aged accumulationjjf^ which , springs all thai, now appears "so^ yo ung and new? Sweet must have been the spring-time of Eden, when no earlier year had strewn its decay upon the virgin turf, and no former experience had ripened into summer and faded into autumn in the~hearts of its inhabitants. That was a world worth living in. — Oh, thou murmi:^erj_itjs out of the very wantonness of such a life that thoiQeignesfi\these idle lamentations. There is no MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 139 )cay. Each human^oul is the first created i nhabitant of j own Ede n. — JSge-jjwell in an old moss-covered mansion idjreadjnjtheworn footprints of the^asFandThave^a^ray^ ergyman's ghost for our dafly^nd" nightly inmate, yet all .ese outward circumstances, are made less than visionary T the (renewing; power _of__thg_apijit. Should the spirit ever se this 'power — should the withered leaves and the rotten ■anches and the moss-covered house and the ghost of the •ay past ever become its..realities, and the verdure and le freshness merely its faint dream — then let it pray to be leased from earth. Erwill need the air of heaven to revive 3 pristine energies. What an unlooked-for flight was this from our shadowy renue of black-ashand bajm-of-gilead trees mto Jbe inHnite ! ow we have our^et again upon the turf. Nowhere does le grass spring up so industriously as in this homely yard, ong the base of the stone wall and in the sheltered nooks ' the buildings, and especially around the southern door- ep — ^a locality which seems particularly favorable to its ■owth, for it is already tall enough to bend over and wave the wind. I observe that several weeds — and, most fre- lently, a plant that stains the fingers with its yellow juice -have survived and retained their freshness and sap through- it the winter. One knows not how they have deserved Lch an exception from, the common lot of their race. They ■e now the patriarchs of the departed year, and may preach ortality to the present generation of flowers and weeds. Among the delights of spring, how is it possible to forget le birds? Even the crows were welcome, as the sable har- ngers of a brighter and livelier race. They visited us jfore the snow was off, but seem mostly to have betaken lemselves to remote depths of the woods, which they haunt .1 summer long. Many a time shall I disturb them there, id feel as if I had intruded among a company of silent orshippers as they sit in Sabbath stillness among the tree- ps. Their voices, when they speak, are in admirable ac- •rdance with the tranquil solitude of a summer afternoon, 140 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS and, resounding so far above the head, their loud claraor increases the religious quiet of the scene instead of breaking it. A crow, however, has no real pretensions to religion, in spite of his gravity of mien and black attire ; he is certainly a thief, and probably an infidel. The_gulls^ are far. more respectable,, in a moral point of view. These denizens of sea-beaten rocks anffhaunters of the lonely beach come up our inland river at this season, and soar high overhead, flapping their broad wings in the upper sunshine. They are among the most picturesque of birds,, because they so float and rest upon the air as to become almost stationary parts of the landscape. The imagination has time to grow ac- quainted withjthem ; they havenot tiitte'3 away In aTmoment. You go up among the clouds and greet these lofty^Eghted gulls, and repose confidently with them upon the sustaining atmosphere. Ducks have their haunts along tEe~soIifiiy places of the river, and alight in flocks upon the broad bosom of the overflowed meadows. Their flight is too rapid and determined for the eye to catch enjoyment from it, althov^h it never fails to stir up the heart with the sjgortsman'B in- eradicable instinct. They have now gone further nortE- ward7but wmvisi? us again in autumn. The smaller birds — the little songsters of the woods, and those that haunt man's dwellings and claim human friend- ship by building their nests under the sheltering eaves or among the orchard trees — these require a touch more delicate and a gentler heart than mine to do them justice. Their outburst of melody is hke a brook let loose from wintry chains. "We need not deem it a too high and soleroBLWord to call it a"E5Sh^of prmse to the Creator, since Nature, who pictures the revivM.g-yea^-ia- so jnany sights of beauty, has expressed the sentiment of renewed life in no other ""soxmd save the .nQt.a3pfjthese blessed birds. , .Their music," Howerjgi', just now seems to be mcidental, and not the result of a set purpose. They are discussing the economy of life and love and the "Site and architecture 61 their summer residences, and have noTixae to sit on a twig and pour forth solemn^hymns' MOSSES FROM AJSf OLD MANSE 141 overtures, operas, symphonies _and waltzep. Anxious estions"aje" asked, grave"subjects are settled in quick and imated debate, and only by occasional accident, as from re ecstasy, does a rich warble roll its tiny waves of golden and through the atmosphere. Their little bodies are as .sy as their voices ; they are in a constant flutter and rest- isness. Even when two or three retreat to a tree-top to Id council, they wag their tails and heads aU the time th the irrepressible activity of their nature, which perhaps aders their brief span of life in reality as long as the patri- chal age of sluggish man. The blackbirds — three species which consort together — are the noisiest of all our feath- ad citizens. Great companies of them — more than the o^ous "four-and- twenty" whom Mother Goose has immor- lized— congregate in contiguous tree-tops and vociferate ■th all the clamor and confusion of a turbulent political aeting. Polit ics, certainly, must b^the occasion pf_ such multuous debates, b"uF sti ll, unl ike all other politicians,, ey instil melody into their individual utterances and..„prQr ice harmony a,s"a general effect. Of all bird- voices, none e more sweet and cheerful to my ear than those of swal- pys in the dim, sun-streaked interior of a lofty barn ; they ^dress the heart with even a closer sympathy than Robin sdbreast. But, indeed, all these winged people that dwell the vicinity of homesteads seem to partake of human tture and possess the germ, if not the development, of im- ortal souls. "We hear them saying their melodious prayers morning's blush and eventide. AJittle while ago, in the ep of night, there canae the lively thriH"^^ bird's iote Mn:-a neig^hboring tree — a reaT'song such as greets the irple dawn or mingles with the yellow sunshine. What uld the little bird mean by pouring it forth at midnight? •obably the music gushed out of the midst of a dream which he fancied himself in Paradise with his mate, but ddenly awoke on a cold, leafless bough with a New Eng- ad mist penetrating through his feathers. That was a sad change of imagi nation for_reality\^.. — — - 142 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS Insects are among the earliest births of spring. Multi- tudes, of I know not what species, appeared long ago on the surface of the snow. Clouds of them almost too minute for sight hover in a beam of sunshine, and vanish as if anni- hilated when they pass into the shade. A mosquito has already been heard to sound the small horror of his bugle- horn. Wasps infest the sunny windows of the house. A bee entered one of the chambers with a prophecy of flowers. Rare butterflies came before the snow was oflf, flaunting in the chill breeze, and looking forlorn and all astray in spite of the magnificence of their dark velvet cloaks with golden borders. The fields and wood-paths have as yet few charms to entice the wanderer. In a walk the other day I found no violets nor anemones, nor anything in the likeness of a flower. It was worth while, however, to ascend our opposite hill for the sake of gaining a general idea of the advance of spring, which I had hitherto been studying in its minute develop- ments. The river lay round me in a semicircle, overflowing all the meadows which give it its Indian name, and offering a noble breadth to sparkle in the sunbeams. Along the hither shore a row of trees stood up to their knees in water, and afar off, on the surface of the stream, tufts of bushes thrust up their heads, as it were, to breathe. The most striking objects were great solitary trees here and there with a mile-wide waste of water all around them. The curtailment of the trunk by its immersion in the river quite destroys the fair proportions of the tree, and thus makes us sensible of a^regujarity-and 4irQpriety_in the jiauaL- forms |of_nature. The flood of the present season, though it never amounts"~to a freshet on our quiet stream, has encroached further upon the land than any previous one for at least a score of years. It has overflowed stone fences, and even rendered a portion of the highway navigable for boats. The waters, however, are now gradually subsiding; islands be- come annexed to the mainland, and other islands emerge like new creations from the watery waste. The scene supplies MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSB 143 an admirable image of the receding of the Nile — except that there is no deposit of black slime — or of Noah's flood, only that tliere is a freshness and novelty in these recovered por- tions of the continent which g^ve the impression of a world just made rather than of one so polluted that a deluge had been requisite to purify it. These upspringing islands are the greenest spots in the landscape; the first gleam of sun- light suffices to cover them with verdure. Thank Providence for spring ! The earth — an d man him- self, by8ympa4hjjwith_,iJ8_bijrth^ be far other fEaSrweTind them if life toiled wearily onward without this periodical infusion of the primal spirit. "Will the world ever be so decayed that spring may not renew its greenness? Can man be so dismally age-stricken that no faintest sunshine of his youth may revisit him once a year? It is impossible. The moss on our tim.e-worn mansion brightens into beauty, the good old pastor who once dwelt here renewed his prime, regained his boyhood, in the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. Alas for the worn and heavy soul if, whether in youth or age, it have outlived its privilege of springtime sprightliness ! From such a soul the world must hope no reformation of its evil — no sympathy with the lofty faith and gallant struggles of those who contend in its behalf. Summer works in the present and thinks not of the future ; autumn is a rich conservative; winter has utterly lost its faith, and clings tremulously to the remembrance of what has been; but spring, with its outgushing life, is the true type of the movement. 144 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS MONSIEUR DU MIROIR THAN" the gentleman above named there is nobody in the whole circle of my acquaintance whom I have more attentively studied, yet of whom I have less real knowledge benfeath the surface which it pleases him to present. Being anxious to discover who and what he really is and how connected with nae, and what are to be the re- sults to him and to myself of the joint-interest which without any Choice on my part seems to be permanently established between us, and incited, furthermore, by the pfopensitifes of a student of human nature, though doubtful whether M. du Miroir have aught of humanity but the figure — I have deter- mined to place a few of his remarkable points before the public, hoping to be favored with some clew to the explana- tion of his character. Nor let the reader condemn any part of the narrative as frivolous, since a subject of such grave reflection diffuses its importance through the minutest par- tictilars, and there is no judging beforehand what odd little circumstances may do the office of a blind man's dog among the perplexities of this dark investigation. And, however extraordinary, marvellous, preternatural and utterly incredi- ble some of the meditated disclosures may appear, I pledge my honor to maintain as sacred a regard to fact, as if my testimony were given on oath and involved the dearest in- terests of the personage in question. Not that there is mat- ter for a criminal accusation against M. du Miroir, nor am I the man to bring it forward if there were. The chief that I complain of is his impenetrable mystery, which is no better than nonsense if it conceal anything good, and much worse in the contrary case. But if undue partialities could be supposed to influence me, M. du Miroir might hope to profit rather than to suffer MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 145 by them, for in the whole of our long intercourse we have seldom had the slightest disagreement ; and, moreover, there are reasons for supposing him a near relative of mine, and consequently entitled to the best word that I can give him. He bears indisputably a strong personal resemblance to my- self, and generally puts on mourning at the funerals of the family. On the other hand, his name would indicate a French descent; in which case, infinitely preferring that my blood should flow from a bold British and pure Puritan . source, I beg leave to disclaim all kindred with M. du Miroir. Some genealogists trace his origin to Spain, and dub him a knight of the Order of the Caballeros de los Espejos, one of whom was overthrown by Don Quixote. But what says M. du Miroir himself of his paternity and his fatherland? Not a word did he ever say about the matter, and herein, perhaps, lies one of his most especial reasons for maintain- ing such a vexatious mystery — that he lacks the faculty of speech to expound it. His lips are sometimes seen to move, his eyes and countenance are alive with shifting expression, as if corresponding by visible hieroglyphics to his modulated breath, and anon he will seem to pause with as satisfied an air as if he had been talking excellent sense. Good sense or bad, M. du Miroir is the sole judge of his own conversational powers, never having whispered so much as a syllable that reached the ears of any other auditor. Is he really dumb, or is all the world deaf? or is it merely a piece of my friend's waggery, meant for nothing but to make fools of us? If so, he has the joke all to himself. This dumb devil which possesses M. du Miroir is, I am persuaded, the sole reason that he does not make me the most flattering protestations of friendship. In many partic- ulars — indeed, as to all his cognizable and not preternatural points, except that once in a great while I speak a word or two — ^there exists the greatest apparent sympathy between us. Such is his confidence in my taste that he goes astray from the general fashion and copies all his dresses after miiie, I never try on a new garment without expecting 146 Hawthorne's works to meet M. du Miroir in one of the same pattern. He has duplicates of all my waistcoats and cravats, shirt-bosoms of precisely a similar plait, and an old coat for private wear manufactured, I suspect, by a Chinese tailor in exact imita- tion of a beloved old coat of mine, with a facsimile, stitch by stitch, of a patch upon the elbow. In truth, the singular and minute coincidences that occur both in the accidents of the passing day and the serious events of our lives remind me of those doubtful legends of lovers or twin-children, twins of fate, who had lived, enjoyed, suffered and died in unison, each faithfully repeating the least tremor of the other's breath, though separated by vast tracts of sea and land. Strange to say, my incommodities belong equally to my companion, though the burden is nowise alleviated by his participation. The other morning, after a night of torment from the toothache, I met M. du Miroir with such a swollen anguish in his cheek that my own pangs were redoubled, as were also his, if I might judge by a fresh contortion of his visage. All the inequalities of my spirits are communicated to him, causing the unfortunate M. du Miroir to mope and scowl through a whole summer's day, or to laugh as long, for no better reason than the gay or gloomy crotchets of my brain. Once we were joint-sufferers of a three months' sick- ness, and met hke mutual ghosts in the first days of conva- lescence. Whenever I have been in love, M. du Miroir has looked passionate and tender, and never did my mistress discard me but this too susceptible gentleman grew lacka- daisical. His temper also rises to blood heat, fever heat or boiling-water heat, according to the measure of any wrong which might seem to have fallen entirely on myself. I have sometimes been calmed down by the sight of my own inordi- nate wrath depicted on his frowning brow. Yet, however prompt in taking up my quarrels, I cannot call to mind that he ever struck a downright blow in my behalf, nor, in fact, do I perceive that any real and tangible good has resulted from his constant interference in my affairs; so that in my MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE .747 distrustftil moods I am apt to suspect M. du Miroir's sjmi- pathy to be mere outward show, not a whit better nor worse than other people's sympathy. Nevertheless, as mortal man must have something in the guise of sympathy — ^and whether the true metal or merely copper-washed is of less moment — I choose rather to content myself with M. du Miroir's, such as it is, than to seek the sterling coin, and perhaps miss even the counterfeit. In my age of vanities I have often seen him in the ball- room, and might again were I to seek him there. We have encountered each other at the Tremont Theatre, where, how- ever, he took his seat neither in the dress-circle, pit nor upper regions, nor threw a single glance at the stage, though the brightest star — even Fanny Kemble herself — ^might be cul- minating there. No; this whimsical friend of mine chose to linger in the saloon, near one of the large looking-glasses which throw back their pictures of the illuminated room. He is so fuU of these unaccountable eccentricities that I never like to notice M. du Miroir, nor to acknowledge the slightest connection with him, in. places of public resort. He, however, has no scruple about claiming my acquaint- ance, even when his common sense — ^if he had any — ^might teach him that I would as willingly exchange a nod with the Old Nick. It was but the other day that he got into a large brass kettle at the entrance of a hardware store, and thrust his head the moment afterward into a bright new warming- pan, whence he gave me a most merciless look of recogni- tion. He smiled, and so did I; but these childish tricks make decent people rather shy of M. du Miroir, and subject him to more dead cuts than any other gentleman in town. One of this singular person's most remarkable peculiari- ties is his fondness for water, wherein he excels any temper- ance man whatever. His pleasure, it must be owned, is not so much to drink it (in which respect a very moderate quan- tity will answer his occasions) as to souse himself over head and ears, wherever he may meet with it. Perhaps he is a merman or born of a mermaid's marriage with a mortal, and 148 Hawthoene's works thus amphibious by hereditary right, like the children which the old river deities or nymphs of fountains gave to earthly love. "When no cleaner bathing-place happened to be at hand, I have seen the foolish fellow in a horse-pond. Some- times he refreshes himself in the trough of a town-pump, without caring what the people think about him. Often while carefully picking my way along the street after a heavy shower, I have been scandalized to see M. du Miroir, in full dress, paddling from one mud-puddle to another and plunging into the filthy depths of each. Seldom have I peeped into a well without discerning this ridiculous gentle- man at the bottom, whence he gazes up as through a long telescopic tube, and probably makes discoveries among the stars by daylight. Wandering along lonesome paths or in pathless forests, when I have come to virgin-fountains of which it would have been pleasant to deem myself the first discoverer, I had started to find M. du Miroir there before me. The solitude seemed lonelier for his presence. I have leaned from a precipice that frowns over Lake George — which the French called Nature's font of sacramental water, and used it in their log churches here, and their cathedrals beyond the sea — and seen him far below in that pure ele- ment. At Niagara, too, where I would gladly have forgot- ten both myself and him, I could not help observing my companion in the smooth water on the very verge of the cataract, just , above the Table Rock. "Were I to reach the sources of the Nile, I should expect to meet him there. Unless he be another Lado whose garments the depths of ocean could not moisten, it is difficult to conceive how he keeps himself in any decent pickle, though I am bound to confess that his clothes seem always as dry and com- fortable as my own. But, as a friend, I could wish that he would not so often expose himself in hquor. All that I have hitherto related may be classed among those little personal oddities which agreeably diversify the surface of society, and, though they may sometimes annoy us, yet keep our daily intercourse fresher and Uvelier than MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 149 if they were done away. By an occasional hint, however, I have endeavored to pave the way for stranger things to come, which, had they been disclosed at once, M. du Miroir might have been deemed a shadow, and myself a person of no veracity, and this truthful history a fabulous legend. But now that the reader knows me worthy of his confidence I will begin to make him stare. To speak frankly, then, I could bring the most astound- ing proofs that M. du Miroir is at least a conjurer, if not one of that unearthly tribe with whom conjurers deal. He has inscrutable methods of conveying himself from place to place with the rapidity of the swiftest steamboat or rail-car. Brick walls and oaken doors and iron bolts are no impedi- ment to his passage. Here in my chamber, for instance, as the evening deepens into night, I sit alone, the key turned and withdrawn from the lock, the keyhole stuffed with paper to keep out a peevish little blast of wind. Yet, lonely as I seem, were I to lift one of the lamps and step five paces east- ward, M. du Miroir would be sure to meet me with a lamp also in his hand. And were I to take the stage-coach to- morrow without giving him the least hint of my design, and post onward till the week's end, at whatever hotel I might find myself I should expect to share my private apartment with this inevitable M. du Miroir. Or, out of a mere way- ward fantasy, were I to go by moonhght and stand beside the stone font of the Shaker Spring at Canterbury, M. du Miroir would set forth on the same fool's errand and would not fail to meet me there. Shall I heighten the reader's wonder? While writing these latter sentences I happened to glance toward the large round globe of one of the brass andirons, and, lo! a minia- ture apparition of M. du Miroir with his face widened and grotesquely contorted, as if he were making fun of my amazement. But he has played so many of these jokes that they begin to lose their effect. Once — presumptuous that he was— he stole into the heaven of a yoimg lady's eyes; so that while X gased eind w&e dreaming only €^ her" 150 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS self I found him also in my dream. Years have so changed him since that he need never hope to enter those heavenly orbs again. From these veritable statements it will be readily con- cluded that had M. du Miroir played such pranks in old witch-times matters might have gone hard with him — ^at least, if the constable and posse comitatus could have exe- cuted a warrant or the jailer had been cunning enough to keep him. But it has often occurred to me as a very singu- lar circumstance, and as betokening either a temperament morbidly suspicious or some weighty cause of apprehension, that he never trusts himself within the grasp even of his most intimate friend. If you step forward to meet him, he readily advances; if you offer him your hand, he extends his own with an air of the utmost frankness, but, though you calculate upon a hearty shake, you do not get hold of his little finger. Ah! this M. du Miroir is a slippery fellow. These, truly, are matters of special admiration. After vainly endeavoring by the strenuous exertion of my own wits to gain a satisfactory insight into the character of M. du Miroir, I had recourse to certain wise men, and also to books of abstruse philosophy, seeking who it was that haunted me, and why. I heard long lectures and read huge volumes with Httle profit beyond the knowledge that many former instances are recorded in successive ages of similar connections between ordinary mortals and beings possessing the attributes of M. du Miroir. Some now alive, perhaps, besides myself, have such attendants. Would that M. du Miroir could be persuaded to transfer his attachment to one of those, and allow some other of his race to assume the situation that he now holds in regard to me! If I must needs have so intrusive an intimate, who stares me in the face in my closest privacy and follows me even to my bed- chamber, I should prefer — scandal apart — the laughing bloom of a young girl to the dark and bearded gravity of my pres- ent companion. But such desires are never to be gratified. Though the members of M. du Miroir's family have been MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 151 accused — perhaps justly— of visiting their friends often in splendid halls and seldom in darksome dungeons, yet they exhibit a rare constancy to the objects of their first attach- ment, however unlovely in person or unamiable in disposi- tion — however unfortunate, or even infamous, and deserted by all the world besides. So will it be with my associate. Our fates appear inseparably blended. It is my belief, as I find him mingling with my earliest recollections, that we came into existence together, as my shadow follows me into the sunshine, and that, hereafter, as heretofore, the bright- ness or gloom of my fortunes will shine upon or darken the face of M. du Miroir. As we have been young together, and as it is now near the summer noon with both of us, so, if long life be granted, shall each count his own wrinkles on the other's brow and his white hairs on the other's head. And when the coffin-lid shall have closed over me, and that face and form which more truly than the lover swears it to his beloved are the sole light of his existence — when they shall be laid in that dark chamber whither his swift and secret footsteps cannot bring him — then what is to be- come of poor M. du Miroir? Will he have the fortitude, with my other friends, to take a last look at my pale counte- nance? Will he walk foremost in the funeral train? Will he come often and haunt around my grave, and weed away the nettles, and plant flowers amid the verdure, and scrape the moss out of the letters of my burial-stone? Will he lin- ger where I have lived, to remind the neglectful world of one who staked much to win a name, but will not then care whether he lost or won? Not thus vsdll he prove his deep fidelity. . Oh, what terror if this friend of mine, after our last farewell, should step into the crowded street, or roam along our old frequented path by the still waters, or sit down in the domestic circle, where our faces are most familiar and beloved! 'So; but when the rays of heaven shall bless me no more, nor the thoughtful lamplight gleam upon my studies, nor the cheerful fireside gladden the meditative man, then, his task fulfilled, shall 153 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS this mysterious being vanish from the earth forever. He will pass to the dark realm of Nothingness, but will not find me there. There is something fearful in bearing such a relation to a creature so imperfectly known, and in the idea that to a certain extent all which concerns myself will be reflected in its consequences upon him. When we feel that another is to share the selfsame fortune with ourselves, we judge more severely of our prospects and withhold our confidence from that delusive magic which appears to shed an infallibility of happiness over our own pathway. Of late years, indeed, there has been much to sadden my intercourse with M. du Miroir. Had not our union been a necessary condition of our life, we must have been estranged ere now. In early youth, when my affections were warm and free, I loved him well, and could always spend a pleas- ant hour in his society, chiefly because it gave me an excel- lent opinion of myself. Speechless as he was, M. du Miroir had then a most agreeable way of calling me a handsome fellow, and I, of course, returned the compliment; so that the more we kept each other's company, the greater cox- combs we mutually grew. But neither of us need appre- hend any such misfortune now. "When we chance to meet ' — for it is chance oftener than design — each glances sadly at the other's forehead, dreading wrinkles there; and at our temples, whence the hair is thinning away too early ; and at the sunken eyes, which no longer shed a gladsome light over the whole face, I involuntarily peruse him as a record of my heavy youth, which has been wasted in sluggishness for lack of hope and impulse, or equally thrown away in toil that had no wise motive, and has accomplished no good end. I per- ceive that the tranquil gloom of a disappointed soul has dark- ened through his countenance, where the blackness of the future seems to mingle with the shadows of the past, giving him the aspect of a fated man. Is it too wild a thought that my fate may have assumed this image of myself, and there- fore haunts m® with such inevitable pertinacity, originating MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 153 every act which it appears to imitate, while it deludes me by pretending to share the events of which it is merely the em- blem and the prophecy? I must banish this idea, or it will throw too deep an awe round my companion. At our next meeting, especially if it be at midnight or in solitude, I fear that I shall glance aside and shudder ; in which case, as M. du Miroir is extremely sensitive to ill-treatment, he also will avert his eyes and express horror or disgust. But, no ! this is unworthy of me. As of old I sought his society for the bewitching dreams of woman's love which he inspired, and because I fancied a bright fortune in his aspect, so now will I hold daily and long communion with him for the sake of the stern lessons that he will teach my manhood. With folded arms we will sit face to face and lengthen out our silent converse till a wiser cheerfulness shall have been wrought from the very texture of despondency. He will say — perhaps indignantly — that it befits only him to mourn, for the decay of outward grace which while he possessed it was his all. But have not you, he will ask, a treasure in reserve to which every year may add far more value than age, or death itself, can snatch from that miserable clay? He will tell me that, though the bloom of life has been nipped with a frost, yet the soul must not sit shivering in its cell, but bestir itself manfully and kindle a genial warmth from its own exercise against the autumnal and the wintry atmosphere. And I, in return, will bid him be of good cheer, nor take it amiss that I must blanch his locks and wrinkle him up like a wilted apple, since it shall be my en- deavor so to beautify his face with intellect and mild benevo- lence that he shall profit immensely by the change. But here a smile will glimmer somewhat sadly over M. du Miroir's visage. When this subject shall have been sufficiently discussed we may take up others as important. Reflecting upon his power of following me to the remotest regions and into the d^pest privacy, I will compare the attempt to escape him to the hopeless race that men sometimes run with memory 154 Hawthorne's wobks or their own hearts or their moral selves, which, though burdened with cares enough to crush an elephant, will never be one step behind. I will be self-contemplative, as nature bids me, and make him the picture or visible type of what I muse upon, that my mind may not wander so vaguely as heretofore, chasing its own shadow through a chaos, and catching only the monsters that abide there. Then will we turn our thoughts to the spiritual world, of the reality of which my companions shall furnish me an illustration, if not an argument. For, as we have only the testimony of the eye to M. du Miroir's existence, while all the other senses would fail to inform us that such a figure stands vdthin arm's-length, wherefore should there not be beings innumerable close beside us and filling heaven and earth with their multitude, yet of whom no corporeal perception can take cognizance? A blind man might as reasonably deny that M. du Miroir exists as we, because the Creator has hitherto withheld the spiritual perception, can therefore contend that there are no spirits. Oh, there arel And at this moment, when the subject of which I write has grown strong within me and surrounded itself with those solemn and awful associations which might have seemed most alien to it, I could fancy that M. du Miroir himself is a wanderer from the spiritual world, with nothing human except his illusive garment of visibility. Methinks 1 should tremble now were his wizard-power of gliding through all impedi- ments in search of me to place him suddenly before my eyes. Ha ! What is yonder? — Shape of mystery, did the tremor of my heartstrings vibrate to thine own, and call thee from thy home among the dancers of the Northern Lights, and shadows flung from departed sunshine, and giant spectres that appear on clouds at daybreak and affright the climber of the Alps? — In truth, it startled me, as I threw a wary glance eastward across the chamber, to discern an unbidden guest with his eyes bent on mine. The identical MoNSlEUE DU Miroir! Still, there he sits, and returns my gaze with as much of awe and curiosity as if he too had spent a soli- MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 155 tary evening in fantastic musings and made me his theme. So inimitably does he counterfeit that I could almost doubt which of us is the visionary form, or whether each be not the other's mystery, and both twin-brethren of one fate in mutually reflected spheres. — Oh, friend, canst thou not hear and answer me? Break down the barrier between us ! Grasp my hand ! Speak ! Listen ! A few words, perhaps, might satisfy the feverish yearning of my soul for some master- thought that should guide me through this labyrinth of life, teaching wherefore I was born, and how to do my task on earth, and what is death. — Alas! Even that unreal image should forget to ape me and smile at these vain questions. Thus do mortals deify, as it were, a mere shadow of them- selves, a spectre of human reason, and ask of that to unveil the mysteries which divine Intelligence has revealed so far as needful to our guidance and hid the rest. Farewell, Monsieur du Miroirl Of you, perhaps, as of many men, it may be doubted whether you are the wiser, though your whole business is reflection. THE HALL OF FANTASY IT has happened to me on various occasions to find myself in a certain edifice which would appear to have some of the characteristics of a public exchange. Its interior is a spacious hall with a pavement of white marble. Over- head is a lofty dome supported by long rows of pillars of fantastic architecture, the idea of which was probably taken from the Moorish ruins of the Alhambra, or perhaps from some enchanted edifice in the Arabian tales. The windows of this hall have a breadth and grandeur of design and an elaborateness of workmanship that have nowhere been equalled except in the Gothic cathedrals of the Old World. Like their prototypes, too, they admit the light of heaven only through stained and pictured glass, thus filling the halJ 156 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS with many-colored radiance and painting its marble floor with beautiful or grotesque designs; so that its inmates breathe, as it were, a visionary atmosphere and tread upon the fantasies of poetic minds. These peculiarities, combin- ing a wilder mixture of styles than even an American archi- tect usually recognizes as allowable —Grecian, Gothic, Ori- ental and nondescript — cause the whole edifice to give the impression of a dream which might be dissipated and shat- tered to fragments by merely stamping the foot upon the pavement. Yet, with such modifications and repairs as suc- cessive ages demand, the Hall of Fantasy is likely to endure longer than the most substantial structure that ever cumbered the earth. It is not at all times that one can gain admittance into this edifice, although most persons enter it at some period or other of their hves — ^if not in their waking moments, then by the universal passport of a dream. At my last visit I wan- dered thither unawares while my mind was busy with an idle tale, and was startled by the throng of people who seemed suddenly to rise up around me. "Bless me! where am I?" cried I, with but a dim recog- nition of the place. "You are in a spot," said a friend who chanced to be near at hand, "which occupies in the world of Fancy the same position which the Bourse, the Rialto and the Ex- change do in the comme'cial world. All who have affairs in that mystic region which lies above, below or beyond the actual may here meet and talk over the business of their dreams." "It is a noble hall," observed I. "Yes," he replied, "yet we see but a small portion of the edifice. In its upper stories are said to be apartments where the inhabitants of earth may hold converse with those of the moon, and beneath our feet are gloomy cells which commu- nicate with the infernal regions, and where monsters and chimeras are kept in confinement and fed with all unwhole- someness." MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 157 In niches and on pedestals arouad about the hall stood the statues or busts of men who in every age have been rul- ers and demigods in the realms of imagination and its' kin- dred regions. The grand old countenance of Homer, the shrunken and decrepit form, but vivid face, of -^sop, the dark presence of Dante, the wild Ariosto, Rabelais's smile of deep-wrought mirth, the profound, pathetic humor of Cervantes, the all-glorious Shakespeare, Spenser, meet guest for an allegoric structure, the severe divinity of Milton, and Bunyan, molded of homeliest clay, but instinct with celes- tial fire — ^were those that chiefly attracted my eye. Field- ing, Richardson and Scott occupied conspicuous pedestals. In an obscure and shadowy niche was deposited the bust of our countryman, the author of "Arthur Mervyn." "Besides these indestructible memorials of real genius," remarked my companion, "each century has erected statues of its own ephemeral favorites in wood." "I observe a few crumbling relics of such, " said I. "But ever and anon, I suppose, Oblivion comes vdth her huge broom and sweeps them all from the marble floor. But such will never be the fate of this fine statue of Goethe." "Nor of that next to it — Emanuel Swedenborg," said he. ""Were ever two men of traggcendent imagination more unlike?" ""^ " In the centre of the hall springs an ornamental fountain, the water of which continually throws itself into new shapes and snatches the most diversified hues from the stained at- mosphere around. It is impossibl e to conceive what a strange vivacity is imparted tolEe^cene by the magic dance of this fountain, with its endless transformations in which the im- aginative beholder may discern what form he vrill. The water is supposed by some to flow from the same source as the Castalian spring, and is extolled by others as uniting the virtues of the Fountain of Youth with those of many other enchanted wells long celebrated in tale and song. Having never tasted it, I can bear no testimony to its quality. "Did you ever drink this water?" I inquired of my friend. 158 Hawthorne's works "A few sips now and then," answered he. "But there are men here who make it their constant beverage — or, at least, have the credit of doing so. In some instances it is known to have intoxicating qualities." "Pray let us look at these water-drinkers," said I. So we passed among the fantastic pillars till we came to a spot where a number of persons were clustered together in the light of one of the great stained windows, which seemed to glorify the whole group as well as the marble that they trod on. Most of them were men of broad fore- heads, meditative countenances and thoughtfu I_inwajd eyes, yet it required but a trifle to svunmon up mirth, peeping out from the very midst of grave and lofty musings. Some strode about or leaned against the pillars of the hall alone and in silence; their faces wore a rapt expression, as if sweet music were in the air around them, or as if their inmost souls were about to float away in song. One or two, perhaps, stole a glance at the bystanders to watch if their poetic absorption were observed. Others stood talking in groups with a liveliness of expression, a ready smile, and a light, intellectual laughter which showed how rapidly the shafts of wit were glancing to and fro among them. A few held higher converse, which caused their calm and melancholy souls to beam moonligbt from their eyes. As I lingered near them — for I felt an inward attraction toward these men, as if the sympathy of feeling, if not of genius, had united me to their order — my friend mentioned several of their names. The world has likewise heard those names; with some it has been familiar for years, and others are daily making their way deeper into the universal heart. "Thank Heaven," observed I to my companion as we passed to another part of the hall, "we have done with this tetchy, wayward, shy, proud, unreasonable set of laurel- gatherers! I love them lq their works, but have little desire to meet them elsewhere." "You have adopted an old prejudice, I see," replied my friend, who was familiar with most of these worthies, being MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 159 himself a student of poetry and not without the poetic flame. "But, so far as my experience goes, men of genius are fairly gifted with the social qualities, and in this age there appears to be a fellow-feeling among them which had not heretofore been developed. As men they ask nothing better than to be on equal terms with their fellow-men, and as authors they have thrown aside their proverbial jealousy and acknowledge a generous brotherhood." "The world does not think so," answered I. "An author is received in general society pretty much as we honest citi- zens are in the Hall of Fantasy. We gaze at him as if he had no business among us, and question whether he is fit for any of our pursuits." ' ' Then it is a very foolish question, ' ' said he. ' ' Now, here are a class of men whom we may daily meet on 'Change, yet what poet in the hall is more a fool of Fancy than the sagest of them?" He pointed to a number of persons who, manifest as the fact was, would have deemed it an insult to be told that they stood in the Hall of Fantasy. Their visages were traced into wrinkles and furrows, each of which seemed the record of some actual experience in life. Their eyes had the shrewd, calculating glance which detects so quickly and so surely all that it concerns a man of business to know about the char- acters and purposes of his fellow-men. Judging them as they stood, they might be honored and trusted members of the Chamber of Commerce who had found the genuine secret of wealth, and whose sagacity gave them the com- mand of fortune. There was a character of detail and mat- ter of fact in their talk which concealed the extravagance of its purport, insomuch that the wildest schemes had the aspect of every-day realities. Thus the listener was not startled at the idea of cities to be built as if by magic in the heart of pathless forests, and of streets to be laid out where now the sea was tossing, and of mighty rivers to be stayed in their courses in order to turn the machinery of a cotton- mill. It was only by an effort — and scarcely then — ^that the 160 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS mind convinced itself that such speculations wer'e as much matter of fantasy as the old dream of Eldorado, or as Mam- mon's Cave, or any other vision of gold ever conjured up by the imagination of needy poet or romantic adventurer. "Upon my word," said I, "it io dangerous to listen to such dreamers as these. Their madness is contagious." "Yes," said my friend, "because they mistake the Hall of Fantasy for actual brick and mortar and its purple atmos- phere for unsophisticated sunshine. But the poet knows his whereabout, and therefore is less likely to make a fool of himself in real life." ' ' Here, again, ' ' observed I, as we advanced a little further, "we see another order of dreamers — peculiarly characteristic, too, of the genius of our country." These were the inventors of fantastic machines. Models of their contrivances were placed against some of the pillars of the hall, and afforded good emblems of the result generally to be anticipated from an attempt to reduce day-dreams to practice. The analogy may hold in morals as well as physics. For instance, here was the model of a railroad through the air and a tunnel under the sea. Here was a machine — stolen, I believe — for the distillation of heat from moonshine, and another for the condensation of morning mist into square blocks of granite wherewith it was proposed to rebuild the entire Hall of Fantasy. One man exhibited a sort of lens whereby he had succeeded in making sunshine out of a lady's smile, and it was his purpose wholly to irradiate the earth by means of this wonderful invention. "It is nothing new," said I, "for most of our sunshine comes from woman's smile already." "True," answered the inventor; "but my machine will secure a constant supply for domestic use, whereas hitherto it has been very precarious." , Another person had a scheme for fixing the reflections of objects in a pool of water, and thus taking the most Ufelike portraits imaginable, and the same gentleman demonstrated the practicability of giving a permanent dye to ladies' dresses MOSSES PKOM AN OLD MANSE 161 in the gorgeous clouds of sunset. There were at least fifty- kinds ^f perpetual nioiiany- one of which was apphcable 1»^ the wits of newspaper editors and writers of every descrip- tion. Professor Espy was here with a tremendous storm in a gum-elastic bag. I could enumerate many more of these Utopian inventions, but, after all, a more imaginative collec- tion is to be found in the Patent Office at Washington. Turning from the inventors, we took a morejgeneral sur- vey of the inmates of the hall. Many persons were present whose right of entrance appeared to consist in some crotche t of the brain whioh -^so long as it might operate, pro duced a change in their relation to the actual world. It is singular how very few there are who ^ not occasionally gain admit- tance on such a score, either in abstracted musings or mo- mentary thoughts or bright anticipations or vivid remem- brances; for even the actual becomes ideal, whether in hope OT memory »_and beguiles the dreamer into the Hall of Fan- tasy. Some unfortunates make their whole abode and busi- ness here, and contract habits which unfit them for all the real employments of life. Others — but these are few — possess the faculty in their occasional visits of discovering a purer truth than the world can impart^ among the lights and shad- ows of~tEese~pictured windows. And, with aU its dangerous influences, we have reason to thank God that there is such a place of refuge from the ' gloom and chillness of actual life. Hither may come the prisoner escaping from his dark and narrow ceU and canker- ous chain to breathe free air in this enchanted atmosphere, The sick man leaves his weary pillow and finds strength to wander hither, though his wasted limbs might not support him even to the threshold of his chamber. The exile passea through the Hall of Fantasy to revisit his native soil. The| burden of years rolls down from the old man's shoulders the moment that the door uncloses. Mourners leave their heavy \ sorrows at the entrance, and here rejoin the lost ones whose \ faces would else be seen no more unjiljt hought s hall hssal become the only fact. It may be said, in truth, that there 162 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS is but half a life — the meaner and earthlier half — ^for those who never find their way into the hall. N"or must I fail to mention that in the obserTatory of the edifice is kept that wonderful prospective glass through which the shepherds of the Delectable Mountains showed Christian the far-off gleam of the Celestial City. The eye of Faith still loves to gaze through it. "I observe some men here," said I to my friend, "who might set up a strong claim to be reckoned among the most real personages of the day." "Certainly," he replied. "If a man be in advance of his age, he must be content to make his abode in this hall until the lingering generations of his fellow-men come up with him. He can find no other shelter in the universe. But the fantasies of one day are the deepest realities of a future one." "It is difiBcult to distinguish them apart amid the gor- geous and bewildering light of this hall," rejoined I; "the white sunshine of actual life is necessary in order to test them. I am rather apt to doubt both men and their reason- ings till I meet them in that truthful medium." "Perhaps your faith in the ideal is deeper than you are aware," said my friend. "You are, at least, a democrat, and methinks no scanty share of such faith is essential to the adoption of that creed." Among the characters who had elicited these remarks were most of the noted reformers of the day, whether in physics, politics, morals or religion. There is no surer method of arriving at the Hall of Fantasy than to throw one's self into the current of a theory, for, whatever landmarks of fact may be set up along the stream, there is a law of nature that impels it thither. And let it be so, for here the wise head and capacious heart may do their work, and what is good and true becomes gradually hardened into fact, while error melts away and vanishes among the shadows of the hall. Therefore may none who believe and rejoice in the progress of mankind be angry with me because I recognized their MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 163 apostles and leaders amid the fantastic radiance of those pictured windows. I love and honor such men, as well as they. It would be endless to describe the herd of real or self- styled reformers that peopled this place of refuge. They were the representatives of an unquiet period when mankind is seeking to cast oflE the whole tissue of ancient custom Hke a tattered garment. Many_pf thesi had, got possession of some crystal fragment^ of truth the brightness of which so dazzled them _ that they could see nothing else in the wide universe. Here were men whose faith had embodied I itself in the form of a potato, and others whose long beards \ had a deep spiritual significance. Here was the AboMtionist brandishing his one idea like an iron flail. In a word, there were a thousand shapes of good and evil, faith and infidelity, wisdom and nonsense — a most incongruous throng. Yet, withal, the heart of the stanchest conservative, un- less he abjured his fellowship with man, could hardly have helped throbbing in sympathy with the spirit that pervaded these innumerable theories. It was good for the man of unquickened heart to listen even to their folly. Far down beyond the fathom of the intellect the soul acknowledged that all these varying and conflicting developments of hu- manity were united, !" "n" gftnt.innAnt. Be the individual theory as wild as fancy could make it, still the wiser spirit would recognize the strug gle ^f the race „af tej a better and purer life than had yet been realized on earth. My faith revived even while I rejected all their schemes. It could not be that the world should continue forever what it has been — a soil where happiness is so rare a flower and virtue so often a blighted fruit, a battlefield where the good prin- ciple, with its shield flung above its head, can hardly save itself amid the rush of adverse influences. In the enthu- siasm of such thoughts I gazed through one of the pictured windows, and, behold ! the whole external world was tinged with the dimly-glorious aspect that is peculiar to the Hall of Fantasy, insomuch that it seemed practicable at that very 164 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS instant to realize some plan for the perfection of mankind. But, alas! if reformers would imderstand the sphere in which their lot is cast, they must cease to look through pictured windows, yet they not only use this mediuni, but mistake it for the whitest sunshine. "Come," said I to my friend, starting from a deep rev- ery, "let us hasten hence, or I shall be tempted to make a theory — ^after which, there is httle hope of any man." "Come hither, then," answered he. "Here is one theory that swallows up and annihilates all others." He led me to a distant part of the hall where a crowd of deeply attentive auditors were assembled round an eldefly man of plain, honest, trustworthy aspect. With an earnest- ness that betokened the sincerest faith in his own doctrine he announced that the destruction of the world was close at hand. "It is Father Miller himself!" exclaimed I. "N"o less a man," said my friend. "And observe how picturesque a contrast between his dogma and those of the reformers whom we have just glanced at. They look for the earthly perfection of mankind, and are forming schemes which imply that the immortal spirit will be connected with a physical nature for innumerable ages of futurity. On the other hand, here comes good Father Miller, and with one pufE of his relentless theory scatters aU their dreams like so many withered leaves upon the blast." "It is perhaps the only method of getting mankind out of the various perplexities into which they have fallen," I I replied. "Yet I could wish that the world might be per- j mitted to endure until some great moral shall have been ' evolved. A riddle is propounded; where is the solution? The Sphinx did not slay herself until her riddle had been guessed; will it not be so with the world? Now, if it should be burned to-morrow morning, I am at a loss to know what purpose will have been accomplished, or how the universe will be wiser or better for our existence and destruction." "We cannot tell what mighiy truths may have been MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 165 embodied in act through the existence of the globe and its inhabitants," rejoined my companion. "Perhaps it may be revealed to us after the fall of the curtain over our catas- trophe; or, not impossibly, the whole drama in which we are involuntary actors may have been performed for the instruction of another set of spectators. I cann ot perceive ^SijOM-QSa-^omgrehension of it is at all essential to_ the matter. At any rate7 wbile our view is so ridiculously nar- row and superficial it would be absurd to argue the continu- ance of the world from the fact that it seems to have existed hitherto in vain." "The poor old Earth," murmured I. "She has faults enough, in all conscience, but I cannot bear to have her perish." "It is no great matter," said my friend. "The happiest of us has been weary of her many a time and oft." "I doubt it," answered I, pertinaciously. "The root of human nature strikes down deep into this earthly soil, and it is but reluctantly that we submit to be transplanted even for a higher cultivation in heaven. I query whether the destruction of the earth would gratify any one individual — except, perhaps, some embarrassed man of business whose notes fall due a day after the day of doom." Then, methought, I heard the expostulating cry of a multitude against the consummation prophesied by Father Miller. The lover wrestled with Providence for his fore- shadowed bliss; parents entreated that the earth's span of endurance might be prolonged by some seventy years, so that their new-born infant should not be defrauded of his lifetime; a youthful poet murmured because there would be no posterity to recognize the inspiration of his song ; the reformers, one and all, demanded a few thousand years to test their theories, after which the universe might go to wreck; a mechanician who was busied with an improve- ment of the steam engine asked merely time to perfect his model ; a miser insisted that the world's destruction would be a personal wrong to himself unless he should first be per- 166 hawthokne's works mitted to add a specified sum to his enormous heap of gold; a httle boy made dolorous inquiry whether the last day would come before Christmas, and thus deprive him of his antici- pated dainties. In short, nobody seemed satisfied that this mortal scene of things should have its close just now. Yet it must be confessed the motives of the crowd for desiring its continuance were mostly so absurd that unless infinite Wisdom had been aware of much better reasons the solid earth must have melted away at once. For my own part, not to speak of a few private and personal ends, I really desired our old mother's prolonged existence for her own dear sake. ''The^.QQr_oldJEarthli'JL. repeated, JlWhat -I- should chiefly regret in jber destruction would be that very earth- liness which no other sphere or state of existence can renew or conapeniSiate^. The fragrance of flowers and of new-mown hay, the genial warmth of sunshine and the beauty of a sunset among clouds, the comfort and cheerful glow of the fireside, the deHciousness of fruits, and of all good cheer, the magnificence of mountains and seas and cataracts, and the softer charm of rural scenery — even the fast-falling snow and the gray atmosphere through which it descends — all these, and innumerable other enjoyable things of Earth, must perish with her. Then the country frolics] the homely humor, the broad, open-mouthed roar of laughter in which body and soul conjoin so heartily! I fear that no other world can show us anything just like this. As for purely naoral enjoyments, the good will find them in every state of being. But, where the material and the moral exist to- gether, what is to happen then? And then our mute four- footed friends and the winged songsters of our woods! Might it not be lawful to regret them even in the hallowed groves of Paradise?" "You speak like the very spirit of Earth imbued with a scent of freshly-turned soil," exclaimed my friend. "It is not that I so much object to giving up these en- joyments on my own account," continued I, "but I hate to MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 167 think that they will have been eternally annihilated from the list of joys." "Nor need they be," he replied. "I see no real force in what you say. Standing Jn..this- Hall of Fantasy, we per- C63I§Lwhafc-eyfin the earth-clogged intellect of man can do in creating circjumstances which, though we call themTshadowy an3. visionary, are scarcely more so than those that surround vsJn~asiis^L__M&,~^ Doubt not, then, that man's disembod- ied spirit may re-create time and the world for itself, with all their peculiar enjoyments, should there still be human yearnings amid Hfe eternal and infinite. But I doubt whether we shall be inclined to play such a poor scene over again." "Oh, you are ungrateful to our mother Earth!" rejoined I. "Come what may, I never will forget her. Neither will it satisfy me to have her exist merely in idea : I want her great round solid self to endure interminably and still to be peopled with the kindly race of man, whom I uphold to be much better than he thinks himself. Nevertheless, Ij confide the whole matter to Providence, and shall endeavor/ so to live that the world may come to an end at any momen't without leaving me at a loss to find foothold somewhere else. " "It is an excellent resolve," said my companion, looking at his watch. "But, come! it is the dinner-hour. "Will you partake of my vegetable diet?" A thing so matter of fact as an invitation to dinner, even when the fare was to be nothing more substantial than veg- etables and fruit, compelled us forthwith to remove from the Hall of Fantasy. As we passed out of the portal we met the spirits of several persons who had been sent thither in magnetic sleep. I looked back among the sculptured pillars and at the transformations of the gleaming fountain, and almost desired that the whole of life might be spent in that visionary scene, where the actual world with its hard angles should never rub against me and only be viewed through the medium of pictured windows. But for those who waste all their days in the Hall of Fantasy good Father Miller's Vol. 3 R 188 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS prophecy is already accomplished, and the solid earth has come to an untimely end. Let us be content, therefote, with merely an occasional visit for the sake of spiritualizing the grossness of this actual life and prefiguring to ourselves a state in which the idea shall be all in all. THE CELESTIAL RAILROAD NOT a great while ago, passing through the gate of dreams, I visited that region of the earth in which lies the famous City of Destruction. It interested me much to learn that by the public spirit of some of the inhabitants a railroad has recently been established between this populous and flourishing town and the Celestial City. Having a little time upon my hands, I resolved to gratify a liberal curiosity to make a trip thither. Accordingly, one fine morning, after paying my bill at the hotel and directing the porter to stow my luggage behind a coach, I took my seat in the vehicle and set out for the station-house. It was my good fortune to enjoy the company of a gentleman — one Mr. Smooth-it- Away — who, though he had never actually visited the Celestial City, yet seemed as well acquainted with its laws, customs, policy and statistics as with those of the City of Destruction, of which he was a native towns- man. Being, moreover, a director of the railroad corpora- tion and one of its largest stockholders, he had it in his power to give me all desirable information respecting that praiseworthy enterprise. Our coach rattled out of the city, and at a short distance from its outskirts passed over a bridge of elegant construction, but somewhat too slight, as I imagined, to sustain any con- siderable weight. On both sides lay an extensive quagmire which could not have been more disagreeable either to sight or smell had all the kennels of the earth emptied their pollution there. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 169 "This," remarked Mr. Smooth-it- Away, "is the famous Slough of Despond— a disgrace to all the neighborhood, and the greater that it might so easily be converted into firm ground." "I have understood," said I, "that efforts have been made for that purpose from time immemorial. Bunyan mentions that above twenty thousand cart-loads of whole- some instructions had been thrown in here without effect." **Very probably! And what effect could be anticipated from such unsubstantial stuff?" cried Mr. Smooth-it- Away. "You observe this convenient bridge? "We obtained a suf- ficient foundation for it by throwing into the slough some editions of books of morality, volumes of French philosophy and German rationalism, tracts, sermons and essays of mod- ern clergymen, extracts from Plato, Confucius and various Hindu sages, together with a few ingenious commentaries upon texts of Scripture — all of which, by some scientific process, have been converted into a mass like granite. The whole bog might be filled up with similar matter." It really seemed to me, however, that the bridge vibrated and heaved up and down in a very formidable manner; and, in spite of Mr. Smooth-it- Away's testimony to the solidity of its foundation, I should be loth to cross it in a crowded omnibus, especially if each passenger were encumbered with as heavy luggage as that gentleman and myself. Neverthe- less, we got over without accident, and soon found ourselves at the station-house. This very neat and spacious edifice is erected on the site of the Httle wicket-gate which formerly, as all old pilgrims will recollect, stood directly across the highway, and by its inconvenient narrowness was a great obstruction to the traveller of liberal mind and expansive stomach. The reader of John Bunyan will be glad to know that Christian's old friend Evangelist, who was accugtomed to supply each pilgrim with a mystic roll, now presides at the ticket-office. Some malicious persons, it is true, deny the identity of this reputable character with the Evangelist of old times, and even pretend to bring competent evidence of an 170 hawthoknb's works imposture. Without involving myself in a dispute, I shall merely observe that, so far as my experience goes, the square pieces of pasteboard now delivered to passengers are much more convenient and useful along the road than the antique roll of parchment. Whether they will be as readily received at the gate of the Celestial City I decliae giving an opinion. A large number of passengers were already at the station- house awaiting the departure of the cars. By the aspect and demeanor of these persons, it was easy to judge that the feelings of the community had undergone a very favorable change in reference to the celestial pilgrimage. It would have done Bunyan's heart good to see it. Instead of a lonely and ragged man with a huge burden on his back plodding along sorrowfully on foot, while the whole city hooted after him, here were parties of the first gentry and most respectable people in the neighborhood setting forth toward the Celestial City as cheerfully as if the pilgrimage were merely a summer tour. Among the gentlemen were characters of deserved eminence — ^magistrates, poUticians and men of wealth, by whose example religion could not but be greatly recommended to their meaner brethren. In the ladies' department, too, I rejoiced to distinguish some of those flowers of fashionable society who are so well fitted to adorn the most elevated circles of the Celestial City. There was much pleasant conversation about the news of the day, topics of business, politics or the lighter matters of amusement, while religion, though indubitably the main thing at heart, was thrown tastefully into the background. Even an infidel would have heard little or nothing to shock his sensibility. One great convenience of the new method of going on pil- grimage I must not forget to mention. Our enormous bur- dens, instead of being carried on our shoulders, as had been the custom of old, were all snugly deposited in the baggage car, and, as I was assured, would be delivered to their respec- tive owners at the journey's end. Another thing, likewise, the benevolent reader will be delighted to understand. It MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 171 may be remembered that there was an ancient feud be- tween Prince Beelzebut^ and the keeper of the wicket-gate, and that the adherents of the former distinguished personage were accustomed to shoot deadly arrows at honest pilgrims while knocking at the door. This dispute, much to the credit as well of the illustrious potentate above-mentioned as of the worthy and enlightened directors of the railroad, has been pacifically arranged on the principle of mutual compromise. The prince's subjects are now pretty numerously employed about the station-house — some in taking care of the baggage, others in collecting fuel, feeding the engines, and such con- genial occupations — and I can conscientiously affirm that persons more attentive to their business, more willing to accommodate or more generally agreeable to the passengers are not to be found on any railroad. Every good heart must surely exult at so satisfactory an arrangement of an imme- morial difficulty. "Where is Mr. Great-heart?" inquired I. "Beyond a doubt, the directors have engaged that famous old champion to be chief conductor on the railroad?" "Why, no," said Mr. Smooth-it- A way, with a dry cough. "He was offered the situation of brakeman, but, to tell you the truth, our friend Great-heart has grown preposterously stiff and narrow in his old age. He has so often guided pilgrims over the road on foot that he considers it a sin to travel in any other fashion. Besides, the old fellow had entered so heartily into the ancient feud with Prince Beelze- bub that he would have been perpetually at blows or ill- language with some of the prince's subjects, and thus have embroiled us anew. So, on the whole, we were not sorry when honest Great-heart went off to the Celestial City in a huff, and left us at liberty to choose a more suitable and accommodating man. Yonder comes the conductor of the train. You will probably recognize him at once." The engine at this moment took its station in advance of the cars, looking, I must confess, much more like a sort of mechanical demon that would hurry us to the infernal 172 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS regions than a laudable contrivance for smoothing our way to the Celestial City. On its top sat a personage almost en- veloped in smoke and flame which — not to startle the reader — appeared to gush from his own mouth and stomach, as well as from the engine's brazen abdomen. "Do my eyes deceive me?" cried I. "What on earth is this? A living creature? If so, he is own brother to the engine he rides upon!" "Poh! poh! you are obtuse!" said Mr. Smooth-it-Away, with a hearty laugh. "Don't you know Apollyori, Chris- tian's old enemy, with whom he fought so fierce a battle in the Valley of Humiliation? He was the very fellow to manage the engine, and so we have reconciled him 'to the custom of going on pilgrimage, and engaged him as chief conductor," "Bravo, bravo!" exclaimed I, with irrepressible enthu- siasm. "This shows the hberality of the age; this proves, if anything can, that all musty prejudices are in a fair way to be obliterated. And how will Christian rejoice to hear of this happy transformation of his old antagonist ! I prom- ise myself great pleasure in informing him of it when we reach the Celestial City." The passengers being all comfortably seated, we now rattled away merrily, accomplishing a greater distance in ten minutes than Christian probably trudged over in a day. It was laughable while we glanced along, as it were, at the tail of a thunderbolt, to observe two dusty foot-travellers in the old pilgrim guise, with cockle-shell and staff, their mystic rolls of parchment in their hands, and their intolerable bur- dens on their backs. The preposterous obstinacy bf these honest people in persisting to groan and stumble along the difficult pathway rather than take advantage of modern improvements excited great mirth among our wiser brother- hood. We greeted the two pilgrims with many pleasant gibes and a roar of laughter; whereupon they gazed at us with such woful and absurdly compassionate visages that our merriment grew tenfold more obstreperous. ApoUyon, MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 173 ako, entered heartily into the fun, and contrived to flirt the smoke and flame of the engine or of his own breath into their faces, and envelop them in an atmosphere of scalding steam. These little practical jokes amused us mightily, and doubtless afforded the pilgrims the gratification of consider- ing themselves martyrs. At some distance from the railroad Mr. Smooth-it- A way pointed to a large, antique edifice which, he observed, was a tavern of long standing, and had formerly been a noted stopping-place for pilgrims. In Bunyan's road-book it is mentioned as the Interpreter's House. "I have long had a curiosity to visit that old mansion," remarked I. "It is not one of our stations, as you perceive," said my companion. "The keeper was violently opposed to the rail- road, and well he might be, as the track left his house of entertainment on one side, and thus was pretty certain to deprive him of all his reputable customers. But the foot- path still passes his door, and the old gentleman now and then receives a call from some simple traveller and enter- tains him with fare as old-fashioned as himself." Before our talk on this subject came to a conclusion we were rushing by the place where Christian's burden fell from his shoulders at the sight of the cross. This served as a theme for Mr. Smooth-it- A way, Mr. Live-for-the-World, Mr. Hide-Sin-in-the-Heart, Mr. Scaly-Conscience and a knot of gentlemen from the town of Shun-Repentance, to descant upon the inestimable advantages resulting from the safety of our baggage. Myself — and all the passengers, indeed — joined with great unanimity in this view of the matter, for our burdens were rich in many things esteemed precious throughout the world, and especially we each of us pos- sessed a great variety of favorite habits which we trusted would not be out of fashion even in the polite circles of the Celestial City. It would have been a sad spectacle to see such an assortment of valuable articles timibling into the sepulchre. 174 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS Thus pleasantly conversing on the favorable circumstences of our position as compared with those of past pilgrims and of narrow-minded ones at the present day, we soon found our- selves at the foot of the Hill Difficulty. Through the very heart of this rocky mountain a tunnel has been constructed, of most admirable architecture, with a lofty arch and a spa- cious double track; so that, unless the earth and rocks should chance to crumble down, it will remain an eternal monument of the builders' skill and enterprise. It is a great though in- cidental advantage that the materials from the heart of the Hill Difficulty have been employed in filling up the Valley of Humiliation, thus obviating the necessity of descending into that disagreeable and unwholesome hollow. "This is a wonderful improvement indeed," said I, "yet I should have been glad of an opportunity to visit the palace Beautiful and be introduced to the charming young ladies — Miss Prudence, Miss Piety, Miss Charity, and the rest — who have the kindness to entertain pilgrims there." " 'Young ladies!' " cried Mr. Smooth-it- Away as soon as he could speak for laughing. "And charming yoiing ladies! "Why, my dear fellow, they are old maids, every soul of them — prim, starched, dry and angular — and not one of them, I will venture to say, has altered so much as the fashion of her gown since the days of Christian's pilgrimage." "Ah, well!" said I, much comforted; "then I can very readily dispense with their acquaintance." The respectable ApoUyon was now putting on the steam at a prodigious rate — anxious, perhaps, to get rid of the un- pleasant reminiscences connected with the spot where he had so disastrously encountered Christian. Consulting Mr. Bunyan's road-book, I perceived that we must now be within a few miles of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, into which doleful region, at our present speed, we should plunge much sooner than seemed at all desirable. In truth, I expected nothing better than to find myself in the ditch on one side or the quag on the other. But on commu- nicating my apprehensions to Mr. Smooth-it- Away he assured MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 175 me that the difficulties of this passage, even in its worst con- dition, had been vastly exaggerated, and that in its present state of improvement I might consider myself as safe as on any railroad in Christendom. Even while we were speaking, the train shot into the entrance of this dreaded valley. Though I plead guilty to some foolish palpitations of the heart during our headlong rush over the causeway here constructed, yet it were unjust to withhold the highest encomiums on the boldness of its original conception and the ingenuity of those who executed it. It was gratifying, likewise, to observe how much care had been taken to dispel the everlasting gloom and supply the defect of cheerful sunshine, not a ray of which has ever penetrated among these awful shadows. For this purpose the inflammable gas which exudes plentifully from the soil is collected by means of pipes, and thence communicated to a quadruple row of lamps along the whole extent of the passage. Thus a radiance has been created even out of the fiery and sulphurous curse that rests forever upon the Valley — a radiance hurtful, however, to the eyes, and some- what bewildering, as I discovered by the changes which it wrought in the visages of my companions. In this respect, as compared with natural daylight, there is the same differ- ence as between truth and falsehood ; but if the reader have ever travelled through the dark valley, he will have learned to be thankful for any light that he could get — if not from the sky above, then from the blasted soil beneath. Such was the red brilliancy of these lamps that they appeared to build walls of fire on both sides of the track, between which we held our course at lightning speed, while a reverberating thunder filled the Valley with its echoes. Had the engine run off the track — a catastrophe, it is whispered, by no means unprecedented — the bottomless pit, if there be any such place, would undoubtedly have received us. Just as some dismal fooleries of this nature had made my heart quake there came a tremendous shriek careering along the Valley as if a thousand devils had burst their lungs to utter 176 hawthokne's works it, but which proved to be merely the whistle of the engine on arriving at a stopping-place. The spot where he had now paused is the same that our friend Bunyan — truthful man, but infected with many fan- tastic notions — has designated in terms plainer than I like to repeat as the mouth of the infernal region. This, how- ever, must be a mistake, inasmuch as Mr. Smooth-it- Away, while we remained in the smoky and Itirid cavern, took oc- casion to prove that Tophet has not even a metaphorical exist- ence. The place, he assured us, is no other than the crater of a half -extinct volcano, in which the directors had caused forges to be set up for the manufacture of railroad iron. Hence, also, is obtained a plentiful supply of fuel for the use of the engines. "Whoever had gazed into the dismal ob- scurity of the broad cavei-n-moath, whence ever and anon darted huge tongues of dusky flame, and had seen the strange, half -shaped monsters and visions of faces horribly grotesque into which the smoke seemed to wreathe itself, and had heard the awful murmurs and shrieks and deep shuddering whispers of the blast, sometimes forming them- selves into words almost articulate, would have seized upon Mr. Smooth- it- Away 's comfortable explanation as greedily as we did. The inhabitants of the cavern, moreover, were unlovely personages — dark, smoke-begrimed, generally de- formed, with misshapen feet and a glow of dusky redness in their eyes, as if their hearts had caught fire and were blazing out of the upper windows. It struck me as a pecu- liarity that the laborers at the forge and those who brought fuel to the engine, when they began to draw short breath, positively emitted smoke from their mouth and nostrils. Among the idlers about the train, most of whom were puffing cigars which they had lighted at the flame of the crater, I was perplexed to notice several who, to my certain knowledge, had heretofore set forth by railroad for the Ce- lestial City. They looked dark, wild and smoky, with a singular resemblance, indeed, to the native inhabitants, like whom, also, they had a disagreeable propensity to ill-natured MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 177 gibes and sneers, the habit of which had wrought a settled contortion of their visages. Having been on speaking terms with one of these persons — an indolent, good-for-nothing fel- low who went by the name of Take-it-Easy — I called him and inquired what was his business there. "Did you not start," said I, "for the Celestial City?" "That's a fact," said Mr. Take-it-Easy, carelessly puffing some smoke into my eyes; "but I heard such bad accounts that I never took pains to climb the hill on which the city stands — ^no business doing, no fun going on, nothing to drink, and no smoking allowed, and a thrumming of church music from morning till night. I would not stay in such a place if they offered mie. house-room and living free." "But, my good Mr. Take-it-Easy," cried I, "why take up your residence here of all places in the world?" "Oh," said the loafer, with a grin, "it is very warm here- about, and I meet with plenty of old acquaintances, and altogether the place suits me. I hope to see you back again some day soon. A pleasant journey to you!" While he was speaking the bell of the engine rang, and we dashed away after dropping a few passengers, but receiv- ing no new ones. Rattling onward through the valley, we were dazzled with the fiercely gleaming gas-lamps, as before, but sometimes, in the dark of intense brightness, grim faces that bore the aspect and expression of individual sins or evil passions seemed to thrust themselves through the veil of light, glaring upon us and stretching forth a great dusky hand as if to impede our progress. I almost thought that they were my own sins that appalled me there. These were freaks of imagination —noth- ing more, certainly; mere delusions which I ought to be heartily ashamed of — but all through the dark valley I was tormented and pestered and dolefully bewildered with the same kind of waking dreams. The mephitic gases of that region intoxicate the brain. As the light of natural day, however, began to struggle with the glow of the lanterns, these vain imaginations lost their vividness, and finally van- 178 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS ished with the first ray of sunshine that greeted our escape from the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Ere we had gone a mile beyond it I could wellnigh have taken my oath that this whole gloomy passage was a dream. At the end of the valley, as John Bunyan mentions, is a cavern where in his days dwelt two cruel giants. Pope and Pagan, who had strewn the ground about their residence with the bones of slaughtered pilgrims. These vile old troglodytes are no longer there, but in their deserted cave another terrible giant has thrust himself, and makes it his business to seize upon honest travellers and fat them for his table Avith plentiful meals of smoke, mist, moonshine, raw potatoes and sawdust. He is a German by birth, and is called Giant Transcendentalist, but as to his form, his features, his substance, and his nature generally, it is the chief peculiarity of this huge miscreant that neither he for himself nor anybody for him has ever been able to describe them. As we rushed by the cavern's mouth we caught a hasty glimpse of him, looking somewhat like an ill-propor- tioned figure, but considerably more like a heap of fog and duskiness. He shouted after us, but in so strange a phrase- ology that we knew not what he meant, nor whether to be encouraged or aflErighted. It was late in the day when the train thundered into the ancient City of Vanity, where Vanity Fair is still at the height of prosperity and exhibits an epitome of whatever is brilliant, gay and fascinating beneath the sun. As I pur- posed to make a considerable stay here, it gratified me to learn that there is no longer the want of harmony between the townspeople and pilgrims which impelled the former to such lamentably mistaken measures as the persecution of Christian and the fiery martyrdom of Faithful. On the contrary, as the new railroad brings with it great trade and a constant influx of strangers, the lord of Vanity Fair is its chief patron and the capitalists of the city are among the largest stockholders. Many passengers stop to take their pleasure or make their profit in the fair, instead of going on- MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 179 ward to the Celestial City. Indeed, such are the charms of the place that people often afSrm it to be the true and only- heaven, stoutly contending that there is no other, that those who seek further are mere dreamers, and that if the fabled brightness of the Celestial City lay but a bare mile beyond the gates of Vanity they would not be fools enough to go tliither. Without subscribing to these perhaps exaggerated encomiums, I can truly say that my abode in the city was mainly agreeable and my intercourse with the inhabitants productive of much amusement and instruction. Being naturally of a serious turn, my attention was di- rected to the solid advantages derivable from a residence here, rather than to the effervescent pleasures which are the grand object with too many visitants. The Christian reader, if he have had no accounts of the city later than Bunyan's time, will be surprised to hear that almost every street has its church, and that the reverend clergy are no- where held in higher respect than at Vanity Fair. And well do they deserve such honorable estimation, for the maxims of wisdom and virtue which fall from their hps come from as deep a spiritual source and tend to as lofty a religious aim as those of the sagest philosophers of old. In justification of this high praise I need only mention the names of the Rev. Mr. Shallow-Deep, the Eev. Mr. Stumble-at-Truth, that fine old clerical character the Rev. Mr. This-to-Day, who expects shortly to resign his pulpit to the Eev. Mr. That-to-Morrow, together with the Rev. Mr. Bewilderment, the Rev. Mr. Clog- the- Spirit, and, last and greatest, the Rev. Dr. "Wind- of -Doctrine. The labors of these eminent divines are aided by those of innumerable lecturers, who diffuse such a vari- ous profundity in all subjects of human or celestial science that any man may acquire an omnigenous erudition without the trouble of even learning to read. Thus literature is ethe- realized by assuming for its medium the human voice, and knowledge, depositing all its heavier particles — except, doubt- less, its gold — becomes exhaled into a sound which forthwith steals into the ever-open ear of the community. These in- 180 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS genious methods constitute a sort of machinery by which thought and study are done to every person's hand without his putting himself to the slightest inconvenience in the mat- ter. There is another species of machine for the wholesale manuf actiue of individual moraUty. This excellent result is effected by societies for all maimer of virtuous purposes, and with which a man has merely to connect himself, throwing, as it were, his quota of virtue into the conmion stock, and the president and directors will take care that the aggregate amount be well applied. All these, and other wonderful improvements in ethics, religion and literature, being made plain' to my comprehension by the ingenious Mr. Smooth-it- Away, inspired me with a vast admiration of Vanity Fair. It would fill a volume in an age of pamphlets were I to record all my observations in this great capital of human business and pleasure. There was an unlimited range of society — the powerful, the wise, the witty and the famous in every walk of life, princes, presidents, poets, generals, art- ists, actors and philanthropists — ^all making their own market at the fair, and deeming no price too exorbitant for such com- modities as hit their fancy. It was well worth one's while, even if he had no idea of buying or selling, to loiter through the bazaars and observe the various sorts of traflSc that were going forward. Some of the purchasers, I thought, made very foolish bargains. For instance, a young man having inherited a splendid fortune laid out a considerable portion of it in the purchase of diseases, and finally spent all the rest for a heavy lot of repentance and a suit of rags. A very pretty girl bar- tered a heart as clear as crystal, and which seemed her most valuable possession, for another jewel of the same kind, but so worn and defaced as to be utterly worthless. In one shop there were a great many crowns of laurel and myrtle, which soldiers, authors, statesmen, and various other people, pressed eagerly to buy. Some purchased these paltry wreaths with their lives, others by a toilsome servitude of years, and many sacrificed whatever was most valuable, yet finally slunk away MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 181 without the crown. There was a sort of stock or scrip called Conscience which seemed to be in great demand and would purchase almost anything. Indeed, few rich commodities were to be obtained without paying a heavy sum in this par- ticular stock, and a man's busine^ was seldom very lucrative unless he knew precisely when and how to throw his hoard of Conscience into the market. Yet, as this stock was the only thing of permanent value, whoever parted with it was sure to find himself a loser in the long run. Several of the speculations were of a questionable character. Occasionally a member of Congress recruited his pocket by the sale of his constituents, and I was assured that public officers have often sold their country at very moderate prices. Thousands sold their happiness for a whim. Gilded chains were in great demand, and purchased with almost any sacrifice. In truth, those who desired, according to the old adage, to sell any- thing valuable for a song, might find customers all over the fair, and there were innumerable messes of pottage, piping hot, for such as chose to buy them with their birthrights. A few articles, however, could not be found genuine at Vanity Fair. If a customer wished to renew his stock of youth, the dealers offered him a set of false teeth and an auburn wig; if he demanded peace of mind, they recommended opium or a brandy-bottle. Tracts of land and golden mansions situate in the Celes- tial City were often exchanged at very disadvantageous rates for a few years' lease of small, dismal, inconvenient tenements in Vanity Fair. Prince Beelzebub himself took great inter- est in this sort of traffic, and sometimes condescended to med- dle with smaller matters. I once had the pleasure to see him bargaining with a miser for his soul, which after much in- genious skirmishing on both sides His Highness succeeded in obtaining at about the value of sixpence. The prince remarked with a smile that he was a loser by the trans- action. Day after day, as I walked the streets of Vanily, my manners and deportment became more and more like those 182 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS of the inhabitants. The place began to seem like home : the idea of pursuing my travels to the Celestial City was almost obliterated from my mind. I was reminded of it, however, by the sight of the same pair of simple pilgrims at whom we had laughed so heartily when ApoUyon puflfed smoke and steam into their faces at the commencement of our journey. There they stood amid the densest bustle of Vanity, the deal- ers offering them their purple and fine linen and jewels, the men of wit and humor gibing at them, a pair of buxom ladies ogling them askance, while the benevolent Mr. Smooth-it- Away whispered some of his wisdom at their elbows and pointed to a newly-erected temple; but there were these worthy simpletons making the scene look wild and mon- strous merely by their sturdy repudiation of all part in its business or pleasures. One of them— his name was Stick-to-the-Right — perceived in my face, I suppose, a species of sympathy, and almost admiration, which, to my own great surprise, I could not help feeling for this pragmatic couple. It prompted him to address me. "Sir," inquired he, with a sad yet mild and kindly voice, "do you call yourself a pilgrim?" "Yes," I replied; "my right to that appellation is indu- bitable. I am merely a sojourner here in Vanity Fair, being bound to the Celestial City by the new railroad. " "Alas, friend!" rejoined Mr. Stick-to-the-Right; "I do assure you, and beseech you to receive the truth of my words, that that whole concern is a bubble. You may travel on it all your lifetime, were you to live thousands of years, and yet never get beyond the limits of Vanity Fair. Yea, though you should deem yourself entering the gates of the blessed city, it will be nothing but a miserable delusion." "The Lord of the Celestial City," began the other pil- grim, whose name was Mr. Foot-it-to-Heaven, "has refused, and will ever refuse, to grant an act of incorporation for this railroad, and unless that be obtained no passenger can ever hope to enter his dominions; wherefore every man who buys MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 183 a ticket must lay his account with losiog the purchase-money, which is the value of his own soul." "Poh! nonsense!" said Mr. Smooth-it- A way, taking my arm and leading me off; "these fellows ought to be indicted for a hbel. If the law stood as it once did in Vanity Fair, we should see them grinning through the iron bars of the prison window." This incident made a considerable impression on my mind, and contributed with other circumstances to indispose me to a permanent residence in the City of Vanity, although, of course, I was not simple enough to give up my origipal plan of gliding along easily and commodiously by railroad. Still, I grew anxious to be gone. There was one strange thing that troubled me : amid the occupations or amusements of the fair, nothing was more common than for a person — ^whether at a feast, theatre or church, or trafficking for wealth and honors, or whatever he might be doing and however unseasonable the interruption — suddenly to vanish like a soap-bubble and be never more seen of his fellows; and so accustomed were the latter to such little accidents that they went on with their business as quietly as if nothing had happened. But it was otherwise with me. Finally, after a pretty long residence at the fair, I resumed my journey toward the Celestial City, still with Mr. Smooth- it- Away at my side. At a short distance beyond the suburbs of Vanity we passed the ancient silver mine of which Demas was the first discoverer, and which is now wrought to great ;idvantage, supplying nearly all the coined currency of the world. A little further onward was the spot where Lot's wife had stood for ages under the semblance of a pillar of salt. Curious travellers have long since carried it away piecemeal. Had all regrets been punished as rigorously as this poor dame's were, my yearning for the relinquished delights of Vanity Fair might have produced a similar change in my own corporeal substance and left me a warn- ing to future pilgrims. The next remarkable object was a large edifice con- 184 Hawthorne's works structed of moss-grown stone, but in a modern and airy style of architecture. The engine came to a pause in its vicinity with the usual tremendous shriek. "This was formerly the castle of the redoubted Giant Despair," observed Mr. Smooth-it- Away, "but since his death Mr. Flimsy-Faith has repaired it, and now keeps an excellent house of entertainment here. It is one of our stopping places." "It seems but slightly put together," remarked I, look- ing at the frail yet ponderous walls. "I do not envy Mr. Flimsy-Faith his habitation. Some day it will thimder down upon the heads of the occupants." ""We shall escape, at all events," said Mr. Smooth-it- Away, "for ApoUyon is putting on the steam again." The road now plunged into a gorge of the Delectable Mountains, and traversed the field where in former ages the blind men wandered and stumbled among the tombs. One of these ancient tombstones had been thrust across the track by some malicious person, and gave the train of cars a terrible jolt. Far up the rugged side of a mountain I per- ceived a rusty iron door half overgrown with bushes and creeping plants, but with smoke issuing from its crevices. "Is that," inquired I, "the very door in the hillside which the shepherds assured Christian was a by-way to hell?" "That was a joke on the part of the shepherds," said Mr. Smooth-it- Away, with a smile. "It is neither more nor less than the door of a cavern which they use as a smoke-house for the preparation of mutton-hams." My recollections of the journey are now for a little space dim and confused, inasmuch as a singular drowsiness here overcame me, owing to the fact that we were passing, over the Enchanted Ground, the air of which encourages a dis- position to sleep. I awoke, however, as soon as we crossed the borders of the pleasant Land of Beulah. All the pas- sengers were rubbing their eyes, comparing watches and congratulating one another on the prospect of arriving so seasonably at the journey's end. The sweet breezes of this MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 185 happy clime came refreshingly to our nostrils; we beheld the glimmering gush of silver fountains oyerhxmg by trees of beautiful foliage and delicious fruit, which were propa- gated by grafts from the celestial gardens. Once, as we dashed onward like a hurricane, there was a flutter of wings and the bright appearance of an angel in the air speeding forth on some heavenly mission. The engine now announced the close vicinity of the final station-house by one last and horrible scream in which there seemed to be distinguishable every kind of wailing and woe and bitter fierceness of wrath, all mixed up with the wild laughter of a devil or a madman. Throughout our journey, at every stopping-place, Apollyon had exercised his ingenu- ity in screwing the most abominable sounds out of the whis- tle of the steam-engine, but in this closing effort he outdid himself, and created an infernal uproar which, besides dis- turbing the peaceful inhabitants of Beulah, must have sent its discord even through the celestial gates. While the horrid clamor was still ringing in our ears we heard an exulting strain, as if a thousand instruments of music with height and depth and sweetness in their tones, at once tender and triumphant, were struck in unison to greet the approach of some illustrious hero who had fought the good fight and won a glorious victory, and was come to lay aside his battered arms forever. Looking to ascer- tain what might be the occasion of this glad harmony, I perceived, on alighting from the cars, that a multitude of shining ones had assembled on the other side of the river to welcome two poor pilgrims who were just emerging from its depths. They were the same whom Apollyon and our- selves had persecuted with taunts and gibes and scalding steam at the commencement of our journey — ^the same whose unworldly aspect and impressive words had stirred my conscience amid the wild revellers of Vanity Fair. "How amazingly well those men have got on!" cried I to Mr. Smooth-it- Away- "I wish we were secure of as good a reception. '' 186 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS "Never fear! never fear!" answered my friend. "Come! make haste. The ferry-boat will be oflf directly, and in three minutes you will be on the other side of the river. No doubt you will find coaches to carry you up to the city gates." A steam ferry-boat — ^the last improvement on this impor- tant route — ^lay at the river-side puflSng, snorting and emit- ting all those other disagreeable utterances which betoken the departure to be immediate. I hurried on board with the rest of the passengers, most of whom were in great pertur- bation, some bawling out for their baggage, some tearing thWir hair and exclaiming that the boat would explode or sink, some already pale with the heaving of the stream, some gazing affrighted at the ugly aspect of the steersman, and some still dizzy with the slumberous influences of the Enchanted Ground. Looking back to the shore, I was amazed to discern Mr. Smooth-it- Away waving his hand in token of farewell. "Don't you go over to the Celestial City?" exclaimed I. "Oh, no!" answered he, with a queer smile and that same disagreeable contortion of visage which I had re- marked in the inhabitants of the dark valley — "oh, no! I have come thus far only for the sake of your pleasant company. Good-by! "We shall meet again." And then did my excellent friend, Mr. Smooth-it- Away, laugh outright ; in the midst of which cachinnation a smoke- wreath issued from his mouth and nostrils, while a twinkle of lurid flame darted out of either eye, proving indubitably that his heart was all of a red blaze. The impudent fiend! To deny the existence of Tophet when he felt its fiery tor- tures raging within his breast ! I rushed to the side of the boat, intending to fling myself on shore, but the wheels, as they began their revolutions, threw a dash of spray over me, so cold — so deadly cold with the chiU that will never leave those waters until Death be drowned in his own river — that with a shiver and a heartquake I awoke. Thank Heaven it was a dream! MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 187 THE PROCESSION OF LIFE LIFE figures itself to me as a festal or fun eral proces- sion. All of us have our places - and- ar-eTo'nroW onward under the direction of the chief marshal. The grand difiBculty results from the invariablyS mistaken principles on which the deputy marshals seek to arrange this immense concourse of people, so much more numerous than those that train their interminable length through streets and highways in times of poHtical excitement. Their scheme is ancient far beyond the memory of man, or even the record of history, and has hitherto been very little mod- ified by the innate sense of something wrong and the dim perception of better methods that have disquieted all the ages through which the procession has taken its march. Its members are classified by the merest external circum- stances, and thus are more certain to be thrown out of their true positions than if no principle of arrangement were at- tempted. In one part of the procession we see men of landed estate or moneyed capital gravely keeping each other com- pany for the preposterous reason that they chance to have a similar standing in the tax-gatherer's book. Trades and professions march together with scarcely a more real bond of union. In this manner, it cannot be denied, people are disentangled from the mass and separated into various classes according to certain apparent relations; all have some artificial badge which the world, and themselves among the first, learn to consider^ as a genuine character- istic. Fixing our attention on such outside shows of simi- larity or difference) we loso sight of those realities by which Nature, Fortune, Fate or Providence has constituted for every man a brotherhood, wherein it is one great office of human wisdom to classify him. "When the mind has once 188 HAWTHORNE S WORKS accustomed itself to a proper arrangement of the procesdon of life or a true classification of society, even though merely specnlaidve, there is thenceforth a satisfaction which pretty well suffices for itself, without the aid of any actual refor- mation in the order of march. For instance, assumii^ to myself the power of marsha- ling the aforesaid procession, I direct a trumpeter to send forth a blast Joud-enough to be heard from hence to China, anSTa herald with world-pervading voice to make proclama- tion for a certain class of mortals to take their places. What shall be their principle of union? ABer all, an external one, in comparison with many that might be found, yet far mor^ real than those which the world has selected for a simUar purpose. Let all who are afflicted with like physical dis- eases form themselves into ranks. Our first attempt at classification is not very successful. It may gratify the pride of aristocracy to reflect that disease, more than any other circumstance of human life, pays due observance to the distinctions which rank and wealth and poverty and lowliness have established among mankind. Some maladies are rich and precious, and only to be ac- quired by the right of inheritance or purchased with gold. Of this kind is the gout, which serves as a bond of brother- hood to the purple-visaged gentry who obey the herald's voice and painfully hobble from all civilized r^ions of the globe to take their post in the grand procession. In mercy to their toes let us hope that the inarch may not be long. The dyspeptics, too, are people of good standing in the world. For them the earliest salmon is caught in our Eastern rivers, and the shy woodcock stains the dry leaves with his blood in his remotest haunts, and the turtle comes from the far Pacific islands to be gobbled up in soup. They can afford to flavor all their dishes with indolence, which, in spite of the general opinion, is a sauce more exquisitely piquant than appetite won by exercise. Apoplexy is another highly respectable disease. "We wOl rank together all who have the symptom of dizziness in the brain, and as fast as any drop by the MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 189 way supply their places with new members of the board of aldermen. On the other hand, here come whole tribes of people whose physical lives are but a deteriorated variety of life, and themselves a meaner species of mankind, so sad an effect has been wrought by the tainted breath of cities, scanty and unwholesome food, destructive modes of labor, and the lack of those moral supports that might partially have counteracted such bad influences. Behold here a train of house-painters aU afflicted with a peculiar sort of cohc. Next in place we will marshal those workmen in cutlery who have breathed a fatal disorder into their lungs with the impalpable dust of steel. Tailors and shoemakers, being sedentary men, will chiefly congregate in one part of the procession and march under similar banners of disease, but among them we may observe here and there a sickly student who has left his health between the leaves of classic volumes, and clerks, likewise, who have caught their deaths on high official stools, and men of genius, too, who have written sheet after sheet with pens dipped in their heart's blood. These are a wretched, quaking, short-breathed set. But what is this crowd of pale-cheeked, slender girls, who disturb the ear with the multiplicity of their short, dry coughs? They are seamstresses who have plied the daily and nightly needle in the service of master-taUors and close-fisted contractors, until now it is almost time for each to hem the borders of her own shroud. Consumption points their place in the pro- cession. With their sad sisterhood "are intermingled many youthful maidens who have sickened in aristocratic man- sions, and for whose aid science has unavailingly searched its volumes and whom breathless love has watched. In our ranks the rich maiden and the poor seamstress may walk arm in arm. "We might find innumerable other instances where the bond of mutual disease — not to speak of nation sweeping pestilence — embraces high and low and makes the king a brother of the clown. But it is not hard to own that disease is the natural aristocrat. Let him keep his state and 190 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS have his established orders of rank and wear his royal man- tle of the color of a fever-flush, and let the noble and wealthy boast their own physical infirmities and display their symp- toms as the badges of high station. All things considered, these are as proper subjects of human pride as any relations of human rank that men can fix upon. Sound again, thou deep-breathed trumpeter! — and, her- ald, with thy voice of might, shout forth another summons that shall reach the old baronial castles of Europe and the rudest cabin of our Western wilderness! What class is next to take its place in the procession of mortal life? Let it be those whom the gifts of intellect have united in a noble brotherhood. Ay, this is a reality before which the conventional dis- tinctions of society melt away Mke a vapor when we would grasp it with the hand. Were Byron now aUve, and Bums, the first would come from his ancestral abbey, flinging aside, although unwillingly, the inherited honors of a thousand years to take the arm of the mighty peasant who grew immortal while he stooped behind his plow. These are gone, but the hall, the farmer's fireside, the hut — perhaps the palace — the counting-room, the workshop, the village, the city, life's high places and low ones, may all produce their poets whom a common temperament pervades like an electric sympathy. Peer or plowman will muster them pair by pair and shoulder to shoulder. Even society in its most artificial state consents to this arrangement. These factory-girls from Lowell shall mate themselves with the pride of drawing-rooms and liter- ary circles — ^the bluebells in fashion's nosegay, the S apphos and Montagues and ITortons of the age. Other modes of intellect bring together as strange com- panies. — Silk-gowned professor of language, give your arm to this sturdy blacksmith and deem yourself honored by the conjunction, though you behold him grimy from the anvil. — All varieties of human speech are like his mother-tongue to this rare man. Indiscriminately let those take their places, of whatever rank they come, who possess the kingly gifts to MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 191 lead armies or to sway a people — Ifature's generals, her law- givers, her kings, and with them, also, the deep philosophers who think the thought in one generation that is to revolu- tionize society in the next. With the hereditary legislator in whom eloquence is a far-descended attainment— a rich echo repeated by powerful voices, from Cicero downward — ^we will match some wondrous backwoodsman who has caught a wild power of language from the breeze among his native forest boughs. But we may safely leave brethren and sisterhood to settle their own congenialities. Our ordi- nary distinctions become so trifling, so impalpable, so ridicu- lously -nsionarry; in'^eoffip&rison with a ciassffication founded ah trifllB^^'JEailaJl Jtalk about the- matter is. immediately a commonplace. Yet, the longer I reflect, the less am I satisfied with the idea of forming a separate class of mankind on the basis of high intellectual power. At best, it is but a higher develop- ment of innate gifts common to' aU. Perhaps, moreover, he whose genius appears deepest and truest excels his fellows in nothing save the knack of expression; he throws out, oc- casionally, a lucky hint at truths of which every human soul is profoundly, though unutterably, conscious. Therefore, though we suffer the brotherhood of intellect to march on- ward together, it may be doubted whether their peculiar relation wiU not begin to vanish as soon as the procession shall have passed beyond the circle of this present world. But we do not classify fqr„g|grnity. -^ And next let the trumpet pour forth a funeral wail and the herald's voice give breath in one vast cry to all the groans and grievous utterances that are audible throughout the earth. We appeal now to the sacred bond of sorrow, and summon the great multitude who labor under similar afflictions to take their places in the march. How many a heart that would have been insensible to any other call has responded to the doleful accents of that voice! It has gone far and wide and high and low, and left scarcely a mortal roof unvisited. Indeed, the principle is only too universal 192 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS for our purpose, and, unless we limit it, wiU quite break up our classification of mankind and convert the whole proces- sion into a funeral train. We wiU, therefore, be at some pains to discriminate. Here comes a lonely rich man : he has built a noble fabric for his dwelling-house, with a front of stately architecture, and marble floors, and doors of precious woods. The whole structure is as beautiful as a dream and as substantial as the native rock, but the visionary shapes of a long posterity for whose home this mansion was intended have faded into noth- ingness since the death of the founder's only son. The rich man gives a glance at bis sable garb in one of the splendid mirrors of bis drawing-room, and descending a flight of lofty steps, instinctively offers his arm to yonder poverty-stricken widow in the rusty black bonnet and with a check-apron over her patched gown. The sailor boy who was her sole earthly stay was washed overboard in a late tempest. This couple from the palace and the almshouse are but the lypes of thou- sands more who represent the dai^ tragedy of Me and sel- dom quarrel for the upper parts. Grief is such a leveller witbjtejQwn^dignityLjeidJt&own jb.mml^^iartEe noble and the peasant, the beggar and the monarch^ will waive their pretOTSms to eaSemal rank without^ the oMciousness of in- terference on our part. If pride — ^the influence of the world's f alse^istmctions — ^remain in the heart, then sorrow lacks the earnestness which makes it holy and reverend. It loses its reality and becomes a miserable shadow. On this ground we have an opportunity to assign over multitudes who would willingly claim places here to other parts of the procession. If the mourner have anything dearer than his grief, ho must seek his true position elsewhere. There are so many unsub- stantial sorrows which the necessity of our mortal state be- gets on idleness that an observer, casting aside sentiment, is sometimes led to question whether there be any real woe except absolute physical suffering and the loss of closest friends. A crowd who exhibit what they deem to be broken hearts — and among them many lovelorn maids aad bache- MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 193 lors, and men of disappointed ambition in arts or politics, and the poor who were once rich or who haTe sought to be rich in vain — the great majority of these may ask admittance in some other fraternity. There is no room here. Perhaps we may institute a separate class where such unfortunates will naturally fall into the procession. Meanwhile, let them stand aside and patiently await their time. If our trumpeter can borrow a note from the doomsd^T trumpet-blast, let him sound it now. The dread alarm should make the earth quake to its centre, for the herald is about to address mankind with a summons to which even the purest mortal may be sensible of some faint responding echo in hi3 breast. In many bosoms it will awaken a still small voice more terrible than its own reverberating uproar. The hideous appeal has swept around the globe. — Come, all ye guilty ones, and rank yourselves in accordance with the brotherhood of crime. — This, indeed, is an awful sum- mons. I almost tremble to look at the strange partnerships that begin to be formed — reluctantly, but by the invincible necessity of like to like — ^in this part of the procession. A forger from the state-prison seizes the arm of the distin- guished financier. How indignantly does the latter plead his fair reputation upon 'Change, and insist that his opera- tions by their magnificence of scope were removed into quite another sphere of morality than those of his pitiful compan- ion ! But let him cut the connection if he can. Here comes a murderer with his clanking chains, and pairs himself — ^hor- rible to tell — with as pure and upright a man in all observable respects as ever partook of the consecrated bread and wine. He is one of those — perchance the most hopeless of all sinners — who practice such an exemplary system of outward duties that even a deadly crime may be hidden from their own sight and remembrance under this unreal frost-work. Tet he now finds his place. Why do that pair of flaunting girls with the pert, affected laugh and the sly leer at the bystanders intrude themselves into the same rank with yonder decorous matron and that somewhat prudish maiden? Siu-ely these poor creat- 194 HAWTHORNE'S "WORKS ures bom to vice as their sole and natural inheritance can be no fit associates for women who have been guarded round about by all the proprieties of domestic life, and who could not err unless they first created the opportunity! Oh, no! It must be merely the impertinence of those unblushing hussies, and we can only wonder how such respectable ladies should have responded to a summons that was not meant for them. We shall make short work of this miserable class, each member of which is entitled to grasp any other member's hand by that vile degradation wherein guilty error has buried aU alike. The foul fiend to whom it properly be- longs must reUeve us of our loathsome task. Let the bond- servants of sin pass on. But neither man nor woman in Virhom good pred ^inates will smile or sneer, nor bid the Rogue's March be played, in derision of their array. Feel- ing within their breasts a shuddering sympathy whifih— at- least^Tfig^ token of the sin that might have been, they wiU tEank God foF a£^°place in the grand' procession of human existence save among those most wretched ones. Many, however, will be astonished at the fatal impulse that drags them thitherward. Nothing is more remarkable than the various deceptions by which guilt conceals itself from the perpetrator's conscience, and oftenest, perhaps, by the splen- dor of its garments. Statesmen, rulers, generals, and all men who act over an extensive sphere, are most liable to be deluded in this way; they commit wrong, devastation and murder on so grand a scale that it impresses them as speculative rather than actua l, but in our procession we find them linked in detestable conjunction with the meanest crim- inals whose deeds have the vulgarity of petty details. Here the effect of circumsta nce and accident is done away, and a man finds his rank according~toTEe spirit of his crime, in whatever shape it may have been developed. We have called the evil ; now let us call the good. The trumpet's brazen throat should pour heavenly music over the earth and the herald's voice go forth with the sweetness MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 195 of an angel's accents, as if to summon each upright man to his reward. But how is this? Does none answer to the call? Not one; for the just, the pure, the true and all who might most worthily obey it shrink sadly back as most conscious of error and imperfection. Then let the summons be to those whose pervading principle is love. This classification will embrace all the truly good, and none in whose souls there exists not something that may expand itself into a heaven both of well-doing and felicity. The first that presents himself is a man of wealth who has bequeathed the bulk of his property to a hospital ; his ghost, methinks, would have a better right here than his living body. But here they come, the genuine benefactors of their race. Some have wandered about the earth with pictures of bliss in their imagination and with hearts that shrank sensitively from the idea of pain and woe, yet have studied all varieties of misery that human nature can endure. The prison, the insane asylum, the squalid chamber of the almshouse, the manufactory where the demon of machinery annihilates the human soul and the cotton-field where God's image becomes a beast of burden— to these, and every other scene where man wrongs or neglects his brother, the apostles of humanity have penetrated. This missionary black with India's burning sunshine shall give his arm to a pale-faced brother who has made himself famihar with' the infected alleys and loathsome haunts of vice in one of our own cities. The generous founder of a college shall be the partner of a maiden lady of narrow substance, one of whose good deeds it has been to gather a little school of orphan children. If the mighty merchant whose benefactions are reckoned by thousands of dollars deem himself worthy, let him join the procession with her whose love has proved itself by watch- ings at the sick-bed, and all those lowly oflSces which bring her into actual contact with disease and wretchedness. And with those whose impulses have guided them to benevolent actions we wiU rank others, to whom Providence has as- signed a different tendency and different powers. Men who 196 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS have spent their lives in generous and holy contemplation for the human race, those who, by a certain heavenliness of spirit, have purified the atmosphere around them, and thus supplied a medium in which good and high things may be projected and performed — give to these a lofty place among the benefactors of mankind, although no deed such as the world calls deeds may be recorded of them. There are some individuals of whom we cannot conceive it proper that they should apply their hands to any earthly instrument or work out any definite act, and others — perhaps not less high — to whom it is an essential attribute to labor in body as well as spirit for the welfare of their brethren. Thus, if we find a spiritual sage whose unseen inestimable influence has exalted the moral standard of mankind, we will choose for his com- panion some poor laborer who has wrought for love in the potato-field of a neighbor poorer than himself. "We have summoned this various multitude — and, to the credit of our nature, it is a large one — on the principle of Love. It is singular, nevertheless, to remark the shyness that exists among many members of the present class, aU of whom we might expect to recognize one another by the free- masonry of mutual goodness, and to embrace like brethren, giving God thanks for such various specimens of human ex- cellence. But it is far otherwise. Each sect surrounds its own" righteousness with a hedge of thorns. It is difficult for the good Christian to acknowledge the good pagan, almost impossible for the good orthodox to grasp the hand of the good Unitarian, leaving to their CDBator4».-settle~t^e-matters in dispute and givingTEeirmutual efforts strongly and trust- ingly to whatever "light thing is too^jevidfintJo.be mistaken. Then, again, though the heart be large, yet the mind is often of such moderate dimensions as to be exclusively fUled up withjone idea.,^ "When a good man has long devoted himself to a particular kind of beneficence, to one species of reform, he is apt to become narrowed into the limits of the path wherein he treads, and to fancy that there is no other good to be done on earth but that self -same good to which he has MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 197 pat his hand and in the very mode that best suits his own conceptions. All else is worthless: his scheme must be wrought out by the united strength of the whole world's stock of love, or the world is no longer worthy of a position in the universe. Moreover, powerful truth, being the rich grape-juice expressed from the vineyard of the ages, has an intoxicating quality when imbibed by any save a powerful intellect, and often, as it were, impels the quaffer to quarrel in his cups. For such reasons, strange to say, it is harder-^ to contrive a friendly arrangement of these brethren of love and righteousness in the procession of life than to unite even the wicked, who, indeed, are chained together by their crimes. ^ The fact is too preposterous for tears, too lugubrious for laughter. But let good men push and elbow one another as they may during their earthly march, all will be peace among them when the honorable array of their procession shall tread on heavenly ground. There they will doubtless find that they have been working each for the other's cause, and that every well-delivered stroke which with an honest purpose any mortal struck, even for a narrow object, was indeed stricken for the universal cause of good. Their own view may be bounded by country, creed, profession, the diversities of individual character, but above them all is the breadth of Providence. How many who have deemed themselves antagonists will smile hereafter when they look back upon the world's wide harvest-field, and perceive that in unconscious brotherhood they were helping to bind the self -same sheaf! -^ But come! The sun is hastening westward, while the march of human life, that never paused before, is delayed by our attempt to rearrange its order. It is desirable to find some comprehensive principle that shall render our task easier by bringing thousands into the ranks where hitherto we have brought one. Therefore let the trumpet, if possi- ble, split its brazen throat with a louder note than ever, and the herald summon all mortals who, from whatever cause. 198 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS have lost, or never found, their proper places in the world. Obedient to this call, a great multitude come together, most of them with a listless gait betokening weariness of soul, yet with a gleam of satisfaction in their faces at a prospect of at length reaching those positions which hitherto they have vaialy sought. But here will be another disap- pointment, for we can attempt no more than merely to as- sociate in one fraternity all who are afflicted with the same vague trouble. Some great mistake in hfe is the chief condition of admittance into this class. Here are members of the learned professions whom Providence endowed with special gifts for the plow, the forge and the wheelbarrow, or for the routine of unintellectual business. We will as- sign them as partners in the march those lowly laborers and handicraftsmen who have pined as with a dying thirst after the unattainable fountains of knowledge. The latter have lost less than their companions, yet more, because they deem it infinite. Perchance the two species of unfortunates may comfort one another. Here are Quakers with the in- stinct of battle in them, and men of war who should have worn the broad brim. Authors shall be ranked here whom some freak of Nature, making game of her poor children, had imbued with the confidence of genius, and strong desire of fame, but has favored with no corresponding power, and others whose lofty gifts were unaccompanied with the fac- ulty of expression, or any of that earthly machinery by which ethereal endowments must be manifested to man- kind. AU these, therefore, are melancholy laughing-stocks. Next, here are honest and well-intentioned persons who, by a want of tact, by inaccurate perceptions, by a distorting imagination, have been kept continually at cross-purposes with the world, and bewildered upon the path of hfe. Let us see if they can confine themselves within the line of our procession. In this class, likewise, we must assign places to those who have encountered that worst of ill-success, a higher fortune than their abilities could vindicate — ^writers, MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 199 actors, painters, the pets of a day, but whose laurels wither unrenewed amid their hoary hair, politicians whom some malicious contingency of afifairs has thrust into conspicuous station, where, while the world stands gazing at them, the dreary consciousness of imbecility makes them curse their birth-hour. To such men we give for a companion him whose rare talents, which perhaps require a revolution for their exercise, are buried in the tomb of sluggish circum- stances. Not far from these we must find room for one whose success has been of the wrong kind — the man who should have lingered in the cloisters of a university digging new treasures out of the Herculaneum of antique lore, diffusing depth and accuracy of literature throughout his country, and thus making for himself a great and quiet fame. But the outward tendencies around him have proved too power- ful for his inward nature, and have drawn him into tha arena of poUtical tumult, there to contend at disadvantage, whether front to front, or side by side, with the brawny giants of actual life. He becomes, it may be, a name for brawling parties to bandy to and fro, a legislator of the Union, a governor of his native State, an ambassador to the courts of kings or queens, and the world may deem him a man of happy stars. But not so the wise, and not so himself, when he looks through his experience and sighs to miss that fitness, the one invaluable touch which makes all things true and real, so much achieved yet how abortive is his Uf e ! "Whom shall we choose for his companion? Some weak-framed blacksmith, perhaps, whose delicacy of muscle might have suited a tailor's shop-board better than the anvil. Shall we bid the trumpet sound again? It is hardly worth the while. There remain a few idle men of fortune, tavern and grog-shop loungers, lazzaroni, old bachelors, decaying maidens and people of crooked intellect or temper, all of whom may find their like, or some tolerable approach to it, in the plentiful diversity of our latter class. There, too, as his ultimate destiny, musb we rank the dreamer who aU hia Vol. 3 *G 200 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS life long has cherished the idea that he was peculiarly apt for something, but never could determine what it was, and there the most unfortunate of men, whose purpose it has been to enjoy life's pleasures, but to avoid a manful strug- gle with its toil and sorrow. The remainder, if any, may connect themselves with whatever rank of the procession they shall find best adapted to their tast^ and causciences. The worst possible fate would be to remain behind shivering in the solitude of time while all the world is on the move toward eternity. Our attempt to classify society is now complete. The result may be anything but perfect, yet better — ^to give it the very lowest phrase — than the antique rule of the her- ald's oflSce or the modern one of the tax-gatherer, whereby the accidents and superficial attributes with which the real nature of individuals has least to do are acted upon as the deepest characteristics of mankind. Our task is done! TSow let the grand procession move I Yet, pause a while : we had forgotten the chief marshal. Hark! That world-wide swell of solemn music with the clang of a mighty bell breaking forth through its regulated uproar announces his approach. He comes, a severe, sedatej immovable, dark rider, waving his truncheon of universal sway as he passes along the lengthened line on the pale horse of the Revelations. It is Death. Who else could assume the guidance of a procession that comprehends all humanity? And if some among these many millions should deem them- selves classed amiss, yet let them take to their hearts the comfortable truth that Death levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that another state of being wiU surely rectify the wrong of this. Then breathe thy wail upon the earth's wailing wind, thou band of melancholy music made up of every sigh that the human heart unsatisfied has ut- tered! There is yet triumph in thy tones. And now we move, beggars in their rags and kings trail- ing the regal purple in the dust, the warrior's gleaming helmet, the priest in his sable robe, the hoary grandsire MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 301 who has run life's circle and come back to childhood, the ruddy schoolboy with his golden curls frisking along the march, the artisan's stuff jacket, the noble's star-decorated coat, the whole presenting a motley spectacle, yet with a dusky grandeur brooding over it. Onward, onward, into that dimness where the lights of time which have blazed along the procession are flickering in their sockets! And whither? We know not, and Death, hitherto our leader, deserts us by the wayside, as the tramp of our innumerable footsteps passes beyond his sphere. He knows not more than we our destined goal, but God, who made us, knows, and will not leave us on our toilsome and doubtful march, either to wander in infinite uncertainty or perish by the way. FEATHERTOP A MORALIZED LEGEND " "P^ICKON"," cried Mother Rigby, "a coal for my pipe!" I 1 The pipe was in the old dame's mouth when ■■— ^ she said these words. She had thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to light it at the hearth — where, indeed, there was no appearance of a fire having been kindled that morning. Forthwith, however, as soon as the order was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the pipe and a whiff of smoke from Mother Rigby 's lips. "Whence the coal came' and how brought hither by an invisible hand I have never been able to discover. "Good!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head. "Thank ye, Dickon! And now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, Dickon, in case I need you again." The good woman had risen thus early (for as yet it was scarcely sunrise) in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she intended to put in the middle of her corn-patch. It was now the latter week of May, and the crows and 203 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS blackbirds had already discovered the little green, rolled-up leaf of the Indian corn just peeping out of the soil. She was determined, therefore, to contrive as lifelike a scarecrow as ever was seen, and to finish it immediately, from top to toe, so that it should begin its sentinel's duty that very morning. "Row, Mother Rigby (as everybody must have heard) was one of the most cunning and potent witches in New Eng- land, and might with very little trouble have made a scare- crow ugly enough to frighten the minister himself. But on this occasion, as she had awakened in an uncommonly pleas- ant humor, and was further dulcified by her pipe of tobacco, she resolved to produce something fine, beautiful and splen- did rather than hideous and horrible. "I don't want to set up a hobgoblin in my own corn- patch, and almost at my own doorstep," said Mother Eigby to herself, puflBng out a whiff of smoke. "I could do it if I pleased, but I'm tired of doing marvellous things, and so I'll keep within the bounds of every-day business, just for vari- ety's sake. Besides, there is no use in scaring the little chil- dren for a mile roundabout, though 'tis true I'm a witch." It was settled, therefore, in her ovra mind, that the scare- crow should represent a fine gentleman of the period, so far as the materials at hand would allow. Perhaps it may be as well to enumerate the chief of the articles that went to the composition of this figure. The most important item of all, probably, although it made so little show, was a certain broomstick on which Mother Rigby had taken many an airy gallop at midnight, and which now served the scarecrow by way of a spinal colunm. — or, as the unlearned phrase it, a backbone. One of its arms was a dis- abled flail which used to be wielded by Goodman Rigby be- fore his spouse worried him out of this troublesome world; the other, if I mistake not, was composed of the pudding- stick and a broken rung of a chair, tied loosely together at the elbow. As for its legs, the right was a hoe-handle, and the left an undistinguished and miscellaneous stick from the wood-pile. Its Ixmgs, stomach, and other affairs of that MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 203 kind, were nothing better than a meal-bag stuffed with straw. Thus we have made out the skeleton and entire corporosity of the scarecrow, with the exception of its head, and this was admirably supplied by a somewhat withered and shrivelled pumpkin, in which Mother Rigby cut two holes for the eyes and a slit for the mouth, leaving a bluish- colored knob in the middle to pass for a nose. It was reaUy quite a respectable face. "I've seen worse ones on human shoulders, at any rate," said Mother Rigby. "And many a fine gentleman has a pumpkin head, as well as my scarecrow." But the clothes in this case were to be the making of the man; so the good old woman took down from a peg an ancient plum-colored coat of London make and with rehcs of embroidery on its seams, cuffs, pocket-flaps and buttonholes, but lamentably worn and faded, patched at the elbows, tattered at the skirts, and threadbare all over. On the left breast was a round hole whence either a star of nobility had been rent away or else the hot heart of some former wearer had scorched it through and through. The neighbors said that this rich garment belonged to the Black Man's wardrobe, and that he kept it at Mother Rigby's cottage for the convenience of slipping it on whenever he wished to make a grand appearance at the governor's table. To match the coat there was a velvet waistcoat of very ample size, and formerly embroidered with foliage that had been as brightly golden as the maple-leaves in October, but which had now quite vanished out of the substance of the velvet. Next came a pair of scarlet breeches once worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, and the knees of which had touched the lower step of the throne of Lotiis le Grand. The Frenchman had given these small-clothes to an Indian pow-wow, who parted with them to the old witch for a gill of strong waters at one of their dances in the forest. Fur- thermore, Mother Rigby produced a pair of silk stockings and put them on the figure's legs, where they showed as unsubstantial as a dream, with the wooden reality of the 204 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS two sticks making itself miserably apparent through the holes. Lastly, she put her dead husband's wig on the bare scalp of the pumpkin, and surmounted the whole with a dusty three-cornered hat, in which was stuck the longest tail-feather of a rooster. Then the old dame stood the figure up in a corner of her cottage and chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with its nobby little nose thrust into the air. It had a strangely self-satisfied aspect, and seemed to say, "Come, look at me!" ' ' And you are well worth looking at, that's a f act !" quoth Mother Eigby, in admiration at her own handiwork. "I've made many a puppet since I've been a witch, but methinks this is the finest of them all. 'Tis almost too good for a scarecrow. And, by the by, I'U just fill a fresh pipe of tobacco, and then take him out to the corn-patch." While filling her pipe the old woman continued to gaze with almost motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say the truth, whether it were chance or skill or down- right witchcraft, there was something wonderfully human in this ridiculous shape bedizened with its tattered finery, and, as for the countenance, it appeared to shrivel its yellow surface into a grin — a funny kind of expreseion between scorn and merriment, as if it understood itself to be a jest at man- kind. The more Mother Eigby looked, the better she was pleased. "Dickon," cried she, sharply, "another coal for my pipe!" Hardly had she spoken than, just as before, there was a red-glowing coal on the top of the tobacco. She drew in a long whiff, and puffed it forth again into the bar of morn- ing sunshine which struggled through the one dusty pane of her cottage window. Mother Eigby always liked to flavor her pipe with a coal of fire from the particular chimney- corner whence this had been brought. But where that chimney-corner might be or who brought the coal from it — ^further than that the invisible messenger seemed to re- spond to the name of Dickon — ^I cannot teU. MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 205 "That puppet yonder," thought Mother Rigby, etill with her eyes fixed on the scarecrow, "is too good a piece of work to stand all summer in a corn-patch frightening away the crows and blackbirds. He's capable of better things. Why, I've danced with a worse one when partners happened to be scarce at our witch-meetings in the forest! What if I should let him take his chance among the other men of straw and empty fellows who go bustling about the world?" The old witch took three or four more whiflfs of her pipe and smiled. "He'll meet plenty of his brethren at every street-comer," / continued she. "Well, I didn't mean to dabble in witchcraft to-day further than the lighting of my pipe, but a witch I am, and a witch I'm likely to be, and there's no use trying to shirk it. I'll make a man of my scarecrow, were it only for the joke's sake." While muttering these words Mother Rigby took the pipe from her own mouth and thrust it into the crevice which represented the same feature in the pumpkin- visage of tha scarecrow. "Puff, darling, puff 1" she said. "Puff away, my fine fellow! Your life depends on it!" This was a strange exhortation, undoubtedly, to be ad- dressed to a mere thing of sticks, straw and old clothes, with nothing better than a shrivelled pumpkin for a head, as we know to have been the scarecrow's case. Nevertheless, as we must carefully hold in remembrance, Mother Rigby was a witch of singular power and dexterity ; and, keeping this fact duly before our minds, we shall see nothing beyond credibility in the remarkable incidents of our story. Indeed, the great difficulty will be at once got over if we can only bring ourselves to believe that as soon as the old dame bade him puff there came a whiff of smoke from the scarecrow's mouth. It was the very feeblest of whiffs, to be sure, but it was followed by another and another, each more decided \ than the preceding one. "Puff away, my pet! Puff away, my pretty one!" 206 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS Mother Rigby kept repeating, with her pleasantest smile. "It is the breath of life to ye, and that you may take my word for it." Beyond all question, the pipe was bewitched. There must have been a spell either in the tobacco or in the fiercely glowing coal that so mysteriously burned on top of it, or in the pungently-aromatic smoke which exhaled from the kindled weed. The figure, after a few doubtful attempts, at length blew forth a volley of smoke extending all the way from the obscure corner into the bar of sunshine. There it eddied and melted away among the motes of dust. It seemed a convulsive effort, for the two or three next whiffs were fainter, although the coal still glowed and threw a gleam over the scarecrow's visage. The old witch clapped her skinny hands together, and smiled encouragingly upon her handiwork. She saw that the charm had worked well. The shrivelled yellow face, which heretofore had been no face at all, had already a thin fantastic haze, as it were, of human likeness, shifting to and fro across it, sometimes vanishing entirely, but growing more perceptible than ever with the next whiff from the pipe. The whole figure, in like manner, assumed a show of life such as we impart to ill-defined shapes among the clouds, and half deceive ourselves with the pastime of our own fancy. If we must needs pry closely into the matter, it may be doubted whether there was any real change, after all, in the sordid, worn-out, worthless and ill-jointed substance of the scarecrow, but merely a spectral illusion and a cunning effect of light and shade, so colored and contrived as to delude the eyes of most men. The miracles of witchcraft seem always to have had a very shallow subtlety, and at least, if the above explanations do not hit the truth of the process, I can suggest no better. "Well puffed, my pretty lad!" still cried old Mother Rigby. "Come! another good, stout whiff, and let it be with might and main. Puff for thy Hfe, Ittell thee! Puff out of the very bottom of thy heart, if any heart thou hast. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 207 or any bottom to it. Well done, again! Thou didst suck in that mouthful as if for the pure love of it." And then the witch beckoned to the scarecrow, throwing so much magnetic potency into her gesture that it seemed as if it must inevitably be obeyed, Hke the mystic call of the loadstone when it summons the iron. "Why lurkest thou in the comer, lazy one?" said she. "Step forth ! Thou hast the world before thee ! ' ' Upon my word, if the legend were not one which I heard on my grandmother's knee, and which had established its place among things credible before my childish judgment could analyze its probabihty, I question whether I should have the face to tell it now. In obedience to Mother Eigby's word, and extending its arm as if to reach her outstretched hand, the figure made a step forward — a kind of hitch and jerk, however, rather than a step — ^then tottered, and almost lost its balance. What could the witch expect? It was nothing, after all, but a scarecrow stuck upon two sticks. But the strong-willed old beldam scowled and beckoned, and flung the energy of her purpose so forcibly at this poor combination of rotten wood and musty straw and ragged garments that it was compelled to show itself a man, in spite of the reality of things ; so it stepped into the bar of sunshine. There it stood, poor devil of a contrivance that it was, with only the thinnest vesture of human similitude about it, through which was evident the stiff, rickety, incongruous, faded, tattered, good-for- nothing patchwork of its substance, ready to sink in a heap upon the floor, as conscious of its own unworthiness to be erect. Shall I confess the truth? At its present point of _Kijdficg|tioji the scarecrow reminds me of some of the luke- warm and abortive characters composed of heterogeneous materials used for the thousandth time, and never worth using, with which romance writers (and myself, no doubt, among the rest) have so overpeopled the world of fiction. But the fierce old hag began to get angry and show a glimpse of her diabolic nature (like a snake's head peeping 208 HAWTHORNE'S WOKKS with a hiss out of her bosom) at this pusillanimous behavior of the thing which she had taken the trouble to put together. "Puff away, wretch!" cried she, wrathfully. "Puff, puff, puff, thou thing of straw and emptiness! thou rag or two! thou meal-bag! thou pumpkin-head! thou nothing! "Where shall I iind a name vile enough to call thee by? Puff, I say, and suck in thy fantastic life along Avith the smoke, else I snatch the pipe from thy mouth and hurl thee where that red coal came from." Thus threatened, the unhappy scarecrow had nothing for it but to puff away for dear life. As need was, therefore, it applied itself lustily to the pipe, and sent forth such abundant volleys of tobacco-smoke that the small cottage-kitchen be- came aU-vaporous. The one sunbeam struggled mistily through, and could but imperfectly define the image of the cracked and dusty window-pane on the opposite wall. Mother Rigby, meanwhile, with one brown arm akimbo and the other stretched toward the figure, loomed grimly amid the obscurity with such port and expression as when she was wont to heave a ponderous nightmare on her vic- tims and stand at the bedside to enjoy their agony. - In fear and trembling did this poor scarecrow puff. But its efforts, it must be acknowledged, served an excellent purpose, for with each successive whiff the figure lost more and more of its dizzy and perplexing tenuity and seemed to take denser substance. Its very garments, moreover, partook of the magical change, and shone with the gloss of novelty, and glistened with the skilfully-embroidered gold that had long ago been rent away, and, half revealed among the smoke, a yellow visage bent its lustreless eyes on Mother Rigby. At last the old witch clinched her fist and shook it at the figure. Not that she was positively angry, but merely acting on the principle — perhaps untrue or not the only truth, though as high a one as Mother Rigby could be expected to attain — that feeble and torpid natures, being incapable of better in- spiration, must be stirred up by fear. But here was the crisis. Should she fail in what she now sought to effect, it MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 'M\) was her ruthless purpose to scatter the miserable simulachre into its original elements. "Thou hast a man's aspect," said she, sternly: "have also the echo and mockery of a voice. I bid thee speak!" The scarecrow gasped, struggled, and at length emitted a murmur which was so incorporated with its smoky breath that you could scarcely tell whether it were indeed a voice or only a whiff of tobacco. Some narrators of this legend held the opinion that Mother Rigby's conjurations and the fierceness of her will had compelled a familiar spirit into the figure, and that the voice was his. "Mother," mumbled the poor stifled voice, "be not so awful with me! I would fain speak, but, being without wits, what can I say?" "Thou canst speak, darling, canst thou?" cried Mother Rigby, relaxing her grim countenance into a smUe. "And what shalt thou say, quotha? Say, indeed! Art thou of the brotherhood of the empty skull and demandest of me what thou shalt say? Thou shalt say a thousand things, and, saying them a thousand times over, thou shalt still have said nothing. Be not afraid, I tell thee! "When thou comest into the world — whither I purpose sending thee forth- with — thou shalt not lack the wherewithal to talk. Talk I Why, thou shalt babble like a mill-stream, if thou wilt. Thou hast brains enough for that, I trow." "At your service, mother," responded the figure. "And that was well said, my pretty one!" answered Mother Rigby. "Then thou spakest like thyself, and meant nothing. Thou shalt have a hundred such set phrases, and five hundred to the boot of them. And now, darling, I have taken so much pains with thee, and thou art so beautiful, that, by my troth, I love thee better than any witch's puppet in the world; and I've made them of all sorts — clay, wax, straw, sticks, night fog, morning mist, sea-foam and chim- Uey-smoke. But thou art the very best; so give heed to what I say." "Yes, kind mother," said the figure, "with all my heart!" 310 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS ""With all tliy heart!" cried the old witch, setting her hands to her sides and laughing loudly. "Thou hast such a pretty way of speaking ! With all thy heart ! And thou didst put thy hand to the left side of thy waistcoat, as if thou really hadst one!" So, now, in high good-humor with this fantastic contriv- ance of hers, Mother Rigby told the scarecrow that it must go and play its part in the great world, where not one man in a hundred, she affirmed, was gifted with more real sub- stance, than itself. And that he might hold up his head with the best of them she endowed him on the spot with an un- reckonable amount of wealth. It consisted partly of a gold mine in Eldorado, and of ten thousand shares in a broken bubble, and of half a million acres of vineyard at the North Pole, and of a castle in the air and a chateau in Spain, to- gether with all the rents and income therefrom accruing. She further made over to him the cargo of a certain ship laden with salt of Cadiz which she herself by her necroman- tic arts had caused to founder ten years before in the deepest part of mid-ocean. If the salt were not dissolved and could be brought to market, it would fetch a pretty penny among the fishermen. That he might not lack ready money, she gave him a copper farthing of Birmingham manufacture, being all the coin she had about her, and likewise a great deal of brass, which she applied to his forehead, thus mak- ing it yellower than ever. "With that brass alone," quoth Mother Rigby, "thou canst pay thy way all over the earth. Kiss me, pretty darling! I have done my best for thee." Furthermore, that the adventurer might lack no possible advantage toward a fair start in life, this excellent old dame gave him a token by which he was to introduce himself to a certain magistrate, member of the council, merchant, and elder of the church (the four capacities constituting but one man), who stood at the head of society in the neighboring metropolis. The token was neither more nor less than a single word, which Mother Rigby whispered to the scare- MOSSES FKOM A2SI OLD MANSE 211 crow, and which the scarecrow was to whisper to the merchant. "Gouty as the old fellow is, he'll run thy errands for thee when once thou hast given him that word in his ear," said the old witch. "Mother Rigby knows the worshipful Justice Gookin, and the worshipful justice knows Mother Rigby!" Here the witch thrust her wrinkled face close to the puppet's, chuckling irrepressibly, and fidgeting all through her system with delight at the idea which she meant to communicate. "The worshipful Master Gookin," whispered she, "hath a comely maiden to his daughter. And hark ye, my pet. Thou hast a fair outside, and a pretty wit enough of thine own. Yea, a pretty wit enough! Thou wilt think better of it when thou hast seen more of other people's wits. Now, with thy outside and thy inside, thou art the very man to win a young girl's heart. Never doubt it; I tell thee it shall be so. Put but a bold face on the matter, sigh, smile, flourish thy hat, thrust forth thy leg like a dancing-master, put thy right hand to the left side of thy waistcoat, and pretty Polly Gookin is thine own." All this while the new creature had been sucking in and exhaling the vapory fragrance of his pipe, and seemed now to continue this occupation as much for the enjoyment it afforded as because it was an essential condition of his existence. It was wonderful to see how exceedingly like a human being it behaved. Its eyes (for it appeared to possess a pair) were bent on Mother Rigby, and at suitable junctures it nodded or shook its head. Neither did it lack words proper for the occasion— "Really!" — "Indeed!" — "Pray teU me!"— "Is it possible!"— "Upon my word!" —"By no means!"— "Oh!"— "Ah!"— "Hem!" and other such weighty utterances as imply attention, inquiry, ac- quiescence, or dissent on the part of the auditor. Even had you stood by and seen the scarecrow made you could scarcely have resisted the conviction that it perfectly under- stood the cunning counsels which the old witch poured into 312 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS its counterfeit of an ear. The more earnestly it applied its / lips to the pipe, the more distinctly was its human likeness j stamped among visible realities, the more BagaciotiS grew/ its expression, the more lifelike its gestures and movements/ and the more intelligibly audible its voice. Its garments^ too, glistened so much the brighter with an illusory magnif- icence. The very pipe in which burned the spell of all this wonder-work ceased to appear as a smoke-blackened earthen stump, and became a meerschaum with painted bowl and amber mouthpiece. It might be apprehended, however, that, as the life of the illusion seemed identical with the vapor of the pipe, it would terminate simultaneously with the reduction of the tobacco to ashes. But the beldam foresaw the difficulty. "Hold thou the pipe, my precious one," said she, "while I fill it for thee again." It was sorrowful to behold how the fine gentleman began to fade back into a scarecrow while Mother Rigby shook the ashes out of the pipe and proceeded to replenish it from her tobacco-box. "Dickon," cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for this pipe." No sooner said than the intensely red speck of fire was glowing within the pipe-bowl, and the scarecrow, without waiting for the witch's bidding, applied the tube to his lips and drew in a few short, convulsive whiffs, which soon, however, became regular and equable. "Fow, mine own heart's darling," quoth Mother Rigbyj "whatever may happen to thee, thou must stick to thy pipe. Thy life is in it; and that, at least, thou knowest well, if thou knowest naught besides. Stick to thy pipe, I say! Smoke, puff, blow thy cloud, and tell the people, if any question be made, that it is for thy health, and that so the physician orders thee to do. And, sweet one, when thou shalt find thy pipe getting low, go apart into some corner, and — ^first filling thyself with smoke — cry sharply, 'Dickon, a fresh pipe of tobacco!' and 'Dickon, another coal for my MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 213 pipe!' and have it into thy pretty mouth as speedily as may be, else, ipstead of a gallant gentleman in a gold-laced coat, thou wilt be but a jumble of sticks and tattered clothes, and ia bag of straw and a withered pumpkin. Now depart, my treasure, and good luck go with thee!" ", Never fear, mother," said the figure, in a stout voice, and sending forth a courageous whiff of smoke. "I will thrive if an honest man and a gentleman may." "Oh, thou wilt be the death of me!" cried the old witch, convulsed with laughter. "That was well said! If an hon- est man and a gentleman may! Thou playest thy part to perfection. Get along with thee for a smart fellow, and I will wager on thy head, as a man of pith and substance, with a brain and what they call a heart, and all else that a man should have, against any other thing on two legs. I hold myself a better witch than yesterday, for thy sake. Did I not make thee? And I defy any witch in New Eng- land to make such another! Here! take my staff along with thee." The staff, though it was but a plain oaken stick, immedi- ately took the aspect of a gold-headed cane. "That gold head has as much sense in it as thine own," said Mother Rigby, "and it will guide thee straight to wor- shipful Master Gookin's door. Get thee gone, my pretty pet, my darhng, my precious one, my treasure ; and if any ask thy name, it is 'Feathertop,' for thou hast a feather in thy hat, and I have thrust a handful of feathers into the hollow of thy head. And thy wig, too, is of the fashion they call 'feathertop'; so be 'Feathertop' thy name." And, issuing from the cottage, Feathertop strode man- fully toward town. Mother Rigby stood at the threshold, well pleased to see how the sunbeams glistened on him, as if all his magnificence were real, and how diligently and lovingly he smoked his pipe and how handsomely he walked in spite of a little stiffness of his legs. She watched him until out of sight, and threw a witch-benediction after her darling when a turn of the road snatched him from her view. 214 Hawthorne's wokks Bptimes in the forenoon, when the principal street of the / neighboring town was just at its acme of life and bustle, a/ stranger of very distinguished figure was seen on the side- walk. His port as well as his garments betokened nothing short of nobility. He wore a richly-embroidered plum-colf- ored coat, a waistcoat of costly velvet magnificently adomel with golden foliage, a pair of splendid scarlet breeches and the finest and glossiest of white silk stockings. His head was covered with a peruke so daintily powdered and ad- justed that it would have been sacrilege to disorder it with a hat, which, therefore (and it was a gold-laced hat set off with a snowy feather), he carried beneath his arm. On the breast of his coat glistened a star. He managed his gold- headed cane with an airy grace peculiar to the fine gentle- man of the period, and, to give the highest possible finish to his equipment, he had lace ruffles at his wrist of a most ethereal deHcacy, sufficiently avouching how idle and aristo- cratic must be the hands which they half concealed. It was a remarkable point in the accoutrement of this brilUant personage that he held in his left hand a fantastic kind of a pipe with an exquisitely-painted bowl and an amber mouthpiece. This he applied to his lips as often as every five or six paces, and inhaled a deep whiff of smoke, which after being retained a moment in his lungs might be seen to eddy gracefully from his mouth and nostrUs. As may well be supposed, the street was all astir to find out the stranger's name. "It is some great nobleman, beyond question," said one of the townspeople. "Do you see the star at his breast?" "Nay, it is too bright to be seen," said another. "Yes, he must needs be a nobleman, as you say. But by what conveyance, think you, can his Lordship have voyaged or travelled hither? There has been no vessel from the old country for a month past ; and if he have arrived overland from the southward, pray where are his attendants and equipage?" "He needs no equipage to set off his rank," remarked a MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 215 third. "If he came among us in rags, nobility would shine through a hole in his elbow. I never saw such dignity of aspect. He has the old Norman blood in his veins, I warrant him." "I rather take him to be a Dutchman or one of your High Germans," said another citizen. "The men of those countries have always the pipe at their mouths." "And so has a Turk," answered his companion. "But, in my judgment, this stranger hath been bred at the French court, and hath there learned politeness and grace of manner, which none understand so well as the nobility of France. That gait, now! A vulgar spectator might deem it stiff — he might call it a hitch and jerk — but, to my eye, it hath an unspeakable majesty, and must have been acquired by con- stant observation of the deportment of the Grand Monarque. The stranger's character and oflSce are evident enough. He is a French ambassador come to treat with our rulers about the cession of Canada." "More probably a Spaniard," said another, "and hence his yellow complexion. Or, most likely, he is from the Havana or from some port on the Spanish Main, and comes to make investigation about the piracies which our governor is thought to connive at. Those settlers in Peru and Mexico have skins as yellow as the gold which they dig out of their mines." "Yellow or not," cried a lady, "he is a beautiful man! So tall, so slender! Such a fine, noble face, with so well shaped a nose and all that delicacy of expression about the mouth! And, bless me! how bright his star is! It posi- tively shoots out flames." "So do your eyes, fair lady," said the stranger, with a bow and a flourish of his pipe, for he was just passing at the instant. "Upon my honor, they have quite dazzled me!" "Was ever so original and exquisite a compliment?" murmured the lady, in an ecstasy of delight. Amid the general admiration excited by the stranger's appearance there were only two dissenting voices. One was 216 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS that of an impertinent cur which, after sniffing at the heels of the glistening figure, put its tail between its legs and skulked into its master's backyard, vociferating an execra- ble howl. The other dissentient was a young child who squalled at the fullest stretch of his lungs and babbled some unintelligible nonsense about a pumpkin. Feathertop, meanwhile, pursued his way along the street, Except for the few complimentary words to the lady, and now and then a slight inclination of the head in requital of the profound reverences of the bystanders, he seemed wholly absorbed in his pipe. There needed no other proof of his rank and consequence than the perfect equanimity with which he comported himself, while the curiosity and ad- miration of the town swelled almost into clamor around him. With a crowd gathering behind his footsteps, he finally reached the mansion-house of the worshipful Jus- tice Gookin, entered the gate, ascended the steps of the front door, and knocked. In the interim before his sum- mons was answered the stranger was observed to shake the ashes out of his pipe. "What did he say in that sharp voice?" inquired one of the spectators. "Way, I know not," answered his friend. "But the sun dazzles my eyes strangely. How dim and faded His Lord- ship looks all of a sudden! Bless my wits, what is the matter with me?" "The wonder is," said the other, "that his pipe, which was out only an instant ago, should be all alight again, and with the reddest coal I ever saw. There is something mys- terious about this stranger. What a whiff of smoke was that! 'Dim and faded,' did you call him? Why, as he turns about the star on his breast is all ablaze." "It is, indeed," said his companion, "and it will go near to dazzle pretty Polly Gookin, whom I see peeping at it out of the chamber window." The door being now opened, Feathertop turned to the crowds made a stately bend of his body, like a great man MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 317 acknowledging the reverence of the meaner sort, and van- ished into the house. There was a mysterious kind of a smile — if it might not better be called a grim or grimace — upon his visage, but, of &U the throng that beheld him, not an individual appears to have possessed insight enough to detect the illusive cnaracter of the stranger, except a little child and a cur-dog. Oiir legend here loses somewhat of its continuity, and, passing over the preliminary explanation between Feathertop and the merchant, goes in quest of the pretty Polly Gookin. She was a damsel of a soft, round figure with light hair and blue eyes, and a fair rosy face which seemed neither very shrewd nor very simple. This young lady had caught a ghmpse of the glistening stranger while standing at the threshold, and had forthwith put on a laced cap, a string of beads, her finest kerchief and her stiffest damask petti- coat, in preparation for the interview. Hurrying from her chamber to the parlor, she had ever since been viewing her- self in the large looking-glass and practicing pretty airs — now a smile, now a ceremonious dignity of aspect, and now a softer stnile than the former, kissing her hand, likewise, tossing her head and managing her fan, while within the mirror an unsubstantial little maid repeated every gesture and did all the foolish things that Polly did, but without making her ashamed of them. In short, it was the fault of Pretty Polly's ability, rather than her will, if she failed to be as complete an artifice as the illustrious Feathertop himself; and when she thus tampered with her own sim- plicity, the witch's phantom might well hope to win her. No sooner did Polly hear her father's gouty footsteps approaching the parlor door, accompanied with the stiff clatter of Feathertop's high-heeled shoes, than she seated herself bolt upright and innocently began warbling a song. "Polly! Daughter Polly!" cried the old merchant, "Come hither, child." Master Gookin's aspect, as he opened the door, was doubtful and troubled. 218 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS "This gentleman," continued he, presenting the stran- ger, "is the Chevalier Feathertop — nay, I beg his pardon, My Lord Feathertop — who hath brought me a token of remembrance from an ancient friend of mine. Pay your duty to His Lordship, child, and honor him as his quality deserves." After these few words of introduction the worshipful magistrate immediately quitted the room. But even in that brief moment, had the fair Polly glanced aside at her father instead of devoting herself wholly to the brilliant guest, she might have taken warning of some mischief nigh at hand. The old man was nervous, fidgety, and very pale. Purpos- ing a smile of courtesy, he had deformed his face with a sort of galvanic grin which, when Feathertop's back was turned, he exchanged for a scowl, at the same time shaking his fist and stamping his gouty foot — ^an incivility which brought its retribution along with it. The truth appears to have been that Mother Rigby's word of introduction, whatever it might be, had operated far more on the rich merchant's fears than on his goodwill. Moreover, being a man of won- derfully acute observation, he had noticed that the painted figures on the bowl of Feathertop's pipe were in motion. Looking more closely, he became convinced that these fig- ures were a party of little demons, each duly provided with horns and a tail, and dancing hand in hand with gestures of diabolical merriment round the circumference of the pipe- bowl. As if to confirm his suspicions, while Master Gookin ushered his guest along a dusky passage from his private -iroom to the parlor, the star on Feathertop's breast had scin- tillated actual flames, and threw a flickering gleam upon the wall, the ceiling and the floor. "With such sinister prognostics manifesting themselves on all hands, it is not to be marvelled at that the merchant should have felt that he was committing his daughter to a very questionable acquaintance. He cursed in his secret soul the insinuating elegance of Feathertop's manners as this brilliant personage bowed, smiled, put his hand on his MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 219 heart, inhaled a long whiff from his pipe and enriched the atmosphere with the smoky vapor of a fragrant and visible sigh. Gladly would poor Master Gookin have thrust his dangerous guest into the street, but there was a restraint and terror within him. This respectable old gentleman, we fear, at an earlier period of life, had given some pledge or other to the Evil Principle, and perhaps was now to redeem it by the sacrifice of his daughter. It so happened that the parlor door was partly of glass shaded by a silken curtain the folds of which htmg a little awry. So strong was the merchant's interest in witnessing what was to ensue between the fair Polly and the gallant Feathertop that, after quitting the room, he could by no means refrain from peeping through the crevice of the cur- tain. But there was nothing very miraculous to be seen — • nothing except the trifles previously noticed, to confirm the idea of a supernatural peril environing the pretty Polly. The stranger, it is true, was evidently a thorough and prac- ticed man of the world, systematic and self-possessed, and therefore the sort of person to whom a parent ought not to confide a simple young girl without due watchfulness for the result. The worthy magistrate, who had been conver- sant with all degrees and qualities of mankind, could not but perceive that every motion and gesture of the distinguished Feathertop came in its proper place. Nothing had been left rude or native in him; a well-digested conventionalism had incorporated itself thoroughly with his substance and transformed him into a work of art. Perhaps it was this peculiarity that invested him with a species of ghastliness/ And awe. It is the effect of anything completely and con- rsummately artificial in human shape that the person im- presses us as an unreality, and as having hardly pith enough to cast a shadow upon the fioor. As regarded Feathertop, ^ all this resulted in a wild, extravagant and fantastical im- pression, as if his life and being were akin to the smoke that curled upward from his pipe. -^ But pretty Polly Gookin felt not thus. The pair were 320 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS now promenading the room — Feathertop with his dainty- stride, and no less dainty grimace, the girl with a native maidenly grace just touched, not spoiled, by a slightly- affected manner which seemed caught from the perfect artifice of her companion. The longer the interview con- tinued, the more charmed was pretty Polly, until within the first quarter of an hour (as the old magistrate noted by his watch) she was evidently beginning to be in love. Nor need it have been witchcraft that subdued her in such a hurry : the poor child's heart, it may be, was so very fervent that it melted her with its own warmth, as reflected from the hollow semblance of a lover. No matter what Feather- top said, his words found depth and reverberation in her ear; no matter what he did, his action was very heroic to her eye. And by this time, it is to be supposed, there was a blush on Polly's cheek, a tender smile about her mouth, and a liquid softness in her glance, while the star kept coruscat- ing on Peathertop's breast, and the little demons careered with more frantic merriment than ever about the circum- ference of his pipe-bowl. Oh, pretty Polly Gookin! why_ should these imps rejoice so madly that a silly mai den's heart was about toHBe givehto a sliadow? Is it so unusual a misfortune— so rare a triumph? By and by Feathertop paused, and, throwing himself into an imposing attitude, seemed to summon the fair girl to survey his figure and resist him longer if she could. His star, his embroidery, his buckles, glowed at that instant with unutterable splendor ; the picturesque hues of his attire took a richer depth of coloring; there was a gleam and polish over his whole presence betokening the perfect witchery of well-ordered manners. The maiden raised her eyes and suffered them to linger upon her companion with a bashful and admiring gaze. Then, as if desirous of judging what value her own simple comeliness might have side by side with so much brilUancy, she cast a glance toward the full- length 1onln n^^;gjgg s in front of which they happened to be standing. It was one of the truest plates in the world, and MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 221 incapable of flattery. No sooner did the images therein reflected meet Polly's eye than she shrieked, shrank from the stranger's side, gazed at him for a moment in the wild- est dismay, and sank insensible upon the floor. Feathertop, likewise, had looked toward the mirror, and there beheld, not the glittering mockery of his outside show, but a picture of the sordid patchwork of his real composition stripped of all , witchcraft. The wretched simulacrum! We almost pity him. He threw up his arms with an expression of despair that went further than any of his previous manifestations toward vin- dicating his claims to be reckoned human. For perchance the only time since this so often empty and deceptive life of mortals began its course, an illusion had seen and fully recognized itself. Mother Rigby was seated by her kitchen hearth in the twilight of this eventful day, and had just shaken the ashes out of a new pipe, when she heard a hurried tramp along the road. Yet it did not seem so much the tramp of human footsteps as the clatter of sticks or the rattling of dry bones. ' ' Ha ! ' ' thought the old witch ; ' ' what step is that? Whose skeleton is out of its grave now, I wonder?" A figure burst headlong into the cottage door. It was Feathertop.' His pipe was still alight, the star still flamed upon his breast, the embroidery still glowed upon his gar- ments, nor had he lost in any degree or manner that could be estimated the aspect that assimilated him with our mortal brotherhood. But yet, in some indescribable way (as is the case with all that has deluded us when once found out), the poor reality was felt beneath the cunning artifice. "What has gone wrong?" demanded the witch. "Did yonder sniflEling hypocrite thrust my darling from his door? The villain ! I'll set twenty fiends to torture him till he offer thee his daughter on his bended knees!" "No, mother," said Feathertop, despondingly; "it was not that." "Did the girl scorn my precious one?" asked Mother 232 hawthoenb's woe^:; Rigby, her fierce eyes glowing like two coals of Tophet, "I'll cover her face with pimples! Her nose shall be as red as the coal in thy pipe! Her front teeth shall drop out! In a week hence she shall not be worth thy having." "Let her alone, mother," answered poor Feathertop. "The girl was half won, and methinks a kiss from her sweet lips might have made me altogether human. But," he added, after a brief pause and then a howl of self -contempt, "I've seen myself, mother! I've seen myself for the wretched, ragged, empty thing I am. I'll exist no longer." Snatching the pipe from his mouth, he flung it with all his might against the chimney, and at the same instant sank upon the floor, a medley of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protruding from the heap and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst. The eyeholes were now lustreless, but the rudely-carved gap that just before had been a mouth stUl seemed to twist itself into a despairing grin, and was so far human. "Poor fellow!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful glance at the relics of her ill-fated contrivance. "My poor dear -pretty Feathertop! There are thousands upon thousands of coxcombs and charlatans in the world made up of just such a jiunble of worn-out, forgotten and good-for-nothing trash as he was, yet they live in fair repute, and never see themselves for what they are. And why should my poor puppet be the only one to know himseK and perish for it?" Whfle thus muttering the witch had filled a fresh pipe of tobacco, and held the stem between her fingers, as doubt- ful whether to thrust it into her own mouth or Feathertop's. "Poor Feathertop!" she continued. "I could easily give him another chance, and send him forth again to-morrow. But no! His feelings are too tender — his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have too much heart to bustle for his own advantage in such an empty and heartless world. WeU, well! I'll make a scarecrow of him after all. 'Tis an inno- cent and useful vocation, and will suit my darling well; and if each of his human brethren had as fit a one, 'twould be MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 223 the better for mankind. And, as for this pipe of tobacco, I need it more than he." So saying, Mother Rigby put the stem between her hps. "Dickon," cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for my pipe!" TI-IE NEW ADAM AND EVE WE who are born into the world's artificial system can never adequa tely know how little in our pres- ent state and circumstances is natural, and how much is merely the interpolation of the perverted mind and heart of man. Art has become a second and stronger Nat- ure; she is a stepmother whose crafty tenderness has taught us to despise the bountif uL ajid-adiQj^aame jniniatiiaAiflns of our true pas fint. It is only through thg_mediumJ2f, the^ im-, aginaiionthat we can lessen those iron fetters which we call Iruth and reality and make ourselves even partially sensible what prisoners we are. For instance, jgtjis con ceiv e good Father Miller's interpretation of the prophecies to have proved true. The day of doom has burst upon the globe and swept away the whole race of men. From cities and fields, seashore and midland mountain-region, vast conti- nents, and even the remotest islands of the ocean, each living thing is gone. No breath of a created being disturbs this earthly atmosphere. But the abodes of man and all that he has acconaplished, the footprints of his wanderings and the results of his toil, the visible symbols of his intellectual cultivation and moral progress — in short, everything physical that can give evidence of his present position — shall remain imtouched by the hand of Destiny. Then to inherit and repeople this waste and deserted earth we will suppose a new Adam and a new Eve to have been created in the full devel- opment of mind and heart, but with no knowledge of their predecessors, nor of the diseased circumstances that had be- 324 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS come incrusted around them. Such a pair would at once distinguish between Art and Nature. Their instincts and intuitions would immediately recognize the wisdom and sim- plicity of the latter, while the former, with its elaborate perversities, would offer them a continual succession of puzzles. Let us attempt, in a mood half sportive and half thought- ful, to track these imaginary heirs of our mortality through their first day's experience. Wo longer ago than yesterday the flame of human life was extinguished ; there has been a breathless night, and now another morn approaches, expect^ ing to find the earth no less desolate than at eventide. It is dawn. The east puts on its immemorial blush, al- though no hvmian eye is gazing at it ; for all the phenomena of the natural world renew themselves, in spite of the soh- tude that now broods around the globe. There is still beauty of earth, sea and sky, for beauty's sake. But soon there are to be spectators. Just when the earliest sunshine gilds earth's mountain-tops two beings have come into life — ^not in such an Eden as bloomed to welcome our first parents, but in the heart of a modern city. They find themselves in existence and gazing into one another's eyes. Their emotion is not astonishment, nor do thev perp lex themselves with_.efiEorts to dd8cover,jSldjaA.»and-3Eheji.cfi_,ar^ they are. Each is satisfied to be because the other exists likewise, and their first consciousness is of calm and mutual enjoyment which seems not to have been the birth of that very moment, but prolonged from a past eternity. Thus, content with an in- ner sphere which they inhabit together, it is not inmiediately that the outward world can obtrude itself upon their notice. Soon, however, they feel the invincible necessity of this earthly Efe, and begin to make acquaintance with the objects and circumstances that surround them. Perhaps no other stride so vast remains to be taken as when they first turn from the reality of their mutual glance to the dreams and shadows that perplex them everywhere else. "Sweetest Eve, where are we?" exclaims the new Adam; MOSSES PEOM AN OLD MANSE 325 for speech, or some equivalent mode of expression, i^ born with them and comes just as natural as breath. "Methinks I do not recognize this place." "Nor I, dear Adam," replies the new Eve. "And what a strange place too ! Let me come closer to thy side and behold thee only, for all other sights trouble and perplex my spirit." "Nay, Eve," replies Adam, who appears to have the stronger tendency toward the material world; "it were well that we gain some insight into these matters. We are in an odd situation here. Let us look about us." Assuredly, there are sights enough to throw the new in- heritors of earth into a state of hopeless perplexity— the long lines of edifices, their windows glittering in the yellow sun- rise, and the narrow street between, with its barren pave- ment tracked and battered by wheels that have now rattled into an irrevocable past ; the signs with their unintelligible hieroglyphics; the squareness and ugliness and regular or irregular deformity of everything that meets the eye ; the marks of wear and tear and unrenewed decay which distin- guish the works of man from the growth of nature. What is there in all this capable of the slightest significance to minds that know nothing of the artificial system which is implied in every lamp-post, and each brick of ihe houses? Moreover, the utter loneliness and silence in a scene that originally grew out of noise and bustle must needs impress a feeling of desolation even upon Adam and Eve, unsus- picious as they are of the recent extinction of human exist- ence. In a forest solitude would be life; in the city it is death. The new Eve looks round with a sensation of doubt and distrust such as a city dame, the daughter of numberless generations of citizens, might experience if suddenly trans- ported to the Garden of Eden. At length her downcast eye discovers a small tuft of grass just beginning to sprout among the stones of the pavement ; she eagerly grasps it and is sen- sible this little herb awakens some response within her heart. 226 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS Nature finds nothing else to ofifer her. Adam, after staring up and down the street without detecting a single object that his comprehension can lay hold of, finally turns ^^ forehead tg^ the sky. There, indeed, is something which the soul withm^liini recognizes. "Look up yonder, mine own Eve!" he cries. "Surely we ought to dwell among those gold-tinged clouds or in the blue depths beyond them. I know not how nor when, but evidently we have strayed away from our home, for I see nothing hereabout that seems to belong to us." "Can we not ascend thither?" inquires Eve. ' ' Why not?' ' answers Adam, hopefully. ' ' But no ; some- thing drags us down in spite of our best efforts. Perchance we may find a path hereafter." In the energy of new life it appears no such impracticable feat to climb into the sky. But they have already-xeeetved a:ffioful_lesson which may finally go far toward reducing them to the level of the departed , race when they acknewl- '^ e^e_Jha_£ecessity of keeping the beaten track of ear^^ 1 They now set forth on a ramble through the city, in the hope of making their escape from this uncongenial sphere. Already, in the fresh elasticity of their spirits, they have found the idea of weariness. We will watch them as they enter some of the shops and public or private edifices, for every door, whether of alderman or beggar, church or hall of state, has been flung wide open by the same agency that swept away the inmates. It so happens — ^and not unluckily for an Adam and Eve who are still in the costume that might better have befitted Eden — it so happens that their first visit is to a fashionable dry-goods store. No courteous and importunate attendants hasten to receive their orders; no throng of ladies are tossing over the rich Parisian fabrics. All is deserted; trade is at a standstill, and not even an echo of the national watch- word — " Go ahead !" — disturbs the quiet of the new custom- ero. But specimens of the latest earthly fashions, silks of every shade, and whatever is most dehcate or splendid for <( MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 237 the decoration of the human form, lie scattered around pro- fusely, as bright autumnal leaves in a forest. Adam looks at a few of the articles, but throws them carelessly aside with whatever exclamation may correspond to "Pish!" or Psha^!" in the new vocabulary of nature. Eve, however — be it said without offence to her native modesty — examines these treasures of her sex with somewhat livelier interest. A pair of corsets chance to lie upon the counter; she inspects them curiously, but knows not what to make of them. Then she handles a fashionable silk with dim yearnings — thoughts that wander hither and thither, instincts groping in the dark. "On the whole, I do not like it," she observes, laying the glossy fabric upon the counter. "But, Adam, it is very strange ! "What can these things mean? Surely I ought to know; yet they put me in a perfect maze!" "Pooh, my dear Eve ! Why troxible thy little. head about such nonsense?" cries Adam, in a fit of impatience. "Let us go somewhere else. But stay! How very beautiful ! My loveliest Eve^ what a charm you have imparted to that robe by merely throwing it over your shoulders!" For Eve, with the taste that Nature molded into her com- position, has taken a remnant of exquisite silver gauze and drawn it around her form with an effect that gives Adam his first idea of the witchery of dress. He beholds his spouse in a new light and with renewed admiration, yet is hardly reconciled to any other attire, than her own golden Ibcts. However, emulating Eve's example, he makes free with a mantle of blue velvet, and puts it on so picturesquely that it might seem to have fallen from heaven upon his stately fig- ure. Thus garbed, they go in search of new discoveries. They next wander into a church — not to make a display of their fine clothes, but attracted by its spire pointing up- ward to the sky whither they have already yearned to climb. As they enter the portal a clock, which it was the last earthly act of the sexton to wind up, repeats the hour in deep and reverberating tones, for Time has survived his former prog- eny, and with the iron tongue that man gave him is now 328 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS speaking to his two grandchildren. They listen, but under- stand him not. N ature wo uld meiaauce-time ^ty-thasucces- ^ion of thoughts and acts which constitute real- life,, and^not By^ urs of "emptiness. They pass up the church aisle, and i raise"their eyes to the ceiling. Had our Adam and Eve be- come mortal in some European city and strayed into the vastness and sublimity of an old cathedral, they might have recognized the purpose for which the deep-souled founders I reared it. Like the dim awf ulness of an ancient forest, its I very atmosphere would have incited them to prayer. Within the snug walls of a metropolitan church there can be no such . influence. Yet some odor of religion is still lingering here, the be- quest of pious souls who had grace to enjoy a foretaste of immortal life. Perchance they breathe a prophecy of a bet- ter world to their successors, who have become obnoxious to all their own cares and calamities in the present one. "Eve, something impels me to look upward," says Adam. "But it troubles me to see this roof between us and the sky. Let us go forth, and perhaps we shall discern a great face looking down upon us." "Yes, a great face with a beam of love brightening over it like sunshine," responds Eve. "Surely we have seen such a countenance somewhere!" They go out of the church, and kneeling at its threshold, give way to the spirit's natural instinct^of adoration to a beneficent Father. But, in truth, their life thusTar has been^aTcontmual prayer. Purity and simplicity hold con- . verse at every moment with their Creator. We now observe them entering a court of justice. But what remotest conception can they attain of the purposes of such an edifice? How should the idea occur to them that human brethren, of like nature with themselves, and origi- nally included in the same law of love, which is their only rule of life, should ever need an outward enforcement of the true voice within their souls? And what save a woful expe- rience, the dark result of many centuries, could teach them MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 229 the sad mysteries of crime? — Oh, judgment-seat, not by the pure in heart wast thou established, nor in the simplicity of nature, but by hard and wrinkled men and upon the accumu- lated heap of earthly wrong ! Thou art the very symbol of man's perverted state. On as fruitless an errand our wanderers next visit a hall of legislature, where Adam places Eve in the Speaker's chair, unconscious of the moral which he thus exemplifies. Man's | intellect moderated by woman's tenderness and moral sense! | Were such the legislation of the world, there would be no need of state-houses, capitols, halls of parliament, nor even of those little assemblages of patriarchs beneath the shadowy trees by whom freedom was first interpreted to mankind on our native shores. Whither go they next? A perverse destiny seems to per- plex thena with one after another of the riddles which man- kind put forth to the wondering universe and left unsolved in their own destruction. They enter an edifice of stern gray stone standing insulated in the midst of others and gloomy even in the sunshine, which it barely suffers to penetrate through its iron-grated windows. It is a prison. The jailer has left his post at the summons of a stronger authority than the sheriff's. But the prisoners? Did the messenger of fate, when he shook open all the doors, respect the magistrate's warrant and the judge's sentence, and leave the inmates of the dungeons to be delivered by due course of earthly law? No ; a new trial has been granted in a higher court which may set judge, jury and prisoner at its bar all in a row, and perhaps find one no less guilty than another. The jail, like the whole earth, is now a solitude, and has thereby lost something of its dismal gloom. But here are the narrow cells, like tombs, only drearier and deadlier, because in these the immortal spirit was buried with the body. Inscriptions appear on the walls scribbled with a pencil or scratched with a rttsty nail — ^brief words of agony, perhaps, or guilt's des- perate defiance to the world, or merely a record of a date by which the writer strove to keep up with the march of life. 330 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS There is not a living eye that could now decipher these memorials. N"or is it while so fresh from their Creator's hand that the new denizens of earth — no, nor their descendants for a thousand years — could discover that this edifice was a hos- pital for the direst disease which could afflict their predeces- sors. Its patients bore_the_ outward . marks. of ..thgjti. Jifiprosy _ with wSch~alllwere. more or less infected. __TheyL ware sick- — and so were the purest of their brethren — with the,, plague of~Sn. '.S~ deadly" sickness indeed! FeeHng its symptoms within the breast, men concealed it with fear ■ and shame, and were only the more cruel to those unfortunates whose pestiferous sores were flagrant to the common^ ej^e. Noth- ing save a rich garment could ever hide the plague spot. In the course of the world's lifetime every remedy was tried for its cure and extirpation except the single one, the flower that grew in heaven and was sovereign for all the miseries of earth. ]VIanneverJiad..a±tempt&d_to cure sin by.love-. Had he but once made the effort, it migKt"well have happened that there would have been no more need of the dark lazar- house into which Adam and Eve have wandered. — Hasten forth with your native innocence, lest the damps of these still conscious walls infect you hkewise, and thus another fallen race be propagated. Passing from the interior of the prison into the space within its outward wall, Adam pauses beneath a structure of the simplest contrivance, yet altogether unaccountable to him. It consists merely of two upright posts supporting a transverse beam from which dangles a cord. "Eve, Eve!" cried Adam, shuddering with a nameless horror; "what can this thing be?" "I know not," answered Eve. "But, Adam, my heart is sick. There seems to be no more sky — no more sunshine." "Well might Adam shudder and poor Eve be sick at heart, for tfeis mysterious object was the typeof_m,aiikind^sjvliQle SYBtem in.jfigar.d to the great difficulties whic h God hath given to be solved — a system of fear and vengeanceTnever" MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 231 successful, yet followed to the last. Here, on the morning when the final summons came, a criminal — one criminal where none were guiltless— had died upon the gallows. Had the world heard the footfall of its own approaching doom, it would have been no inappropriate act thus to close the record of its deeds by one so characteristic. The two pilgrims now hurry from the prison. Had they known how the former inhabitants of earth were shut up in artificiaL error and cramped and chained by their pervOT; ^siong,.they might have compared the whole moral world to a prison-house, and have deemed the removal of the race a general jail-delivery. They next enter — unannounced, but they might have rung at the door in vain — a private mansion, one of the stateliest in Beacon Street. A wild and plaintive strain of music is quivering through the house, now rising like a solemn organ-peal, and now dying into the faintest mur- mur, as if some spirit that had felt an interest in the de- parted family were bemoaning itself in the solitude of hall and chamber. Perhaps ajirgin, IherPWSStijf-iaQriiaLracg, has been left behind to perform a requiem for the whole kindred of humanity. Not so; these are the tones of an JEolian harp, through which Nature pours the harmony that lies concealed in her every breath, whether of summer breeze or tempest. Adam and Eve are lost in rapture, un- mingled with surprise. The passing wind that stirred the harp-strings has been hushed before they can think of ex- amining the splendid furniture, the gorgeous carpets, and the architecture of the rooms. These things amuse their unpracticed eyes, but appeal to nothing within their hearts. , Even the pictures upon the walls scarcely excite a deeper interest, for there is s omgthing .radicaUy„&Elafl.cial__and dec eptiv e in painting with which minds in the primal simphcity cannof~sympatliize. The unbidden guests ex- amine a row of family portraits, but are too dull to rec- ognize them as men and women beneath the disguise of a preposterous garb, and with features and expression /232 I ' HAWTHORNE'S W0KK8 debased because inherited through ages of moral and physical decay. Chance, however, presents them with pictures of human beauty fresh from the hand of nature. As they enter a mag- nificent apartment they are astonished, but not affrighted, to perceive two figures advancing to meet them. Is^it^not , awful to imagine that any Ufe save their own should- remain-. in the wide world? ' "How is this?" exclaims Adam. "My beautiful Eve, are you in two places at once?" "And you, Adam!" answers Eve, doubtful yet delighted. "Surely that noble and lovely form is yours? Yet here you are by my side! I am content with one; methinks there should not be two." This miracle is wrought by a tail looking-glass, the mys- tery of which they soon fathom, because Nature creates a mirror for the human face in every pool of water, and for her own great features in waveless lakes. Pleasedj,nd satis- fied with gazing at themselves, they now discover the marble statue of a'child in a comer of the room, so exquisitely ideal- ized that it is almost worthy to be the prophetic likeness of their first-born. Sculpture in its highest excellence is more genuine than painting, and might seem to be evolved from a natural germ by the same law as a leaf or flower. The statue of the child impresses the solitary pair as if it were a companion; it likewise hints at secrets both of the past and future. "My husband!" whispers Eve. "What would you say, dearest Eve?" inquires Adam. "I wonder if we are alone in the world?" she continues, with a sense of something like fear at the thought of other inhabitants. "This lovely little form! Did it ever breathe? Or is it only the shadow of something real, like our pictures in the mirror?" "It is strange," replies Adam, pressing his hand to his brow. "There are mysteries aU around us. An idea flits continually before me; would that I could seize it! Eve, MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSp 233 Eve! are we treading in the footsteps of beings that bore a likeness to ourselves? If so, whither are they gone, and why is t heir wo rld so unfit for, our dwelling-place?" "Our great Father only knows," answers Eve. "But something tells me that we shall not always be alone. And how sweet if other beings were to visit us in the shape of this fair image!" Then they wanderto through the house, and everywhere find tokens of human life which now, with the idea recently^ suggested, excite a deeper curiosity in their bosoms. "Woman has here left traces of her delicacy and refinement, and of her gentle labors. Eve ransacks a work-basket, and instinctively thrusts the rosy tip of her finger into a thimble. She takes up a piece of embroidery glowing with mimic flowers, in one of which a fair damsel of the departed race has left her needle. Pity that the day of doom should have anticipated the completion of such a useful task ! Eve feels almost con- scious of the skill to finish it. A pianoforte has been left open. She flings her hand carelessly over the keys, and strikes out a sudden melody no less natural than the strains of the .^olian harp, but joyous with the dance of her yet unburdened life. Passing through a dark entry, they find a broom behind the door, and Eve> who comprises the whole nature of womanhood, has a dim idea that it is an instru- ment proper for her hand. In another apartment they be- hold a. canopied bed, and^ alTthe appliances gE^Juxurious repose; a ieap- of forest-leaves would be niore to the pur- pose. They enter the nursery, and are perplexed with the s^Efc of little gowns and caps, tiny shoes and a cradle, amid the drapery of which is still to be seen the impress of a baby's form. Adam slightly notices these trifles, but Evo becomes involved in a fit of mute reflection from which it is hardly possible to rouse her. By a most unlucky arrangement there was to have been a grand dinner-party in this mansion on the very day when the whole human family, including the invited guests, were summoned to the unknown regions of illimitable space. At 234 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS the moment of fate the table was actually spread and the company on the point of sitting down. Adam and Eve came unbidden to the banquet; it has now been some time cold, but otherwise furnishes them with highly-favorable specimens of the gastronomy of their predecessors. But it is difficult to imagine the perplexity of the unperverted couple in endeavoring to find proper food for their first meal at a table where the cultivated appetites of a fash- ionable party were to have been gratified. Will nature' teach them the mystery of a plate of turtle-soup? "Will she embolden them to attack a haunch of venison? Will she initiate them into the merits of a Parisian pasty, imported by the last steamer that ever crossed the Atlantic? Will she not, rather, bid them turn with disgust from fish, fowl and flesh, which to their pure nostrils steam with a loath- some odor of death and corruption? Food? The bill of fare contains nothing which they recognize as such. Fortunately, however, the dessert is ready upon a neigh- boring table. Adam, whose appetite and animal instincts are quicker than those of Eve, discovers this fitting banquet. "Here, dearest Eve!" he exclaims; "here is food." "Well," answers she, with the gerni of a housewife stir- ring within her, "we have been so busy to-day that a picked-up dinner must serve." So Eve comes to the table, and receives a red-cheeked apple from her husband's hand, in requital of her predeces- sor's fatal gift to our common grandfather. She eats it without sin, and, let us hope, with no disastrous conse- quences to her future progeny. They make a plentiful yet temperate meal of fruit, which, though not gathered in Paradise, is legitimately derived from the seeds that ...were planted there. Their primal appetite is satisfied. "What shall we drink. Eve?" inquires Adam. Eve peeps among some bottles and decanters which, as they contain fluids, she naturally conceives must be proper to quench thirst. But never before did claret, hock and Madeira of rich and rare perfume excite such disgust as now. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANS& 235 "Pah!" she exclaims, after smelling at various wines, "What stuff is here? The beings who have gone before us could not have possessed the same nature that we do, for neither their hunger nor thirst were like our own!" "Pray hand me yonder bottle," says Adam. "If it be drinkable by any manner of mortal, I must moisten my throat with it." After some remonstrances, she takes up a champagne- bottle, but is frightened by the sudden explosion of the cork, and drops it upon the floor. There the untasted Uquor effer- vesces. Had they quaffed it, they would have experienced that brief delirium whereby, whether excited by moral or^ physical causes, man sought to recompense himself for the calm, lifelong joys which he had lost by his revolt from na- ^ ture. At length, in a refrigerator, Eve finds a glass pitcher ' of water, pure, cold and bright as ever gushed from a foun- tain among the hills. Both drink, and such refreshment does it bestow that they question one another if this pre- cious liquid be not identical with the stream of life within them. "And now," observes Adam, "we must again try to dis- cover what sort of a world this is, and why we have been sent hither." "Why! To love one another!" cries Eve. "Is not that employment enough!" "Truly is it," answers Adam, kissing her; "but stiU — I ^ know not — something tells us there is labor to be done. Perhaps our allotted— task^Js^no other than^to^ climb into the sky, wHcETis so much more^Beautiful than earth." ^ "Then would we were there now," murmurs Eve, "that no task or duty might come between us!" ' They leave the hospitable mansion, and we next see them passing down State Street. The clock on the old State-House points to high noon, when the Exchange should be in its glory, and present the liveliest emblem of what was the sole business of life as regarded a multitude of the foregone worldlings. It is over now. The Sabbath of eternity has 336 Hawthorne's works shed its stillness along the street. ITot even a newsboy as- sails the two solitary passers-by with an extra penny paper from the oflBce of the "Times" or "Mail" containing a full account of yesterday's terrible catastrophe. Of all the dull times that merchants and speculators have known, this is the very worst, for, so far as they were concerned, creation itself has taken the benefit of the bankrupt act. After all, it is a pity. Those mighty capitalists who had just attained the wished-for wealth, those shrewd men of traffic who had devoted so many years to the most intricate and artificial of sciences, and had barely mastered it when the universal bankruptcy was announced by peal of trumpet — can they have been so incautious as to provide no currency of the coimtry whither they have gone, nor any bills of exchange or letters of credit from the needy on earth to the cash- - keepers of heaven? Adam and Eve enter a bank. Start not, ye whose funds are treasured there; you will never need them now. Call not for the police; the stones of the street and the coin of the vaults are of equal value to this simple pair. Strange sight 1 They take up the bright gold in handfuls, and throw it sportively into the air, for the sake of seeing the glittering worthlessness descend again in a shower. Thw^ji^wnot that each_af_J^ose_ gnall yel low circles was once a magic speSTpptent to_^5\[aymen's Eear^ Hud m^sUCy-tlSeir moral sense. Here let them pause~in'iii«4iiveSfigation of the past. They have discovered the mainspring, the life, the very es- sence, of the system that had wrought itself into the vitals of mankind and choked their original nature in its deadly grip. Yet how powerless over these young inheritors of earth's hoarded wealth! And here too are huge packages of banknotes, those talismanic slips of paper which once had the efficacy to build up enchanted palaces like exhalations, i and work all kinds of perilous wonders, yet were themselves \but the ghosts of money, the shadows of a shade. How like is this vault to a magician's cave when the all-powerful wand 8 broken, and the visionary splendor vanished, and the floor MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 337 Btrewn with fragments of shattered spells and lifeless shapes once animated by demons ! ^ "Everywhere, my dear Eve," observes Adam, "we find heaps of rubbish of one kind or another. Somebody, I am convinced, has taken pains to collect them, but for what purpose? Perhaps, hereafter, we shall be moved to do the like. Can that be our business in the world?" "Oh, no, no, Adam!" answers Eve. "It would be better to sit down quietly and look upward to the sky." They leave the bank, and in good time; for had they tarried later, they would probably have encountered some gouty old goblin of a capitaUst whose soul could not long be anywhere save in the vault with his treasure. Next they drop into a jeweller's shop. They are pleased with the glow of gems, and Adam twines a string of beauti- ful pearls around the head of Eve and fastens his own man- tle with a magnificent diamond brooch. Eve thanks him, and views herself with delight in the nearest looking-glass. Shortly afterward, observing a bouquet of roses and other brilliant flowers in a vase of water, she flings away the inestimable pearls and adorns herself with these lovelier gems of Nature. They charm her with sentiment as well as beauty. "Surely they are living beings," she remarks to Adam. "I think so," replies Adam, "and they seem to be as little at homo in the world as ourselves. " We must not attempt to follow every footstep of these investigators whom their Creator has commissioned to pass unconscious judgment upon the works and ways of the van- ished race. By this time, being endowed with quick and accurate perceptions, they begin to understand the purpose of the many things around them. They conjecture, for in- stance, that tho edifices of the city were erected — not by the immediate Hand that made the world, but by beings some- what similar to themselves — for shelter and convenience. But how will they explain the magnificence of one habitation as compared with the squalid misery of another? Through 338 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS what medium can the idea of servitude enter their minds? When will they comprehend the great and miserable fact — the evidences of which appeal to their senses everywhere — that one portion of earth's lost inhabitants was rolling in luxury, while the multitude was toiling for scanty food? A wretched change indeed must be wrought in their own hearts ere they can conceive the primal decree of Love to have been so completely abrogated that a brother should i ever want what his brother had. When their intelligence ; shall have reached so far, Earth's new progeny will have little reason to exult over her old rejected one. ^ Their wanderings have now brought them into the sub- urbs of the city. They stand on a grassy brow of a hill, at the foot of a granite obelisk which points its great finger upward, as if the human family had agreed by a visible symbol of age-long endurance to offer some high sacrifice of thanksgiving or supplication. The solemn height of the monument, its deep simplicity, aadjh e^absence of any v iilgar and practical use, all strengthen its effect upon Adam and Eve, andTTeacTthem to interpret it by a purer sentiment than i^the builders thought of expressing. "Eve, it is a visible prayer," observed Adam. "And we will pray too," she replies. Let us pardon these poor children of neither father nor I mother for so absurdly mistaking the purport of the memo- rial which man founded and woman finished on far-famed Bunker Hill. The idea of war is not native to their souls. Nor have they sympathies for the brave defenders of liberty, since oppression is one of their unconjectural mysteries. Could they guess that the green sward on which they stand so peacefully was once strewn with human corpses and pur- ple with their blood, it would equally amaze them that one ^ generation of men should perpetrate such carnage, and that \ a subsequent generation should triumphantly commemo- Irate it. With a sense of delight they now stroll across green fields and along the margin of a quiet river. Not to track them MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 339 too closely, we next find the wanderers entering a Gothic edifice of gray stone where the bygone world has left what- ever it deemed worthy of record in the rich library of Har- ,vard University. No student ever yet enjoyed such solitude and silence as now broods within its deep alcoves. Little do the present visitors understand what opportunities are thrown away upon them. Yet Adam looks anxiously at the long rows of volumes — those storied heights of human lore — ascending one above another from floor to ceiling. He takes up a bulky folio. It opens in his hands, as if spontaneously to impart the spirit of its author to the yet unworn and untrained intellect of the fresh created mortal. He stands poring over the regular columns of mystic characters, seem- ingly in studious mood, for the unintelligible thought upon the page has a mysterious relation to his mind, and makes itself felt as if it were a burden flung upon him. He is even painfully perplexed, and grasps vainly at he knows not what — Oh, Adam, it is too soon — too soon by at least five thou- sand years — to put on spectacles and busy yourselves in the alcoves of a library ! "What can this be?" he murmurs, at last. — "Eve, me- thinks nothing is so desirable as to find out the mystery of this big and heavy object with its thousand thin divisions. See! it stares me in the face as if it were about to speak." Eve, by a feminine instinct, is dipping into a volume of fashionable poetry, the production of certainly the most fortunate of earthly bards, since his lay continues in vogue when aU the great masters of the lyre have passed into ob- livion. But let not his ghost be too exultant. The world's one lady tosses the book upon the floor and laughs merrily at her husband's abstracted mien. "My dear Adam," cries she, "you look pensive and dis- mal! Do fling down that stupid thing; for even if it should speak, it would not be worth attending to. Let us talk with one another, and with the sky, and the green earth and its trees and flowers. They will teach us better knowledge than we can find here." 340 hawthoene's wokks "Well, Ere, perhaps you are right," replies Adam, with a sort of sigh. "Still, I cannot help thinking that the inter- pretation of the riddles amid which we have been wandering all day long might here be discovered." "It may be b etter not to seek theJnterjffetationJj_persists Eve7^^"For my part, the air of this place does not suit me. Ifyou love me, come away." She prevails, and rescues him from the mysterious perils of the library. Happy influence of woman! Had he lin- gered there long enough to obtain a clew to its treasures, as was not impossible, his intellect being of human structure, indeed, but with an untransmitted vigor and acuteness — had he then and there become a student, the annalist of our poor world would soon have recorded the downfall of a second Adam. ThefataLsj^^^jinother tree of knowledge, would have been eaten. All the perversions and sophistries and falsB" wisdom so aptly mimicking the true; all the narrow truth so partial that it becomes more deceptive than false- hood; all the wrong principles and worse practice, the per- nicious examples and mistaken rules of life ; all the specious theories which turn earth into cloudland and men into shadows; all the sad experience which it took mankind so many ages to accumulate, and from which they never drew a mqral_iQiLJtJidr.jEutuje guid^ce — the whole heap of this disastrous lore would have tumbled at once upon Adam's head. There would have been nothing left for him but to take up ihe^ akfiady-^bortive exper iment o f life where we had dropped it, and toil onward with it a littlerarther. But, blessed in his ignorance, he may still enjoy a new world in our worn-out one. Should he fall short of good even as far as we did, he has at least the freedom — no worthless one — to make errors for himself. And his litera- ture, when the progress of centuries shall create it, will be no interminably repeated echo of our own poetry and repro- duction of the images that were molded by our great fath- ers of song and fiction, but a melody never yet heard on earth, and intellectual forms unbreathed upon by our con- MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 241 ceptions. Therefore let the dust of ages gather upon the volumes of the library, and in due season the roof of the edifice crumble down upon the whole. When the second Adam's descendants shall have collected as much rubbish of their own, it will be time enough to dig into our ruins and compare the literary advancement of two independent races. But we ar e looking fnniira.rrl tnn -ffl.r. — Tt Heenis to ho tJlEU yice.iifjtiiQaajdia±iie.aJjQttSL£a^^ We will return to the new Adam and Eve, who, having no reminis- cences save dim and fleeting visions of a pre-existence, are, content to hve and be happy in the present. C"^ Tfti ff '— - ' The day is near its close when these pilgrims, who derive their being from no dead progenitors, reach the cemetery of Mount Auburn. "With light hearts — for earth and sky now gladden eaeh other with beauty — they tread along the wind- ing paths, among marble pillars, mimic temples, urns, obe- lisks, and sarcophagi, sometimes pausing to contemplate these fanitasies of human growth,, and sometimes to admire the flowers wherewith kind Nature converts decay to love- liness. Can Death, in the midst of his old triumphs, make them sensible that they have taken up the heavy burden of mortality which a whole species had thrown down? Dust kindred to. their own has never lain in the grave. Will they, then, recognize, and so soon, that Time a^d^ &e elemen ts have an indefeas ible cla im upon thei'^odies? Not improb- abIylEey"may\^ There mnSTtave been shadows enough, even amid the primal sunshine of their existence, to suggest the thought of t he sour.s_ incangaiitjL.mthJ.ts. circumstances. They have alreaSy learned that something is to be thrown aside. The idea of Death is in them, or not far off, but, were the j to choose a symbol for him, it would be the but- terfly soaring upward, or the bright angel beckoning them aloft, or the child asleep with soft dreams visible through her transparent purity, w-^--^^---' '—--»'> * - - • — -^ ■ Such a child, in whitest marble, they have found among the monuments of Mount Auburn. 242 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS "Sweetest Eve," observes Adam, while hand in hand they contemplate this beautiful object, "yonder sun has left us, and the whole world is fading from our sight. Let us sleep as this lovely little figure is sleeping. Our Father only knows whether what outward things we have possessed to-day are to be snatched from us forever. But, should our earthly life be leaving us with the departing light, we need not doubt that another morn will find us somewhere beneath the smile of God. I feel that He has imparted the boon of existence, never to be resumed." "And no matter where we exist," replies Eve, "for we shall always be together." EGOTISM;" OR, THE BOSOM-SERPENT FROM THE UNPUBLISBED ''ALLEGORIES OF TBE JOEABT" HERE he comes!" shouted the boys along the street. "Here comes the man with a snake in his bosom!" This outcry, saluting Herkimer's ears as he was about to enter the iron gate of the Elliston mansion, made him pause. It was not without a shudder that he found himself on the point of meeting his former acquaintance, whom he had known in the glory of youth, and whom now, after an interval of five years, he was to find the victim either of a diseased fancy or a horrible physical misfortune. " 'A snake in his bosom!' " repeated the young sculptor to himself. "It must be he; no second man on earth has such a bosom-friend! — And now, my poor Rosina, Heaven grant me wisdom to discharge my errand aright ! "Woman's faith must be strong, indeed, since thine has not yet failed." Thus musing, he took his stand at the entrance of the gate and waited until the personage so singularly announced ' The physical fact to which it is here attempted to give a, moral signification has been known to occur in more than one instance. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 243 should make his appearance. After an instant or two he beheld the figure of a lean man of unwholesome look, with glittering eyes and long black hair, who seemed to imitate the motion of a snake, for, instead of walking straight for- ward with open front, he undulated along the pavement in a curved line. It may be too fanciful to say that some- thing either in his moral or material aspect suggested the idea that a miracle had been wrought by transforming a ser- pent into a man, but so imperfectly that the snaky nature was yet hidden, and scarcely hidden, under the mere out- ward guise of humanity. Herkimer remarked that his com- plexion had a greenish tinge over its sickly white, reminding him of a species of marble out of which he had once wrought a head of Envy with her snaky locks. The wretched being approached the gate, but, instead of entering, stopped short and fixed the glitter of his eye full upon the compassionate yet steady countenance of the sculptor. "It gnaws me! It gnaws me!" he exclaimed. And then thei^e was an a,udible hiss, but whether it came from the apparent lunatic's own lips or was the real hiss of a serpent might admit of discussion. At all events, it made Herkimer shudder to his heart's core. "Do you know me, George Herkimer?" asked the snake- Herkimer did know him, but it demanded all the in- timate and practical acquaintance with the human face acquired by modelling actual likenesses in clay to recognize the features of Eoderick EUiston in the visage that now met the sculptor's gaze. Yet it was he. It added nothing to the wonder to ;reflect that the once brilliant young man had undergone this odious and fearful change during the no more than five brief years of Herkimer's abode at Florence. The possibility of such a transformation being granted, it was as easy to conceive it effected in a moment as in an age. Inexpressibly shocked and startled, it was still the keenest pang when Herkimer remembered that the fate of his cousin 244 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS Rosina, the ideal of gentle womanhood, was indissolubly interwoven with that of a being whom Providence seemed to have unhumanized. "Elliston — Roderick," cried he — "I had heard of this, hut my conception came far short of the truth. What has befallen you? "Why do I find you thus?" ' ' Oh, 'tis a mere nothing. A snake, a snake — the common- est thing in the world. A snake in the bosom, that's all," answered Roderick EUiston. "But how is your own breast?" continued he, looking the sculptor in the eye with the most acute and penetrating glance that it had ever been his fort- une to encounter. "All pure and wholesome? No reptile f there? By my faith and conscience, and by the devil within , me, here is a wonder ! A man without a serpent in his bosom ! ' ' "Be calm, Elliston," whispered George Herkimer, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the snake-possessed. "I have crossed the ocean to meet you. Listen — ^let us be private — I bring a message from Rosina — from your wife!" "It gnaws me! It gnaws me!" muttered Roderick. With this exclamation, the most frequent in his mouth, the unfortunate man clutched both hands upon his breast, as if an intolerable sting or torture impelled him to rend it open and let out the living mischief, even where it inter- twined with his own life. He then freed himself from Herkimer's grasp by a subtle motion, and, gliding through the gate, took refuge in his antiquated family^residenoe. The sculptor did not pursue him. He saw that no avail- able intercourse could be expected at such a moment, and was desirous, before another meeting, to inquire closely into the nature of Roderick's disease and the circumstances that had reduced him to so lamentable a condition. He succeeded in obtaining the necessary information from an eminent med- ical gentleman. Shortly after Elliston's separation from his wife — now nearly four years ago — his associates had observed a singu- lar gloom spreading over his daily hfe, like those chill gray mists that sometimes steal away the sunshine from a sum- MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 345 mer's morning. The symptoms caused them endless per- plexity. They knew not whether ill-health were robbing his spirits of elasticity, or whether a canker of the mind was gradually eating, as such cankers do, from his moral system into the physical frame, which is but the shadow of the for- mer. They looked for the root of this trouble in his shattered schemes of domestic bliss — wilfully shattered by himself — but could not be satisfied of its existence there. Sonae thought that their once brilliant friend was in an incipient stage of insanity, of which his passionate impulses had perhaps been the forerunners ; others prognosticated a general blight and gradual decline. From Roderick's own lips they could learn nothing. More than once, it is true, he had been heard to say, clutching his hands convulsively upon his breast, "It gnaws me I It gnaws me 1" but by different auditors a great diversity of explanation was assigned to this ominous expres- sion. What could it be that gnawed the breast of Roderick Elliston? "Was it sorrow? "Was it merely the tooth of phys- ical disease? Or, in his reckless course, often verging upon profligacy, if not plunging into its depths, had he been guilty of some deed which made his bosom a prey to the deadlier fangs of remorse? There was plausible ground for each of these conjectures, but it must not be concealed that more than one elderly gentleman, the victim of good cheer and slothful habits, magisterially pronounced the secret of the whole matter to be dyspepsia. Meanwhile, Roderick seemed aware how generally he had become the subject of curiosity and conjecture, and with a morbid repugnance to such notice, or to any notice whatsoever, estranged himself from all companionship. Not merely the eye of man was a horror to him, not merely the light of a friend's countenance, but even the blessed sunshine likewise, which in its universal beneficence typifies the radi- ance of the Creator's face, expressing his love for all the creatures of his hand. The dusky twilight was now too transparent for Roderick Elliston; but the blackest mid- mght was his chosen hour to steal abroad; and if ever he 246 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS were seen, it was when the watchman's lantern gleamed upon his figure gliding along the street with his hands clutched upon his bosom, still muttering, "It gnaws me! It gnaws me!" "What could it be that gnawed him? After a time it became known that Elliston was in the habit of resorting to aU the noted quacks that invested the city or whom money would tempt to journey thither from a distance. By one of these persons, in the exultation of a supposed cure, it was proclaimed far and wide, by dint of hand-bills and little pamphlets on dingy paper, that a distin- guished gentleman, Roderick Elliston, Esq., had been relieved of a snake in his stomach. So here was a monstrous secret ejected from its lurking-place into public view in aU its hor- rible deformity. The mystery was out, but not so the bosom- serpent. He, if it were anjrthing but a delusion, stUl lay coUed in his living den. The empiric's cure had been a sham, the effect, it was supposed, of some stupefying drug which more nearly caused the death of the patient than of the odious reptile that possessed him. When Roderick Ellis- ton regained entire sensibility, it was to find his misfortune the town-talk — the more than nine days' wonder and horror — while at his bosom he felt the sickening motion of a thing alive, and the gnawing of that restless fang which seemed to gratify at once a physical appetite and a fiendish spite. He summoned the old black servant who had been bred up in his father's house and was a middle-aged man while Roderick lay in his cradle. "Scipio — " he began, and then paused with his arms folded over his heart. ""What do people say of me, Scipio?" "Sir! my poor master! that you had a serpent in your bosom," answered the servant, with hesitation. "And what else?" asked Roderick, with a ghastly look at the man. "Nothing else, dear master," replied Scipio; "only that the doctor gave you a powder, and that the snake leaped out upon the floor." "No, no!" muttered Roderick to himself, as he shook his MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 247 head and pressed his hands with a more convulsive force upon his breast; "I feel him still. It gnaws me! It gnaws me!" From this time the miserable sufferer ceased to shun the world, but rather solicited and forced himself upon the notice of acquaintances and strangers. It was partly the result of desperation on finding that the cavern of his own bosom had not proved deep and dark enough to hide the secret, even while it was so secure a fortress for the loathsome fiend that had crept into it. But, still more, this craving for notoriety was a symptom of the intense morbidness which now per- vaded his nature. All persons chronically diseased are ego- tists, whether the disease be of the mind or body — whether sin, sorrow, or merely the more tolerable calamity of some endless pain or mischief among the cords of mortal life. Such individuals are made acutely conscious of a self by the torture in which it dwells. Self, therefore, grows to be so prominent an object with them that they cannot but pre- sent it to the face of every casual passer-by. There is a pleasure — perhaps the greatest of which the sufferer is sus- ceptible — in displaying the wasted or ulcerated limb or the cancer in the breast ; and the fouler the crime, with so much the more difficulty does the perpetrator prevent it from thrust- ing up its snake-like head to frighten the world, for it is that cancer or that crime which constitutes their respective indi- viduality. Eoderick Elliston, who a little while before had held himself so scornfully above the common lot of men, now paid full allegiance to this humiliating law. The snake in his bosom seemed the symbol of a monstrous egotism to which everything was referred, and which he pampered night and day with a continual and exclusive sacrifice of devil-worship. He soon exhibited what most people considered indubita- ble tokens of insanity. In some of his moods, strange to say, he prided and gloried himself on being marked out from the ordinary experience of mankind by the possession of a double nature and a life within a life. He appeared to imagine that 248 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS the snake was a divinity — not celestial, it is true, but darMy infernal — and that he thence derived an eminence and a sanc- tity, horrid, indeed, yet more desirable than whatever ambi- tion aims at. Thus he drew his misery around him like a regal mantle and looked down triumphantly upon those whose vitals nourished no deadly monster. Oftener, how- ever, his human nature asserted its empire over him in the shape of a yearning for fellowship. It grew to be his cus- tom to spend the whole day in wandering about the streets — aimlessly, unless it might be called an aim to establish a species of brotherhood between himself and the world. "With cankered ingenuity he sought out his own disease in every breast. Whether insane or not, he showed so keen a percep- tion of frailty, error and vice that many persons gave him credit for being possessed not merely with a serpent, but with an actual fiend who imparted this evil faculty of rec- ognizing whatever was ugliest in man's heart. For instance, he met an individual who for thirty years had cherished a hatred against his own brother. Roderick, amid the throng of the street, laid his hand on this man's chest, and, looking full into his forbidding face, "How is the snake to-day?" he inquired, with a mock expression of sympathy. " 'The snake!' " exclaimed the brother-hater. "What do you mean?" "The snake! The snake! Does he gnaw you?" per- sisted Roderick. "Did you take counsel with him this morning when you should have been saying your prayers? Did he sting when you thought of your brother's health, wealth and good repute? Did he caper for joy when you remembered the profligacy of his only son? And, whether he stung or whether he frolicked, did you feel his poison throughout your body and soul, converting everything to sourness and bitterness? That is the way of such ser- pents. I have learned the whole nature of them from my own." "Where is the police?'' roared the object of Roderick's MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 849 perseeutioa, at the same time giving an instinctive clutch to hig breast. "Why is this lunatic allowed to go at large?" "Ha, ha!" chuckled Roderick, releasing his grasp of the man. "His hosom-serpent has stung him, then!" Often it pleased the unfortunate young man to vex people with lighter satire, yet still characterized by somewhat of snake-like virulence. One day he encountered an ambitious statesman, and gravely inquired after the welfare of his boa- oonstrictor ; for of that species, Roderick affix-med, this gentle^ man's serpent must needs be, since its appetite was enormous enough to devour the whole country and constitution. At another time he stopped a close-fisted old fellow of great wealth, but who skulked about the city in the guise of a scarecrow, with a patched blue surtout, brown hat and mouldy boots, scraping pence together and picking up rusty nails. Pretending to look earnestly at this respectable per- son's stomach, Roderick assured him that his snake was a copper-headj and had been generated by the immense quan- tities of that base metal with which he daily defiled his fin- gers. Again, he assaulted a man of rubicund visage, and told him that few bosom-serpents had more of the devil in them than those that breed in the vats of a distillery. The next whom Roderick honored with his attention was a dis- tinguished clergyman, who happened just then to be engaged in a theological controversy where human wrath was more perceptible than divine inspiration. "You have swallowed a snake in a cup of sacramental wine," quoth he. "Profane wretch!" exclaimed the divine, but, neverthe- less, his hand stole to his breast. He met a person of sickly sensibility who on some early disappointment had retired from the world, and thereafter held no intercourse with his fellowmen, but brooded sullenly or passionately over the irrevocable past. This man's very heaj^ti if Roderick might be believed, had been changed into a serpent which would finally torment both him and itself to death. Observing a married couple whose domestic troubles 250 HAWTHORNE'S Wc|eKS were matter of notoriety, he condoled with both on having mutually taken a house-adder to their bosoms. To an envi- ous author who deprecated works which he could never equal he said that his snake was the slimiest and filthiest of all the reptile tribe, but was fortunately without a sting. A man of impure life and a brazen face asking Roderick if there were any serpents in his breast, he told him that there was, and of the same species that once tortured Don Rodrigo the Goth. He took a fair young girl by the hand, and, gazing sadly into her eyes, warned her that she cherished a serpent of the deadliest kind within her gentle breast ; and the world found the truth of those ominous words when, a few months afterward, the poor girl died of love and shame. Two ladies, rivals in fashionable life, who tormented one another with a thousand Httle stings of womanish spite, were given to under- stand that each of their hearts was a nest of diminutive snakes which did quite as much mischief as one great one. But nothing seemed to please Roderick better than to lay hold of a person infected with jealousy, which he represented as an enormous green reptile with an ice-cold length of body and the sharpest sting of any snake save one. "And what one is that?" asked a bystander, overhear- ing him. It was a dark-browed man who put the question; he had an evasive eye which in the course of a dozen years had looked no mortal directly in the face. There was an ambiguity about this person's character, a stain upon his reputation, yet none could tell precisely of what nature, although the city gossips, male and female, whispered the most atrocious surmises. Until a recent period he had followed the sea, and was, in fact, the very shipmaster whom George Herkimer had en- countered under such singular circumstances in the Grecian Archipelago. "What bosom-serpent has the sharpest sting?" repeated this man, but he put the question as if by a reluctant neces- sity, and grew pale while he was uttering it. ""Why need you ask?" replied Roderick, with a look of MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 251 dark intelligence. "Look into your own breast. Hark! my serpent bestirs himself. He acknowledges the presence of a master-fiend." And then, as the bystanders afterward aflSrmed, a hissing sound was heard, apparently in Roderick EUiston's breast. It was said, too, that an answering hiss came from the vitals of the shipmaster, as if a snake were actually lurking there and had been aroused by the call of its brother-reptile. If there were, in fact, any such sound, it might have been caused by a malicious exercise of ventriloquism on the part of Roderick. Thus, making his own actual serpent — if a serpent there actually was in his bosom — the type of each man's fatal error or hoarded sin or unquiet conscience, and striking his sting so unremorsefully into the sorest spot, we may well imagine that Roderick became the pest of the city. Nobody could elude him ; none could withstand him. He grappled with the ughest truth that he could lay his hand on, and com- pelled his adversary to do the same. Strange spectacle in human life, where it is the instinctive effort of one and all to hide those sad realities, and leave them undisturbed be- neath a heap of superficial topics which constitute the mate- rials of intercourse between man and man ! It was not to be tolerated that Roderick EUiston should break through the tacit compact by which the world has done its best to secure repose without relinquishing evil. The victims of his mali- cious remarks, it is true, had brothers enough to keep them in countenance, for, by Roderick's theory, every mortal bosom harbored either a brood of small serpents or one overgrown monster that had devoured all the rest. Still, the city could not bear this new apostle. It was demanded by nearly all, and particularly by the most respectable in- habitants, that Roderick should no longer be permitted to violate the received rules of decorum by obtruding his own bosom-serpent to the public gaze and dragging those of de- cent people from their lurking-places. Accordingly, his rela- tives interfered, and placed him in a private asylum for the 332 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS insane. When the news was noised abroad, it was ofeserved that many persons walked the streets with freep connte- nances, and covered their breasts less carefully with their hands. His confinement, however, although it cwntributed not a little to the peace of the town, operated unfavorably upon Roderick himself. In solitude his melancholy grew more black and sullen. He spent whole days — ^indeed, it was his sole occupation — in communing with the serpent. A con- versation was sustained in which, as it seemed, the hidden monster bore a part, though unintelligibly to the listeners, and inaudible except in a hiss. Singular as it may appear, the sufferer had now contracted a sort of affection for his tormentor, mingled, however, with the intensest loathing and horror. Nor were such discordant emotions incompati- ble; each, on the contrary, imparted strength and poignancy to its opposite. Horrible love, horrible antipathy, embracing one another in his bosom and both concentrating themselves upon a being that had crept into his vitals or been engendered there, and which was nourished with his food and lived upon his life, and was as intimate with him as his own heart, and yet was the foulest of all created things! But not the less was it the true type of a morbid nature. Sometimes, in his moments of rage and bitter hatred against the snake and himself, Roderick determined to be the death of him, even at the expense of his own Kfe. Once he attempted it by starvation, but, while the wretched man was on the point of famishing, the monster seemed to feed upon his heart, and to thrive and wax gamesome, as if it were his sweetest and most congenial diet. Then he privily took a dose of active poison, imagining that it would not fail to kill either himself or the devil that possessed him, or both together. Another mistake ; for if Roderick had not yet been destroyed by his own poisoned heart, nor the snake by gnaw- ing it, they had little to fear from arsenic or corrorive subh- mate. Indeed, the venomous pest appeared to operate as an antidote against all other poisons. The physicians tried to MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSB 353 suflfocate the fiend with tobacco-smoke; he breathed it as freely as if it were his native atmosphere. Again, they drugged their patient with opium and drenched him with intoxicating liquors, hoping that the snake might thus be reduced to stupor, and perhaps be ejected from the stomach. They succeeded in rendering Eoderick insensible, but, plac- ing their hands upon his breast, they were inexpressibly horror-stricken to feel the monster wriggling, twining and darting to and fro within his narrow limits, evidently en- livened by the opium or alcohol and iucited to unusual feats of activity. Thenceforth they gave up all attempts at cure or palliation. The doomed sufferer submitted to his fate, resumed his former loathsome affection for the bosom-fiend, and spent whole miserable days before a looking-glass with his mouth wide open, watching, in hope and horror, to catch a glimpse of the snake's head far down within his throat. It is supposed that he succeeded, for the attendants once heard a frenzied shout, and, rushing into the room, found Roderick lifeless upon the floor. He was kept but little longer under restraint. After mi- nute investigation the medical directors of the asylum decided that his mental disease did not amount to insanity nor would warrant his confinement, especially as its influence upon his spirits was unfavorable, and might produce the evil which it was meant to remedy. His eccentricities were doubtless great ; he had habitually violated many of the customs and prejudices of societj^, but the world was not, without surer ground, entitled to treat himas a madman. On this decision of such competent authority Roderick was released, and had returned to his native city the very day before his encounter with George Herkimer. As soon as possible after learning these particulars the sculptor, together with a sad and tremulous companion, sought Elliston at his own house. It was a large, sombre edifice of wood with pilasters and a balcony, and was divided from one of the principal streets by a terrace of three eleva- tions, which, was ascended by successive flights of stone steps. 254 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS Some immense old elms almost concealed the front of the mansion. This spacious and once magnificent family resi- dence was built by a grandee of the race early in the past century, at which epoch, land being of small comparative value, the garden and other grounds had formed quite an extensive domain. Although a portion of the ancestral heri- tage had been alienated, there was still a shadowy enclosure in the rear of the mansion, where a student or a dreamer or a man of stricken heart might lie all day upon the grass amid the soHtude of murmuring boughs and forget that a city had grown up around him. Into this retirement the sculptor and his companion were ushered by Scipio, the old black servant, whose wrinkled visage grew almost sunny with intelligence and joy as he paid his humble greetings to one of the two visitors. "Remain in the arbor," whispered the sculptor to the figure that leaned upon his arm; "you will know whether, and when, to make your appearance." "God will teach me," was the reply. "May He support me too!" Roderick was reclining on the margin of a fountain which gushed into the fleckered sunshine with the same clear sparkle and the same voice of airy quietude as when trees of primeval growth flung their shadows across its bosom. How strange is the life of a fountain, born at every moment, yet of an age coeval with the rocks, and far surpassing the venerable antiquity of a forest. "You are come! I have expected you," said EUiston, when he became aware of the sculptor's presence. His manner was very different from that of the preceding day — quiet, courteous, and, as Herkimer thought, watchful both over his guest and liimself. This unnatural restraint was almost the only trait that betokened anything amiss. He had just thrown a book upon the grass, where it lay half opened, thus disclosing itself to be a natural history of the serpent tribe, illustrated by lifelike plates. Near it lay that bulky volume the "Ductor Dubitantium" of Jeremy MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 255 Taylor, full of cases of conscience and in which most men possessed of a conscience may find something applicable to their purpose. "You see," observed EUiston, pointing to the book of serpents, while a smile gleamed upon his lips, "I am making an effort to become better acquainted with my bosom-friend. But I find nothing satisfactory in this volume. If I mistake not, he will prove to be sui generis and akin to no other reptile in creation." "Whence came this strange calamity?" inquired the sculptor. "My sable friend, Scipio, has a story," replied Roderick, "of a snake that had lurked in this fountain — pure and inno- cent as it looks — ever since it was known to the first settlers. This insinuating personage once crept into the vitals of my great-grandfather, and dwelt there many years, tormenting the old gentleman beyond mortal endurance. In short, it is a family peculiarity. But, to tell you the truth, I have no faith in this idea of the snake's being an heirloom. He is my own snake, and no man's else." "But what was his origin?" demanded Herkimer. "Oh, there is poisonous stuff in any man's heart sufficient to generate a brood of serpents," said Elliston, with a hollow laugh. "You should have heard my homilies to the good townspeople. Positively, I deem myself fortunate in having bred but a single serpent. You, however, have none in your bosom, and therefore cannot sympathize with the rest of the world. It gnaws me! It gnaws me!" With this exclamation Roderick lost his self-control and threw himself upon the grass, testifying his agony by intri- cate writhings in which Herkimer could not but fancy a resemblance to the motions of a snake. Then, likewise, was heard that frightful hiss which often ran through the sufferer's speech, and crept between the words and syllables without interrupting their succession. "This is awful indeed," exclaimed the sculptor — "an awful infliction, whether it be actual or imaginary! Tell 256 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS me, Roderick Elliston, is there any remedy for this loath some evil?" "Yes, but an impossible one," miuttered Roderick, as he lay wallowing with his face in the grass. "Could I for one instant forget myself, the serpent might not abide within me. It is my diseased self-contemplation that has engen- dered and nourished him." "Then forget yourself, my husband," said a gentle voice above him — "forget yourself in the idea of anothet." Rosina had emerged from the arbor, and was bending over him with the shadow of his anguish reflected in her countenance, yet so mingled with hope and unselfish love that all anguish seemed but an earthly shadow and a dream. She touched Roderick with her hand; a tremor shivered through his frame. At that moment, if report be trust- worthy, the sculptor beheld a waving motion through the grass and heard a tinkling sound, as if something had plunged into the fountain. Be the truth as it might, it is certain that Roderick Elliston sat up like a man renewed, restored to his right mind and rescued from the fiend which had so miserably overcome him in the battlefield of his own breast. "Rosina," cried he, in broken and passionate tones, but with nothing of the wild wail that had haunted his voice so long, "forgive, forgive!" Her happy tears bedewed his face. "The punishment has been severe," observed the sculp- tor. "Even justice might now forgive; how much more a woman's tenderness! Roderick Elliston, whether the ser- pent was a physical reptile or whether the morbidness of your nature suggested that symbol to your fancy, the moral of the story is not the less true and strong. A tremendous egotism — manifesting itself, in your case, in the form of jealousy — is as fearful a fiend as ever stole into the hu- man heart. Can a breast where it has dwelt so long be purified?" "Oh, yes I" said Rosina, with a heavenly smile. "The MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 257 serpent was but a dark fantasy, and what it typified was as shadowy as itself. The past, dismal as it seems, shall fling no gloom upon the future. To give it its due importancej we must think of it but as an anecdote in our eternity." THE CHRISTMAS BANQUET FBOM THE UNPXJSLISBED "ALLEGORIES OF THE HEART" I HAVE here attempted," said Eoderick, unfolding a few sheets of manuscript, as he sat with Rosina and the sculptor in the summer-house — "I have attempted to seize hold of a personage who glides past me occasionally in my walk through life. My former sad experience, as you know, has gifted me with some degree of insight into the gloomy mysteries of the human heart, through which I have wandered like one astray in a dark cavern with his torch fast flickering to extinction. But this man — this class of men — is a hopeless puzzle." "Well, but propound him," said the sculptor. "Let us have an idea of him, to begin with." "Why, indeed," replied Roderick, "he is such a being as I could conceive you to carve out of marble, and some yet unrealized perfection of human science to endow with an exquisite mockery of intellect; but still there laclcs thejagt^ inestimab le touch of a divine Creator. He looks like a man, and perchance like a betteFspecimen of man than you ordi- narily meet. You might esteem him wise — he is capable of cultivation and refinement, and has at least an e xternal con - science — but the, .demands that spirit, makes upon spirit are pTecisSly those to which ^ecanJopt. respond. When, at last, you come close to him, you find him chill and unsubstantial — a mere vapor." "I believe," said Rosina, "I have a glimmering idea of what you mean." "Then be thankful," answered her husband smiling, 258 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS "but do not anticipate any further illumination from what I am about to read. I have here imagined such a man to be — what, probably, he never is — conscious of the deficiency in his spiritual organization. Methinks the result would be a sense of cold unreahty wherewith he would go shivering through the WQd4i_^P^Si^S ^^ exchange his load of ice for any burden^of real grirf^hat fate could fling upon a human being." ^-—- Contenting himself with this preface, Roderick began to read. In a certain old gentleman's last will and testament there appeared a bequest which, as his final thought and deed, waa singularly in keeping with a long life of melancholy eccen- tricity. He devised a considerable sum for establishing a fund the interest of which was to be expended annually for- ever in preparing a Christmas banquet for ten of the most miserable persons that could be found. It seemed not to be i the testator's purpose to make these half a score of sail hearts merry, but to provide that the stern or fierce expression of I human discontent should not be drowned, even for that one jholy and joyful day, amid the acclamations of festal gratitude which all Christendom sends up. And he desired, likewise, to perpetuate his own remonstrance against the earthly course of Providence, and his sad and sour dissent from those sys- tems of religion or philosophy which either find sunshine in _the world or draw it down from Heaven. The task of inviting the guests or of selecting among such as might advance their claims to partake of this dismal hos- pitality was confided to the two trustees, or stewards, of the fund. These gentlemen, like their deceased friend, were sombre humorists, who made it their principal occupation to'ntniber-th§~^bIe threads in the web of human lif e_and_ ^ drop all the golden ones out of the" reckoning. They per- formed their present office with integrity and judgment. The aspect of the assembled company on the day of the first festival might not, it is true, have satisfied every be- MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 259 holder that these were especially the individuals, chosen forth ijy>nx all the world, whose griefs were, worthy to stand as indicators of the mass of human suffering. Yet, after due consideration, it could not be disputed that here was a variety of hopeless discomfort which, if it sometimes arose from causes apparently inadequate, was thereby only the shrewder imputation against the nature and mechanism of life. "' ' " """ ~ "'" The arrangements and decorations of the banquet were probably intended to signify that death in life which had been the testator's definition of existence. The hall, illu- minated by torches, was hung round with curtains of deep and dusky purple and adorned with branches of cypress and wreaths of artificial flowers imitative of such as used to be strewn over the dead. A sprig of parsley was laid by every plate. The main reservoir of wine was a sepulchral urn of silver, whence the liquor was distributed around the table in small vases accurately copied from those that held the tears of ancient moiirners. Neither had the stewards — if it were their taste that arranged these details — forgotten the fantasy of the old Egyptians, who seated a skeleton at every festive board and mocked their own merriment with the impertur- bable grin of a death's head. Such a fearful guest, shrouded in a black mantle, sat now at the head of the table. It was ' whispered — ^Lknc[w_not_with_what_ truth — that the testator i himself ^ad once walked the visible world with the ma- chinery of that same skeleton, and that it was one of the i stipulations of his will that he should thus be permitted to sit, from year to year, at the banquet which he had insti- tuted. If so, iLwas. perhaps covertly imphed that^ hejbad cherished no hopes of bliss^Jbeyond the^gxave to compensate for the evils which he felt or imagined here. And if, in their bewildered conjectures as to the purpose of earthly existence, the banqueters should throw aside the veil and cast an inquiring glance at this figure of Death, as seeking thence the solution, otherwise unattainable, the only reply would be a stare of the vacant eye-caverns and a grin of 260 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS the skeleton jaws. Such was the response that the dead 1 man had fancied himself to receive when he asked of death to. solve the r iddle of his life, and it was his desire to repeat I it when the guests of his disffial hospitality should find them- Iselves perplexed with the same question. "What means that wreath?" asked several of the com- pany, while viewing the decorations of the table. They alluded to a wreath of cypress which was held on high by a skeleton arm protruding from within the black mantle. "It is a crown," said one of the stewards — "not for the worthiest but for the wofullest when he shall proVe his claim to it." The guest earliest bidden to the festival was a man of soft and gentle character who had not energy to struggle against tfee_heavy despondency to which his temperament rendered_hifflJiaBleran3." therefore, with nothing outwardly to excuse him from happiness, he had spent a life of quiet misery that made his blood torpid, and weighed upon his breath, and sat like a ponderous night-fiend upon every throb of his unresisting heart; his wretchedn ess seemed as - *^5?E *^ ^^ original nature^ if not identical with, it. It wa s the mSfoftinrerof a ^second guest to cherish withio..^Mg. bosom a diseased heart which had become so wretchedly sore that the continual and unavoidable rubs of the world, the blow of an enemy, the careless jostle of a stranger, and even the faithful and loving touch of a friend, alike made ulcers in it; as is the habit of people thus afflicted, he found his chief employment in exhibiting these miserable sores to any who ii^ would give themselves the pain of viewing them. A third gu^ was a hypochondriac whose imagination wrought necromancy in Tiis outward and inward world, and caused him to see monstrous faces in the household fire, and drag- ons in the clouds of sunset, and fiends in the guise of beau- tiful women, and something ugly or wicked beneath all the pleasanisurfacesO-Lnature. His neighbor at table was one who in his early youth hadjrustgd-jaiankind too Tnnnh and hopedjtoa, highly in their behalf, and, meeting with many MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 361 disappointments, had become desperately soured ; for several ygars bacE*tIiis misantErope hadT employed himself in accu- mulating motives for hating and despising his race, such as murder, lust, treachery, ingratitude, faithlessness of trusted friends, instinctive vices of children, impurity of women, hid- den guilt in men of saintlike aspect, and, in short, all man- ner of b lack realities that_sought to decorate jHtOTaselves ^ with. .flutAvard .grace .or_.. glory. . But at every atrocious .^f act that was add ed Jbo_hig catalogugrrflt. every increase s>i the "^ si3r^nojwiedgejw;hich he spent his life to collect— rthe native impulses of the poor man's loving and confiding heart niade him^ groan with anguish. Next, with his heavy brow bent!(j downward, there stole into the hall a man naturally earnestl and impassioned, who from his immemorial infancy had feltj the consciousness of a high message to the world, but, essay- 1 ing to deliver it, had found either no voice or form of speech, I or else no ears to listen; therefore his whole life was a bitter | questioning of himself: "Why have not men acknowledged r my mission? Am I not a self-deluding fool? What busi-y ness have I on earth? Where is my grave?" Throughout the festival he quaffed frequent draughts from the sepul- chral urn of wine, hoping thus to quench the celestial fire that tortured his own breast and could not benefit his race. Then there entered, having flung away a ticket for a ball, a gay gallant of yesterday who had found four or five I wrinkles in his brow, and more gray hairs than he could well number on his head. Endowedjwith sense and feeling, I had -nflv erthelesa spf^nt. brs' youth'in folly . but^Ead reached atTast thatdreary point in life where Folly quits us of her own accord, leaving us to make friends with Wisdom if we can. Thus, cold and desolate, he had come to seek Wisdom at the banquet, and wondered if the skeleton were she. Tj eke out the company, the stewards had invited a distressed poet from his home in the almshouse, and a melancholy idiot from the street-corner. The latter had just the ghmmering of sense that was sufficient to make him consciousjof a va- cancy which the poor fellow all his life Irag had mistils- 363 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS sought to fill up with intelligence, wandering up and down the streets and groaning miserably because his attempts were ineffectual. The only lady in the hall was one who had fallen short of absolute and perfect beauty merely by the trifling defect of a slight cast in her left eye ; but t his blem - is h, minute^ s it was, so shocked the pure idaal nf her amTTp rather than he r vanityTlSt^^slM^ passed her .l^ejn solitade and^xeil.ed her countenance even from her own gaze. So the skeleton sat shrouded at one end of the table, and this poor lady at the other. «^j€"-^+"- tfo-'^.t^^'i.^\ Ir ,4,,-*-^ r^<*^ One other guest remains to be described. He was a young man of smooth brow, fair cheek and fashionable mien. So far as his exterior developed him, he might much more suitably have found a place at some merry Christmas table than have been numbered among the blighted, fate- stricken, fancy-tort ured set of ill-starred banqueters. Mur- murs arose among the guests as they noted the glance of general scrutiny which the intruder threw over his compan- ions. What had he to do among them? Why did not the skeleton of the dead founder of the feast unbend its rattling joints, arise and motion the unwelcome stranger from the board? "Shameful!" said the morbid man, while a new ulcer broke out in his heart. "He comes to mock us; we shall be the jest of his tavern friends. He will make a farce of our miseries and bring it out upon the stage." "Oh, never mind him," said the hypochondriac, smiling sourly. "He shall feast from yonder tureen of viper-soup; and if there is a fricassee of scorpions on the table, pray let him have his share of it. For the dessert he shall taste the apples of Sodom. Then, if he like our Christmas fare, let him return again next year." "Trouble him not," murmured the melancholy man, with gentleness. "What matters it whether the consciousness of misery come a few years sooner or later? If this youth deem himself happy now, yet let him sit with us, for the sake of the wretchedness to come." MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 263 The poor idiot approached the young man with that mournful aspect of vacant inquiry which his face continually wore, and which caused people to say that he was always in search of his missing wits. After no little examination he touched the stranger's hand, but immediately drew back his own, shaking his head and shivering. "Cold! cold! cold!" muttered the idiot. The young man shivered, too, and smiled. "Gentlemen — and you, madam," said one of the stew- ards of the festival — "do not conceive so ill either of our caution or judgment as to imagine that we have admitted this young stranger — Gervayse Hastings by name — without a full investigation and thoughtful balance of his claims. Trust me, not a guest at the table is better entitled to his seat." The steward's guarantee was perforce satisfactory. The company, therefore, took their places and addressed them- selves to the serious business of the feast, but were soon disturbed by the hypochondriac, who thrust back his chair, complaining that a dish of stewed toads and vipers was set before him, and that there was green dish-water in his cup of wine. This mistake being amended, he quietly resumed his seat. The wine, as it flowed freely from the sepulchral urn, seemed to come imbued with all gloomy inspirations ; so that its influence was not to cheer, but either to sink the revellers into a deeper melancholy or elevate their spirits to an enthusiasm of wretchedness. The conversation was vari- ous. They told sad stories about people who might have been worthy guests at such a festival as the present. They talked of grisly incidents in human history — of strange crimes which, if truly considered, were but convulsions of agony; of some lives that had been altogether wretched, and of others which, wearing a general semblance of happi- ness, had yet been deformed sooner or later by misfortune as by the intrusion of a grim face at a banquet ; of death- bed scenes, and what dark intimations might be gathered from the words of dying men; of suicide, and whether the Vol. 3 I 264 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS more eligible mode were by baiter, knife, poisoii, drowiiing, gradual starvation, or tbe fumes of charcoal. The majority of the guests, as is tbe custom witb people tborougbly and profoundly sick a\ beart, were anxious to make their own woes tbe theme of discussion and prove tbemselves i most excellent in anguish. The misanthropist went deep into the philosophy of evU, and wandered about in the darkness with now and then a gleam of discolored light hoveriug on ghastly shapes and horrid scenery. Many a naiserable thought such as men have stumbled upon from age to age did he now rake up again, and gloat over it as an inestimable gem, a diamond, a treasure far preferable to thosebright, spiritual revelations of_a_hattetJi«QrLd which are Uke precious~stones from beav- en^sjiavement. And then, amid his lore of wretchedrieSSj he hid his face and wept. It was a festival at which the woful man of Uz might suitably have been a guest, together with all in each succeed- ing age who have tasted deepest of the bitterness of life. "And be it said, too, that every son or daughter of woman, however favored with happy fortune, might at one sad mo- ment or another have claimed the privilege of a stricken -hqart to sit down at this table. But throughout the feast it was remarked that the young stranger, Gervayse Hast- ings, was unsuccessful in his attempts to catch its pervading spirit. At any deep, strong thought that found utterance, and which was torn out, as it were, from the saddest recesses of human consciousness, he looked mystified and bewildered — even more than the poor idiot, who seemed to grasp at such things with his earnest heart, and thus occasionally to comprehend them. The young man's conversation was of a colder and lighter kind, often brilliant, but lacking the powerful characteristics of a_ nature that had been de veloped b2;_s^ering. ''"^~^^Srf7"^aid the misanthropist, bluntly, in reply to some observation by Gervayse Hastings, "pray do not address me again. We have no right to talk together; our minds have nothing in common. By what claim you appear at MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 265 this banquet I cannot guess, but methinks, to a man who could say what you have just now said, my companions and myself must seem no more than shadows flickering on the 1 wall. And precisely such a shadow are you to us. " -' The young man smiled and bowed, but, drawing himself back in his chair, he buttoned his coat over his breast, as if the banqueting-haU were growing chill. Again the idiot fixed his melancholy stare upon the youth, and murmured, "Cold! cold! cold!" The banquet drew to its conclusion, and the guests de- parted. S carcely had they stepped across the threshold of the hall when the scene"TEaF"EadnEere passed seemedjike thaI5S^[of _§; sick fancy ox-an exhalation from_a stagnant heart. Now and then, however, during the year that ensued, these melancholy people caught glimpses of one another — transient, indeed, but enough to prove that th ey walked the , ear,^LJadtbt.the ordinary allotment of reality. Sometimes a pair of them came face to face while stealing through the evening twiUght enveloped in their sable cloaks. Sometimes they casually met in churchyards. Once, also, it happened that two of the dismal banqueters mutually started at recog- nizing each other in the noonday sunshine of a crowded street, stalking there like ghosts astray. Doubtless they wondered why the skeleton did not come abroad at noon- day, too. But, whenever the necessity of their affairs compelled these Christmas guests into the busthng world, they were sure to encounter the young man who had so unaccountably been admitted to the festival. They saw him among the gay and 'fortunate, they caught the sunny sparkle of his eye, they heard the light and careless tones of his voice, and muttered to themselves with such indignation as only the ^ arjaktcr ggy of wr etchedness could kindle: "The traitor! The vile impostor! Providence in its own good time may give him a right to feast among us. " But the young man's unabashed eye dwelt upon their gloomy figures as they passed him, seeming to say, perchance with somewhat of a 366 hawthoene's works sneer, "First know my secret, then measure yoiir claims with mine." The step of time stole onward, and soon brought merry Christmas round again, with glad and solemn worship in the churches, and sports, games, festivals, and everywhere the bright face of Joy beside the household fire. Again, like- wise, the hall, with its curtains of dusky purple, was illumi- nated by the death-torches gleaming on the sepulchral dec- orations of the banquet. The veiled skeleton sat in state, lifting the cypress-wreath above its head as the guerdon of some guest illustrious in the qualifications which there claimed precedence. As the stewards deemed the world inexhaustible in misery, and were desirous of recognizing it in all its forms, they had not seen fit to reassemble the company of the former year. New faces now threw their gloom across the table. There was a man of nice conscience who bore, a Jilood- stain_in_his heart— the deaffi of a fellow-creatxire — which for his more exquisite torture had chanced with such a peculiarity of circumstances that he could not^ absolutely determine whether his will had entered inta.the„deed_or,n2l:. Therefore his whole life was spent in the agony of an inward trial for murder, with a continual sifting of the details of his terrible calamity, until his mind had no longer any thought nor his soul any emotion disconnected with it. There was a mother, too — a mother once, but a desolation now — who many years before had gone out on a pleasure-party, and, returning, found her infant smothered in its little bed, and ever since she has been tortured with the fantasy that her buried baby lay smothering in its coffin. Then there was an aged lady who had lived from time immemorial with a constant tremor quivering through her frame. It was ter- rible to discern her dark shadow tremulous upon the wall. Her lips, likewise, were tremulous, and the expression of her eye seemed to indicate that her soul was trembling too. Owing to the bewilderment and confusion which made almost a chaos of her intellect, it was impossible to discover MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 267 what dire misfortune had thus shaken her nature to its depths ; so that the stewards had admitted her to the tahle, not from any acquaintanie with her history, but on the safe testimony of her miserable aspect. Some surprise was ex- pressed at the presence of a bluff, red-faced gentleman, a certain Mr. Smith, who had evidently the fat of many a rich feast within him, and the habitual twinkle of whose eye betrayed a disposition to break forth into uproarious laughter for little cause, or none. It turned out, however, that, with the best possible flow of spirits, our poor friend was afflicted with a physical disease of the heart which threatened instant death on the slightest cachinnatory indul- gence, or even that titillation of the bodily frame produced by merry thoughts. ' In this dilemma he had sought admit- tance to the banquet on the ostensible plea of his irksome and miserable state, but, in reality, with the hope of imbibing a life-preserving melancholy. A married couple had been invited from a motive of bitter humor, it being well understood that they rendered each other unutterably miserable whenever they chanced to meet, and therefore must necessarily be fit associates at the festival. In contrast with these was another couple, still unmarried, who had interchanged their hearts in early life, but had been divided by circumstances as impalpable as morning mist, and kept apart so long that their spirits now found it impossible to meet. Therefore, ye arning f or com- munion, yet shrinking from one another, and choosing none, besides, tE ey felt t hemselves companionless in lif e_and loojked . upon eternity as a boundless desert,. Next to the skeleton sat alSefe""s6n"^ earth^a Bunter of the Exchange, a gatherer of shining dust, a man whose life's record was in his ledger, and whose soul's prison-house the vaults of the bank where he kept his deposits. This person had been greatly perplexed at his invitation, deeming himself one of the most fortunate men in the city; but the stewards persisted in demanding his presence, assuring him that he had no conception how miser- able he was. 268 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS And now appeared a figure which we must acknowledge as our acquaintance of the former festival. It was Gervayse Hastings, whose presence had then caused so much question and criticism, and who now took his place with the compos- ure of one whose claims were satisfact6ry to himself and must needs be allowed by others. Yet his easy and unruffled ,'~:face betrayed no sorrow. The well-skilled beholders gazed a moment into his eyes and shook their heads to miss the unuttered sjmpathy-7-the countersign, never to be falsified, i of those w^ose hearts are cavern-mouths through which they j descend into a region of illimitable woe and recognize other < wanderers there. "Who is this youth?" asked the man with a blood-stain on his conscience. "Surely he has never gone down into the depths? I know all the aspects of those who have passed through the dark valley. By what right is he among us?" "Ah! it is a sinful thing to come hither without a sor- row," murmured the aged lady, in accents that partook of the eternal tremor which pervaded her whole being. "De- part, young man! Your soul has never been shaken, and therefore I tremble so much the more to look at you." "His soul shaken! No; I'll answer for it," said bluff Mr. Smith, pressing his hand upon his heart and making him- self as melancholy as he could, for fear of a fatal explosion of laughter. "I know the lad well; he has as fair prospects as any young man about town, and has no more right among us miserable creatures than the child unborn. He never was miserable, and probably never will be." "Our honored guests," interposed the stewards, "pray have patience with us, and believe, at least, that our deep veneration for the sacredness of this solemnity would pre- clude any wilful violation of it. Receive this young man to your table. It may not be too much to say that no guest here would exchange his own heart for the one that beats within that youthful bosom." "I'd call it a bargain, and gladly too," muttered Mr, MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 369 Smith, with a perplexing mixture of sadness and mirthful conceit. "A plague upon their nonsense! My own heart is i the only really miserable one in the company. It will cer- tainly be the death of me at last." * '^^=":-'-^^-- ■* '^-- -"<* Nevertheless, as on.the former occasion, the judgment of the stewards being without appeal, the company sat down. The obnoxious guest made no more attempt to obtrude his conversation on those about him, but appeared to listen to the table talk with peculiar assiduity, as if some inestimable secret, otherwise beyond his reach, might be conveyed in a casual word. And, in truth, to those who could understand and value it, there was rich matter in the upgushings and outpourings of these initiated souls to whom *Qtcow had been a^^aligman admitting them into-spirituaV depths which no othersgelljcaii- open. Sometimes out of the midst of densest glooruthere flashed a momentary radiance pure as crystal, bright as the flame of stars, and shedding such a glow upon the mysteries of life that the guests were ready to exclaim, "Surely the riddle is on the point of being solved !" At such ilimninaisd.JUltervalsjHbe,_saddfis^ be re- v ealed tha t mortal griefs are but shadowy and^external — no more than the sable robes voluminously shrouding a certain divine realit y, and thus indicating what might otherwise be altogether invisible to mortal eye. "Just now," remarked the trembling old woman, "I seemed to see beyond the outside, and then my everlasting tremor passed away." " ■WoTay._±hat^«Quld^dweU alveays in _these momentary g leams of light !" said the man of stricken conscience. "Then the blood-stain in my heart would be washed clean away." , This strain of conversation appeared so unintelligibly absurd to good Mr. Smith that he burst into precisely the fit of laughter which his physicians had warned him against as likely to prove instantaneously fatal. In effect, he fell back in his chair a corpse with a broad grin upon his face, while his ghost, perchance, remained beside it, bewildered at its 270 Hawthorne's works unpremeditated exit. This catastrophe, of course, broke up the festival. ' ' How is this? You do not tremble, ' ' observed the tremu- lous old woman to Gervayse Hastings, who was gazing at the dead man with singular intentness. "Is it not awful to see him so suddenly vanish out of the midst of life — this man of flesh and blood whose earthly nature was so warm and strong? There is a never-ending tremor in my soul, but it trembles afresh at this. And you are calm!" ■'" "Would that he could teach me somewhat!" said Ger- vayse Hastings, drawing a long breath. "Men pass before me Uke shadows on the wall; their actions, passions, feel- ings, are flickerings of the light, and then they vanish! Neither the corpse nor yonder skeleton nor this old woman's everlasting tremor can give me what I seek." And then the company departed. We cannot linger to narrate in such detail more circum- stances of these singular festivals, which, in accordance with the founder's will, continued to be kept with the regularity of an established institution. In process of time the stewards adopted the custom of inviting from far and near those indi- viduals whose misfortunes were prominent above other men's, and whose mental and moral development might, therefore, be supposed to possess a corresponding interest. The exiled uoble of the French Revolution and the broken soldier of the Empire were alike represented at the table. Fallen monarchs wandering about the earth have found places at that forlorn and miserable feast. The statesman, when his party flung him off, might, if he chose it, be once more a great man for the space of a single banquet. Aaron Burr's name appears on the record at a period when his ruin — the profoundest and most striking, with more of moral circumstance in it than that of almost any other man — was complete, in his lonely age. Stephen Girard, when his wealth weighed upon him like a mountain, once sought admittance of his own accord. It is not probable, however, that these men had any lesson to teach in the lore of discontent and misery which might MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSB 271 not equally well have been studied in the common walks of life. Illustrious unfortunates attract a wider sympathy, not because their griefs are more intense, but because, being set on lofty pedestals, they the better serve mankind as instances and by-words of calamity. It concerns our present purpose to say that at each suc- cessive festival Gervayse Hastings showed his fac^ gradually changing from the smooth beauty of his youth to the thought- ful comeliness of manhood, and thence to the bald, impressive dignity of age. He was the only individual invariably pres- ent, yet on every occasion there were murmurs, both from those who knew his character and position and from those whose hearts shrank back, as denying his companionship in their mystic fraternity. "Who is this impassive man?" had been asked a hundred times. "Has he^uffered? Has he sinned? There are no traces of either. Then wherefp£e,ia,he here?" "You must inquire of the stewards or of himself," was the constant reply. "We seem to know him well here in our city, and know nothing of him but what is creditable and fortunate. Yet hither he comes, year after year, to this gloomy banquet, and sits among the guests like a marble statue. Ask yonder skeleton; perhaps that may solve the riddle." It was, in truth, a wonder. The life of Gervayse Hast- ings was not merely a prosperous but a brilliant one. Every- thing had gone well with him. He was wealthy far beyond the expenditure that was required by habits of magnificence, a taste of rare purity and cultivation, a love of travel, a scholar's instinct to collect a splendid library, and, more- over, what seemed a munificent liberality to the distressed. He had sought domestic happiness, and not vainly, if a lovely and tender wife and children of fair promise could insure it. He had, besides, ascended above the limit which separates the obscure from the distinguished, and had won a stainless reputation in affairs of the widest public impor- tance. Not that he was a popular character or had within 373 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS him the mysterious attributes which are essential to that species of success. To the public he wasj!._co]4-.abstrac,tion, wholly destitute of those richTIBllSs' of personality, that liv- ing warmth and the peculiar faculty of stamping his own heart's impression on a multitude of hearts, by which the people recognize their favorites. And it must be owned that, after his most intimate associates had done their best to know him thoroughly and love him warmly, they were startled to find how little hold he had upon their affections. T hey approved , jhey admired^ but still, in those moments when the human spirit most craves reality, they shranE"BacE~~ from Gervayse Hastings as powerless to give them what they sought. It was the feeling of distrustful regret with which we should draw back the hand after extending it in an illusive twilight to grasp the hand of a shadow upon the wall. As the superfipiaj fervency of youth decayed this peouUar effect of Gervayse Hastings' character grew more percepti- ble. His children, when he extended his arms, came coldly to his knees, but never climbed them of their own accord. His wife wept secretly and almost adjudged herself a crimi- nal because she shivered in the chUl of his bosopa. He, too, occasioeally appeared not unconscious of the chiUness of his moral atmosphere, and willing, if it might be so, to w arm himself .at a kindly fire. But age stole onward and benumbed him more and more. As the hoar-frost began to gather on him his wife we^t to her grave, and was doubtless warmer there ; his children either died or were scattered to different homes of their own; and old_,Gervgyse Hastings — unggathed by. grief, alone, bi5.t needing no companionship— •eontiiiHgd his steady \j[,Qlk through lile^ and .stUl on. every Christmas (lay attended at the di smal banquet . His privilege as a guest had become prescriptive now. Had he claimed the head of the table, even the skeleton would have been ejected from its seat. Finally, at the merry Christmas-tide when he had num- bered fourscore years complete, this pale, high-browed, MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 273 marble-featured old man once more entered the long-fre- quented hall with the same impassive aspect that had called forth so much dissatisfied remark at his first attendance. Time, except, in matters merely external, ha d done n othing for him, either of good or evil. As he took his place he threw a calSQ^inqulrihg glance around the table, as if to as- certain whether any guest had yet appeared, after so many unsuccessful banquets, who might impart to him the mys- tery, the deep warm secret, the life within the life, which, whe ther man ifested in joy or sorrow, is what gives substance to a world of shadows. "My friends," said Gervayse Hastings, assuming a posi- tion which his long conversance with the festival caused to appear natural, "you are welcome! I drink to you all in this cup of sepulchral wine." The guests replied courteously, but still in a manner that proved them unable to receive the old man as a member of their sad fraternity. It may be well to give the reader an idea of the present company at the banquet. One was formerly a clergyman enthusiastic in his profession, and apparently of the genuine dynasty of those old Puritan divines whose faith in their call- ing and stern exercise of it had placed them among the mighty of the earth. But, yielding to the speculative tendency of the age, he had gone astray from the fir m fo un dation of an ancient faith and wandered into a cloud-region where every- thing was misty and deceptive, ever mocking him with a semblance of reality, but still dissolving^ when he flung him- self upon it for support and rest. His instinct and early training deiaanHed something steadfast, but, looking for- ward, he beheld vapors piled on vapors, and behind him an impassable gulf between the man of yesterday and to- day, on the borders of which he paced to and fro, sometimes wringing nis hands in agony and often making his own woe a theme of scornful merriment. This -surely was a miser- able man. N'ext, there was a theorist, one of a numerous tribe, although he deemed himself unique since the creation 274 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS — a theorist who had conceived a plan by which all ihe wretchedness of earth, moral and physical, might be done away and the bliss of the millennium at once acoomplished. But, the incredulity of mankind debarring him from action, he was smitten with as much grief as if the whole mass of woe which he was denied the opportunity to remedy were crowded into his own bosom. A plain old man in black at- tracted much of the company's notice, on the supposition that he was no other than Father Miller, who, it seemed, had given himself up to despair at the tedious delay of the final conflagration. Then there was a man distinguished for native pride and obstinacy, who a little while before had possessed immense wealth and held the control of a vast moneyed interest, which he had wielded in the same spirit as a despotic monarch would wield the power of his empire, carrying on a tremendous moral warfare, the roar and tremor of which was felt at every fireside in the land. At length came a crushing ruin — a total overthrow of fortune, power and character — the effect of which on his imperious and in many respects noble and lofty nature might have entitled him to a place not merely at our festival, but among the peers of Pandemonium. There was a modern philanthropist who had become so deeply sensible of the calamities of thou- sands and millions of his fellow -creatures, and of the imprac- ticableness of any general measures for their relief, that he had no heart to do what little good lay immediately within his power, but contented himself with being miserable for sympathy. Near him sat a gentleman in a predicament hitherto unprecedented, but of which the present epoch probably affords numerous examples. Ever since he was of capacity to read a newspaper this person had prided him- self on his consistent adherence to one political party, but in the confusion of these latter days had got bewildered, and knew not whereabout his party was. This wretched condi- tion, so morally desolate and disheartening to a man who has long accustomed himself to merge his individuality in the mass of a great body, can only be conceived' by such as MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 275 have experienced it. His next companion was a popular orator who had lost his voice, and, as it was pretty much all that he had to lose, had fallen into a state of hopeless melancholy. The table was hkewise graced by two of the gentler sex — one, a half-starved, consumptive seamstress, the representative of thousands just as wretched ; the other, a woman of unemployed energy who found herself in the world with nothing to achieve, nothing to enjoy, and noth- ing even to suffer. She had, therefore, driven herself to the verge of madness by dark broodings over the wrongs of her sex and its exclusion from a proper field of action. The roll of guests being thus complete, a side-table had been set for three or four disappointed oflSce-seekers with hearts as sick as death, whom the stewards had admitted partly because their calamities really entitled them to entrance here, and partly that they were in especial need of a good dinner. There was likewise a homeless dog with his tail between his legs, licking up the crumbs and gnawing the fragments of the feast — such a melancholy cur as one sometimes sees about the streets without a master and willing to follow the first that will accept his service. In their own way these were as wretched a set of people as ever had assembled at the festival. There they sat with the veiled skeleton of the founder, holding aloft the cypress- wreath, at one end of the table, and at the other, wrapped in furs, the withered figure of Gervayse Hastings, stately, calm and cold, impressing the company with awe, yet so little interesting their sympathy that he might have vanished into thin air without their once exclaiming, "Whither is he gone?" "Sir," said the philanthropist, addressing the old man, "you have been so long a guest at this annual festival, and have thus been conversant with so many varieties of human afHiction, that not improbably you have thence derived some great and important lessons. How blessed were your lot could you reveal a secret by which all this mass of woe might be- removed!" 276 Hawthorne's Wo&ks "I know of but one misfortune," answered Gervay^ Hastings, quietly, "and that is my own." "Your own!" rejoined the philanthropist. "And, loot- ing back on your serene and prosperous life, how can yiu claim to be the sole imfortiinate of the human race?" "You will not understand it," replied Gervayse Hastings, feebly and with a singular inefficiency of pronunciation, a: id sometimes putting one word for another. "None have uh- derstood it — not even those who experience the like. It is a chiUiness, a want of earnestness, a feeling as if wljat should be my heart were a thing of vapor, a haunting psr- ception of unreality. Thus, seeming to possess all that otler men have, all that men aim at, I have really possessed noth- ing — ^neither joy nor griefs. All things, all persons — as was truly said to me at this table long and long ago — have been like shadows flickering on the wall. It was so with my wife and children, with those who seemed my friends; it is so with yourselves, whom I see now before me. Nei^etJiase I ^myself a ny ^f^^^ <^Tr^aijirio.Pi^JrM.arn a. shadow like . the rest." "And how is it with your views of a future fife?" inquired the speculative clergyman. "Worse than with you," said the old man, in a hollow and feeble tone, "for I cannot conceive it earnestly enough to feel either hope or fear. Mine — mine is the wretchedness ! This cold heart — this unreal life ! Ah ! it grows colder still. ' ' It so chanced that at this juncture the decayed ligaments of the skeleton gave way, and the dry bones fell together in a heap, thus causing the dusty wreath of cypress to drop upon the table. The attention of the company being thus diverted for a single instant from Gervayse Hastings, they perceived, on turning again toward him, that the old man had undergone a change : his shadow had ceased to flicker on the wall. "Well, Rosina, what is your criticism?" asked Roderick as he rolled up the manuscript. "Frankly, your success is by no means complete," replied MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 277 »he. "It is true I have an idea of the character you endeavor ■o describe, but it is rather by dint of my own thought than jour expression." "That is unavoidable," observed the sculptor, "because the characteristics are all negative. If Gervayse Hastings could have imbibed one human grief at the gloomy banquet, ihe task of describing him would have been infinitely easier. Of such persons — and we do meet with these moral monsters tow and then — ^it is difficult to conceive how they came to exist here or what there is in them capable of existence here- after. They seem to be on the outside of everything, and nothing wearies the soul more than an attempt to comprehend tkem within its grasp." DROWNE'B WOODEN IMAGE ONE sunshiny morning in the good old times of the town of Boston a young carver in wood, well known by the name of Drowne, stood contemplating a large oaken Jog which it was his purpose to convert into the figure- head of a vessel, and while he discussed within his own mind what sort of shape or similitude it were well to bestow upon this excellent piecfi of timber, there came into Drowne's work- shop a certain Captain Hmmewell, owner and commander of the good brig called the "Cynosure," which had just returned from her first voyage to Fayal. "Ah! that will do, Drowne, that will do!" cried the jolly captain, tapping the log with his rattan. "I bespeak this very piece of oak for the figure-head of the * Cynosure. ' She has shown herself the sweetest craft that ever floated, and I mean to decorate her prow with the handsomest image that the skill of man can cut out of timber. And, Drowne, you are the fellow to execute it." "You give me more credit than I deserve, Captain Hunne- well," said the carver, modestly, yet as one conscious of emi- nence in his art, "but for the sake of the good brig I stand 278 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS ready to do my best. And which of these designs do yoii prefer? Here," pointing to a staring half-length figure i^ a white wig and scarlet coat — "here is an excellent mode, the hkeness of our gracious king. Here is the valiant Ac- miral Vernon. Or if you prefer a female figure, what sa'^ you to Britannia with the trident?" "All very fine, Drowne — all very fine," answered th) mariner — "but, as nothing like the brig ever swam th) ocean, so I am determined she shall have such a figur( head as old Neptune never saw in his life. And, what Js more, as there is a secret in the matter, you must pledi your credit not to betray it." "Certainly," said Drowne, marvelling, however, wh^t possible mystery there could be in reference to an affair so open, of necessity, to the inspection of all the world as tne figure-head of a vessel. "You may depend, captain, on my being as secret as the nature of the case will permit." Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the button, and communicated his wishes in so low a tone that it would be unmannerly to repeat what was evidently intended for the carver's private ear. We shall, therefore, take the opportu- nity to give the reader a few desirable particulars about Drowne himself. He was the first American who is known to have at- tempted — in a very humble line, it is true — ^that art in which we can now reckon so many names already distinguished or rising to distinction. From his earliest boyhood he had ex- hibited a knack — for it would be too proud a word to call it genius : a knack therefore — for the imitation of the human figure in whatever material came most readily to hand. The snows of a New England win|;er had often supplied him with a species of marble as dazzlingly white, at least, as the Pa- rian or the Carrara, and, if less durable, yet sufficiently so to correspond with any claims to permanent existence possessed by the boy's frozen statues. Yet they won admiration from maturer judges than his schoolfellows, and were, indeed, re- markably clever, though destitute of the native warmth that MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 279 might have made the snow melt beneath his hand. As he advanced in life the young man adopted pine and oak as eligible materials for the display of his skill, which now be- gan to bring him a return of solid silver, as well as the empty praise that had been an apt reward enough for his produc- tions of evanescent snow. He became noted for carving ornamental pump-heads, and wooden urns for gate-posts, and decorations more grotesque than fanciful for mantel-pieces. Fo apothecary would have deemed himself in the way of obtaining custom without setting up a gilded mortar, if not a head of Galen or Hippocrates, from the skilful hand of Drowne. But the great scope of his business lay in the manufacture of figure-heads for vessels. "Whether it were the monarch himself or some famous British admiral or general or the governor of the province, or, perchance, the favorite daughter of the shipowner, there the image stood above the prow decked out in gorgeous colors, magnificently gilded and staring the whole world out of countenance, as if from an innate consciousness of its own superiority. These specimens of native sculpture had crossed the sea in all direc- tions, and been not ignobly noticed among the crowded ship- ping of the Thames and wherever else the hardy mariners of New England had pushed their adventures. It must be confessed that a family likeness pervaded these respectable progeny of Drowne's skill — that the benign countenance of the king resembled those of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart, the merchant's daughter, bore a remarkable similitude to Britannia, Victory, and other ladies of the alle- goric sisterhood ; and finally, that they all had a kind of wooden aspect which proved an intimate relationship with the unshaped blocks of timber in the carver's workshop. But, at least, there was no inconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any attribute to render them really works of art, except that deep quality, be it of soul or intellect, which bestows life upon the lifeless and warmth upon the cold, and which, had it been present, would have made Drowne's wooden image instinct with spirit. 280 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS The captain of the "Cynosure" had now finished his instructions. w "And, Drowne," said he, impressively, "you must lay aside all other business and set about this forthwith. And, as to the price, only do the job in first-rate style and you shall settle that point yourself." "Very well, captain," answered the carver, who looked grave and somewhat perplexed, yet had a sort of smile upon his visage. "Depend upon it, I'll do my utmost to satisfy you." From that moment the men of taste about Long Wharf and the town dock, who were wont to show their love for the arts by frequent visits to Drowne's workshop and admi- ration of his wooden images, began to be sensible of a mys- tery in the carver's conduct. Often he was absent in the daytime. Sometimes, as might be judged by gleams of light from the shop windows, he was at work until a late hour of the evening, although neither knock nor voice on such occa- sions could gain admittance for a visitor or elicit any word of response. Nothing remarkable, however, was observed in the shop at those hours when it was thrown open. A fine piece of timber, indeed, which Drowne was known to have reserved for some work of especial dignity> wa-s seen to be gradually assuming shape. What shape it was destined ultimately to take was a problem to his friends and a point on which the carver himself preserved a rigid silence. But day after day, though Drowne was seldom noticed in the act of working upon it, this rude form began to be devel- oped, until it became evident to all observers that a female figure was growing into mimic life. At each new visit they beheld a larger pile of wooden chips and a nearer approxima- tion to something beautiful. It seemed as if the hamadryad of the oak had sheltered herself from the unimaginative world within the heart of her native tree, and that it was only necessary to remove the strange shapelessness that had incrusted her and reveal the grace and loveliness of a divin- ity. Imperfect as the design, the attitude, the costume, and MOSSES PROM AN OLD MANSE 281 especially the face of the image, still remained, there was already an e£fect that drew the eye from the wooden clever- ness of Drowne's earlier productions and fixed it upon the tantalizing mystery of this new project. Copley, the celebrated painter, then a young man and a resident of Boston, came one day to visit Drowne, for he had recognized so much of moderate ability in the carver as to induce him, in the dearth of any professional sympathy, to cultivate his acquaintance. On entering the shop the artist glanced at the inflexible image of king, commander, dame and allegory that stood around, on the best of which might have been bestowed the questionable praise that it looked as if a living m.an had here been changed to wood, and that not only the physical, but the intellectual and spiritual part, partook of the stolid transformation. But in not a single instance did it seem as if the wood were imbibing the ethereal essence of humanity. What a wide distinction is here ! and how far would the slightest portion of the latter merit have outvalued the utmost degree of the former! "My friend Drowne," said Copley, smiling to himself, but alluding to the mechanical and wooden cleverness that so invariably distinguished the images, "you are really a remarkable person. I have seldom met with a man in your line of business that could do so much, for one other touch might make this figure of General Wolfe, for instance, a breathing and intelligent human creature." "You would have me think that you are praising me highly, Mr. Copley," answered Drowne, turning his back upon Wolfe's image in apparent disgust, "but there has come a light into my mind. T know what you know as well — that the one touch which you speak of as deficient is the only one that would be truly valuable, and that with- out it these works of mine are no better than worthless abor- tions. There is the same difference between them and the works of an inspired artist as between a sign-post daub and one of your best pictures." 283 hawthoenb's works "This is strange," cried Copley, looking 'him in the face, which now, as the painter fancied, had a singular depth of intelligence, though hitherto it had not given him greatly the advantage over his own family of wooden images. "What has come over you? How is it that, possessing the idea which you have now uttered, you should produce only such works as these?" The carver smiled, but made no reply. Copley turned again to the images, conceiving that the sense of deficiency so rare in a merely mechanical character must surely iinply a genius the tokens of which had been overlooked. But no ; there was not a trace of it. He was about to withdraw, when his eyes chanced to faU upon a half -developed figure which lay in a comer of the workshop surrounded by scat- tered chips of oak. It arrested him at once. "What is here? Who has done this?" he broke out, after contemplating it in speechless astonishment for an instant. "Here is the divine, the life-giving touch! What inspired hand is beckoning this wood to arise and live? Whose work is this?" "No man's work," replied Drowne. "The figure lies within that block of oak, and it is my business to find it." "Drowne," said the true artist, grasping the carver fer- vently by the hand, "you are a man of genius!" As Copley departed, happening to glance backward from the threshold, he beheld Drowne bending over the half -cre- ated shape, and stretching forth his arms as if he would have embraced and drawn it to his heart, while, had such a miracle been possible, his countenance expressed passion enough to communicate warmth and sensibiUty to the life- less oak. "Strange enough!" said the artist to himself. "Who would have looked for a modem Pygmalion in the person of a Yankee mechanic?" As yet the image was but vague in its outward present- ment; so that, as in the cloud-shapes around the western sun, the observer rather felt or was led to imagine than MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 283 really saw what was intended by it. Day by day, however, the work assumed greater precision and settled its irregular and misty outline into distincter grace and beauty. The general design was now obvious to the common eye. It was a female figure in what appeared to be a foreign dress, the gown being laced over the bosom and opening in the front, so as to disclose a skirt or petticoat the folds and in- equalities of which were admirably represented in the oaken substance. She wore a hat of singular gracefulness and abundantly laden with flowers such as never grew in the rude soil of N"ew England, but which, with all their fanciful luxuriance, had a natural truth that it seemed impossible for the most fertile imagination to have attained without copying from real prototypes. There were several little appendages to this dress, such as a fan, a pair of earrings, a chain about the neck, a watch in the bosom and a ring upon the finger, all of which would have been deemed beneath the dignity of sculpture. They were put on, however, with as much taste as a lovely woman might have shown in her attire, and could therefore have shocked none but a judgment spoiled by artistic rules. The face was still imperfect, but gradually, by a magic touch, intelligence and sensibility brightened through the fea- tures, vnth all the effect of light gleaming forth from within the solid oak. The face became alive. It was a beautiful, though not precisely regular and somewhat haughty, as- pect, but with a certain piquancy about the eyes and mouth which, of all expressions, would have seemed the most im- possible to throw over a wooden countenance. And now, so far as carving went, this wonderful production was complete. "Drowne," said Copley, who had hardly missed a single day in his visits to the carver's workshop, "if this work were in marble, it would make you famous at once ; nay, I would almost affirm that it would hiake an era in the art. It is as ideal as an antique statue, yet as real as any lovely woman whom one meets at a fireside or in the street. But I trust 284 Hawthorne's wokks you do not mean to desecrate this exquisite creature with paint, like those staring kings and admirals yonder?" "Not paint her?" exclaimed Captain Hunnewell, who stood by. "Not paint the figurehead of the 'Cynosure'? And what sort of a figure should I cut in a foreign port with such an unpainted oaken stick as this over my prow? She must, and she shall, be painted to the life, from the topmost fiower in her hat down to the silver spangles on her slippers." "Mr. Copley," said Drowne quietly, "I know nothing of marble statuary, and nothing of the sculptor's rules of art, but of this wooden image, this work of my hands, this creat- ure of my heart!" — and here his, voice faltered and choked in a very singular manner — "of this — of her — I may say that I know something. A well-spring of inward wisdom gushed within me as I wrought upon the oak with my whole strength and soul and faith. Let others do what they may with marble and adopt what rules they choose ; if I can pro- duce my desired effect by painted wood, those rules are not for me, and I have a right to disregard them." "The very spirit of genius!" muttered Copley to himself. "How otherwise should this carver feel himself entitled to transcend all rules and make me ashamed of quoting them?" He looked earnestly at Drowne, and again saw that ex- pression of human love which in a spiritual sense, as the artist could not help imagining, was the secret of the life that had been breathed into this block of wood. The carver, still in the same secrecy that marked all his operations upon this mysterious image, proceeded to paint the habiliments in their proper colors and the countenance with nature's red and white. "When all was finished, he threw open his workshop, and admitted the townspeople to behold what he had done. Most persons at their first entrance felt impelled to remove their hats and pay such reverence as was due to the richly-dressed and beautiful young lady who seemed to stand in a corner of the room with oaken chips and shavings scattered at her feet. Then MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 285 came a sensation of fear — as if, not being actually human, yet so like humanity, she must therefore be something pre- ternatural. There was, in truth, an indefinable air and ex- pression that might reasonably induce the query who and from what sphere this daughter of the oak should be. '■ The strange rich flowers of Eden on her head ; the complexion, so much deeper and more brilliant than those of our native beauties; the foreigji, as it seemed, and fantastic garb, yet- not too fantastic to be worn decorously in the street; the delicately- wrought embroidery of the skirt ; the broad gold chain about her jieck; the curious ring upon her finger; the fap so exquisitely sculptured in open-work and painted to- resemble pearl and ebony — where could Drowne in his sober walk of life have beheld the vision here so matchlessly em- bodied? And tl^m her f ape! In the dark eyes and round the voluptuoijs mouth there played a look made up of pride, coquptry and a gleam of nairtbfulness which impressed Oop- ley ■ffith the ideg. that the image was secretly enjoying the perplexing admiration of himself and other beholders. "And will you," said he to the carver, "permit this mas- t^rpiece to become the figure-head of a vessel? Give the honest captain, yonder figure of Britannia — ^it will answer bis purpose far better— and send this fairy-queen to Eng- land, where, for ^.ught I know, it may bring you a thousand pounds." "I have not wrought it for money," said Drowne. "What sort of a fellow is this?" thought Copley. "A. Yankee, and throw away the chance of making his for- tune ! He has gone mad, and thence has come this gleam of genius." There was still further proof of Browne's lunacy, if credit were due to the rumor that he had been seen kneeling at the feet of the oaken lady and gazing with a lover's passionate ardor into the face that his own hands had created. The bigots of the.day hinted that it would be no matter of sur- prise if an evil spirit were allowed to enter this beautiful form and seduce the carver to destruction. 286 HAWTHORNE'S WOEKS The fame of the image spread far and wide. The inhab- itants visited it so universally that after a few days of exhi- bition there was hardly an old man or a child who had not become minutely familiar with its aspect. Had the story of Drowne's wooden image ended here, its celebrity might have been prolonged for many years by the reminiscences of those who looked upon it in their childhood and saw noth- ing else so beautiful in after-life. But the town was now astounded by an event the narrative of which has formed itself into one of the most singular legends that are yet to be met with in the traditionary chimney-corners of the Wew England metropolis, where old men and women sit dream- ing of the past and wag their heads at the dreamers of the present and the future. One fine morning, just before the departure of the "Cyno- sure" on her second voyage to Fayal, the commander of that gallant vessel was seen to issue from his residence in Han- over Street. He was stylishly dressed in a blue broadcloth coat with gold lace at the seams and buttonholes, an em- broidered scarlet waistcoat, a triangular hat with a loop and broad binding of gold, and wore a silver-hilted hanger at his side. But the good captain might have been arrayed in the robes of a prince or the rags of a beggar without in either case attracting notice while obscured by such a companion as now leaned on his arm. The people in the street started, rubbed their eyes, and either leaped aside from their path or stood as if transfixed to wood or marble in astonishment. "Do you see it? Do you see it?" cried one, with tremulous eagerness. "It is the very same!" "The same?" answered another, who had arrived in town only the night before. ""Who do you mean? I see only a sea-captain in his shore-going clothes, and a young lady in a foreign habit with a bunch of beautiful flowers in her hat. On my word she is as fair and bright a damsel as my eyes have looked on this many a day!" "Yes, the same — the very same!" repeated the other. "Drowne's wooden image has come to life." MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSB 287 Here was a miracle indeed! Yet, illuminated by the sunshine or darkened by the alternate shade of the houses, and with its garments fluttering lightly in the morning breeze, there passed the image along the street. It was exactly and minutely the shape, the garb and the face which the townspeople had so recently thronged to see and admire. Kot a rich flower upon her head, nor a single leaf, but had had its prototype in Drowne's wooden workmanship, al- though now their fragile grace had become flexible and was shaken by every footstep that the wearer made. The broad gold chain upon the neck was identical with the one rep- resented on the image, and glistened with the motion im- parted by the rise and fall of the bosom which it decorated. A real diamond sparkled on her finger. In her right hand ( she bore a pearl-and-ebony fan, which she flourished with a fantastic and bewitching coquetry that was likewise ex- pressed in all her movements, as well as in the style of her beauty and the attire that so well harmonized with it. The face, with its brilliant depth of complexion, had the same piquancy of mirthful mischief that was fixed upon the countenance of the image, but which was here varied and continually shifting, yet always essentially the same, like the sunny gleam upon a bubbling fountain. On the whole, there was something so airy, and yet so real, in the figure, and withal so perfectly did it represent Drowne's image, that people knew not whether to suppose the magic wood etherealized into a spirit or warmed and softened into an actual woman. "One thing is certain," muttered a Puritan of the old stamp, "Drowne has sold himself to the devil; and doubtless this gay Captain Hunnewell is a party to the bargain." "And I," said a young man who overheard him, "would almost consent to be third victim for the liberty of saluting those lovely lips." "And so would I," said Copley, the painter, "for the privilege of taking her picture." The image — or the apparition, whichever it might be — ^88 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS still escorted by the bold captain, proceeded from Hanover Street through some of the cross-lanes that make this por- tion of the town so intricate, to Ann Street, thence into Dock Square, and so downward to Drowne's shop, which stood just on the water's edge. The crowd still followed, gather- ing volume as it rolled along. Never had a modern miracle occurred in such broad daylight, nor in the presence of such a multitude of witnesses. The airy image, as if conscious that she was the object of the murmurs and disturbance that swelled behind her, appeared slightly vexed and flustered, yet still in a manner consistent with the light vivacity and sportive mischief that were written in her countenance. She was observed to flutter her fan with such vehement rapidity that the elaborate delicacy of its workmanship gave way, and it remained broken in her hand. Arriving at Drowne's door, while the captain threw it open the marvellous apparition paused an instant on the threshold, assuming the very attitude of the image and cast- ing over the crowd that glance of sunny coquetry which all remembered on the face of the oaken lady. She and her cavalier then disappeared. "Ah!" murmured the crowd, drawing a deep breath, as with one vast pair of lungs. "The world looks darker now that she has vanished," said some of the young men. But the aged, whose recollections dated as far back as witch-times, shook their heads and hinted that our fore- fathers would have thought it a pious deed to burn th« daughter of the oak with fire. "If she be other than a bubble of the elements," ex- claimed Copley, "I must look upon her face again." He accordingly entered the shop, and there, in her usual corner, stood the image, gazing at him, as it might seem, with the very same expression of mirthful mischief that had been the farewell look of the apparition when, but a moment before, she turned her face toward the crowd. The carver stood beside his creation, mending the beautiful fan, which MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 289 by Bome accident was broken in her hand. But there was no longer any motion in the lifelike image nor any neal woman in the workshop, nor even the witchcraft of a sunny shadow that might have deluded people's eyes as it flitted along the street. Captain Hunnewell, too, had vanished. His hoarse, sea-breezy tones, however, were audible on the other side of a door that opened upon the water. "Sit down in the stern-sheets, My Lady," said the gal- lant captain. — "Come! bear a hand, you lubbers, and set us on board in the turning of a minute-glass." And then was heard the stroke of oars. "Drowne," said Copley, with a smile of intelligence, "you have been a truly fortunate man. What painter or statuary ever had such a subject? No wonder that she inspired a genius into you, and first created the artist who afterward created her image." Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore the traces of tears, but from which the light of imagination and sen- sibility, so recently illuminating it, had departed. He was again the mechanical carver that he had been known to be all his lifetime. "I hardly understand what you mean, Mr. Copley," said he, putting his hand to his brow. "This image ! Can it have been my work? Well, I have wrought it in a kind of dream, and now that I am broad awake I must set about finishing yonder figure of Admiral Vernon." And forthwith he employed himself on the stolid coun- tenance of one of his wooden progeny, and completed it in his own mechanical style, from which he was never known afterward to deviate. He followed his business industriously for many years, acquired a competence, and in the latter part of his life attained to a dignified station in the church, being remembered in records and traditions as Deacon Drowne the carver. One of his productions — an Indian chief gilded all over — stood during the better part of a century on the cupola of the province-house, bedazzling the eyes of those who looked upward like an angel of the 290 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS sun. Another work of the good deacon's hand— ^a reduced likeness of friend Captain Hunnewell holding a telescope and quadrant — may be seen to this day at the corner of Broad and State Streets, serving in the useful capacity of sign to the shop of a nautical-instrument maker. We know not how to account for the inferiority of this quaint old figure as compared with the recorded excellence of the oaken lady, unless on the supposition that in every human spirit there is imagination, sensibility, creative power, genius, which according to circumstances may either be developed in this woi'ld or shrouded in a mask of dulness until another state of being. To our friend Drowne there came a brief season of excitement kindled by love. It rendered him a genius for that one occasion, but, quenched in disappoint- ment, left him again the mechanical carver in wood without the power even of appreciating the work that his own hands had wrought. Yet who can doubt that the very highest state to which a human spirit can attain in its loftiest aspirations is its truest and most natural state, and that 'Drowne was more consistent with himself when he wrought the admir- able figure of the mysterious lady than when he perpetrated a whole progeny of blockheads? There was a rumor in Boston about this period that a young Portuguese lady of rank, on some occasion of politi- cal or domestic disquietude, had fled from her home in Fayal and put herself under the protection of Captain HunnewfeU, on board of whose vessel and at whose residence she was sheltered until a change of affairs. This fair stranger must have been the original of Drowne's wooden image. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 291 THE INTELLIGENCE-OFFICE A GRAVE figure with a pair of mysterious spectacles on his nose and a pen behind his ear was seated at a desk in the corner of a metropolitan office. The apartment was fitted up with a counter and furnished with an oaken cabinet and a chair or two, in simple and business- like style. Around the walls were stuck advertisements of articles lost or articles wanted or articles to be disposed of, in one or another of which classes were comprehended nearly all the conveniences, or otherwise, that the isaiagination of man has contrived. The interior of the room was thrown into shadow, partly by the tall edifices that rose on the opposite side of the street and partly by the immense show- bills of blue and crimson paper that were expanded over each of the three windows. Undisturbed by the tramp of feet, the rattle of wheels, the hum of voices, the shout of the city crier, the scream of the newsboys, and other tokens of the multitudinous life that surged along in front of the office, the figure at the desk pored diligently over a folio volume of ledger-like size and aspect. He looked like the spirit of a record — the soul of his own great volume — made visible in mortal shape. But scarcely an instant elapsed without the appearance at the door of some individual from the busy population whose vicinity was manifested by so much buzz and clatter and outcry. Now it was a thriving mechanic in quest of a tenement that should come within his moderate means of rent, now a ruddy Irish girl from the banks of Killarney wandering from kitchen to kitchen of our land while her heart still hung in the peat-smoke of her native cottage, now a single gentleman looking out for economical board, and now — for this establishment offered an epitome of worldly 392 HAWTHORNE'S WOKK8 pursuits — ^it was a faded beauty inquiring for her lost bloom, or Peter Schlemihl for his lost shadow, or an author of ten years' standing for his vanished reputation, or a moody man fcr yesterday's sunshine. At the next lifting of the latch there entered a person with his hat awry upon his head, his clothes perversely ill- suited to his form, his eyes staring in directions opposite to their intelligence and a certain odd unsuitableness pervad- ing his whole figure. Wherever he might chance to be — whether in palace or cottage, church or market, on land or sea, or even at his own fireside ■ — he must have worn the characteristic expression of a m an out of his right place. "This," inquired he, putting his~question in the form of an assertion — "this is the Central Intelligence-OflBce?" "Even so," answered the figure at the desk, turning another leaf of his volume. He then looked the applicant in the face and said briefly, "Your business?" "I want," said the latter, with tremulous earnestness, "a place." "A place! And of what nature?" aeked the intelligencer. "There are many vacant, or soon to be so, some of which will probably suit, since they range from that of a footman up to a seat at the council-board or in the cabinet or a throne or a presidential chair." The stranger stood pondering before the desk with an un- quiet, dissatisfied air, a dull, vague pain of heart, expressed by a slight contortion of the brow, an earnestness of glance ^that asked and expected, yet continually wavered, as if dis- trusting. In short, he evidently wanted — not in a physic al or intelleot^^^ense7]Bu|rwith airfl.rgent moral JjficessitjUiiat is the hardest o f all things . to satisfyv.^iQ.ce.it , knowajaotits \j own object. "Ah! you mistake me, " said he, at length, with a gesture of nervous impatience. "Either of the places you mention, indeed, might answer my purpose— or, more probably, none of them. I want my glagg2:;jmy_own_place, mxt rue place in the world, my proper sphere, my thing to do which nature MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 293 inteiuied me jtojg^e rform w h en she fashioned m e thus awry , and which I have vainly sough t all my lifetim e. Whether it be a footman's duty or a king's is of little consequence, so it be naturally mine. Can you help me here?" "I will enter your application," answered the intelli- gencer, at the same time writing a few lines in his volume. "But to undertake such a business, I tell you frankly, is quite apart from the ground covered by my official duties. Ask for something speoifip, and it may doubtless bei negoti- ated for you on your compliance wifh the conditions. But were I to go further, I should have the whole population of the city upon my shoulders, since far the greater proportion of them are more or less in your predicament." The applicant sank into a fit of despondency, and passed out of the door without again lifting his eyes ; and if he died of the disappointment, he was probably buried in the wrong toinb, inasmuch as the fatality of such people never deserts them, £ind, whether alive or dead, they are invariably out of place. Alinost immediately another foot was heard on the threshold. A youth entered hastily, and threw a glance around the office to ascertain whether the man of intelli- gence was alone. He then approached close to the desk, blushed like a maiden and seemed at a loss how to broach his business. "You come upon an affair of the heart," said the official personage, looking into him through his mysterious spec- tacles. "State it in as few words as may be." "You are right," replied the youth. "I have a heart to dispose of." "You seek an exchange?" said the intelligencer. "Fool- ish youth! Why not be contented with your own?" "Because," exclaimed the young man, losing his embar- rassment in a passionate glow — "because my heart burns me with an intolerable fire; it tortures me all day long with yearnings for I know not what, and feverish throbbings, and the pangs of a vague sorrow, and it awakens me in the 294 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS night-time with a quake when there is nothing to be feared. I cannot endure it any longer. It were wiser to throw away- such a heart, even if it brings me nothing in return!" "Oh, very well," said the man of oflSce, making an entry in his volume. "Your affair will be easily transacted. This species of brokerage makes no inconsiderable part of my busi- ness, and there is always a large assortment of the article to select from. Here, if I mistake not, comes a pretty fair sample." Even as he spoke the door was gently and slowly thrust ajar, affording a ghmpse of the slender figure of a young girl who as she timidly entered seemed to bring the light and cheerfulness of the outer atmosphere into the somewhat gloomy apartment. "We know not her errand there, nor can we reveal whether the young man gave up his heart into her custody. If so, the arrangement was neither better nor worse than in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred where the parallel sensibilities of a similar age, importunate affections and the easy satisfaction of characters not deeply conscious of themselves supply the place of any profounder sympathy. Not always, however, was the agency of the passions and affections an oflSce of so little trouble. It happened — rarely, indeed, in proportion to the cases that came under an ordi- nary rule, but still it did happen — that a heart was occasion- ally brought hither of such exquisite material, so delicately attempered and so curiously wrought, that no other heart could be found to match it. It might almost be considered a misfortune, in a worldly point of view, to be the possessor of such a diamond of the purest water, since in any reason- able probability it could only be exchanged for an ordinary pebble or a bit of cunningly-manufactured glass, or, at least, for a jewel of native richness, but ill-set or with some fatal flaw or an earthly vein running through its central lustre. To choose another figure, it is sad that hearts which have their well-spring in the infinite and contain inexhaustible sympathies should ever be doomed to pour themselves into shallow vessels, and thus lavish their rich affections on the MOSSES FKOM AN OLD MANSE 295 ground. Strange that the finer and deeper nature, -wliether in man oj- woman^ while possessed of every other dehcate in- stinct, should so often lack that most invaluable oneM., pre- serving itself from contamination with what is of a baser kind! Sometimes, it i s true, the spiritual fountain is kept pure by a wisdom within itsel f, and sparkles into the light of heaven without a stain from the earthly strata through which it had gushed upward. And sometimes, even here on earth, the pure mingles with the pure and the inexhaus- tible is recompensed with the infinite. But these miracles, though he should claim the credit of them, are far beyond the scope of such a superficial agent in human affairs as the figure in the mysterious spectacles. -J Again the door was opened, admitting the bustle of the city with a fresher reverberation into the intelligence-office. Now entered a man of woe-begone and downcast look; it was such an aspect as if he had lost the very soul out of his body, ' and had traversed all the world over, searching in the dust of the highways, and along the shady footpaths, and beneath the leaves of the forest, and among the sands of the seashore, in hopes to recover it again. He had bent an anxious glance along the pavement of the street as he came hitherward; he looked, also, in the angle pi the doorstep and upon the floor of the room, and finally, coming up to the man of intelligence, he gazed through the inscrutable spectacles which the latter wore, as if the lost treasure might be hidden within his eyes. "I have lost — " he began, and then he paused. "Yes," said the intelligencer; "I see that you have lost. But what?" "I have lost a precious jewel," replies the unfortunate person, "the like of which is not to be found among any prince's treasures. While I possessed it, the contemplation of it was my sole and sufiicient happiness. No price should have purchased it of me, but it has fallen from my bosom, where I wore it, in my careless wanderings about the city." After causing the stranger to describe the marks of his lost jewel, the intelligencer opened a drawer of the oaken Vol. 3 *'T 296 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS cabinet which has beetl mentioned ds forniing a part of the furniture Of the toom. Here were deiJdsited Whatever articles had been picked up in the streets, until the ti'ght owners should claiai them. It was a strange dUd heterogeheous collectidti. Not the least remarkable part of it was a e g-eat numb er of weddittg-ritigs, each one of which had been riveted upon the finger with'Ebly vows and all the mystic potency that the most solemn rites could attain, but had, nevertheless, ptoved too slippery for the wearer's vigilatice. The gold of some was worn thin, betokening the attrition of years of Wedlock; othei-s, glittering from the jeweller's shop, must have been lost within the hotteymOon. There Were ivOry tablets, the leaves scribbled over with sentimetits that had been the deep- est triiths of the writer's earlier yeats, but which were now quite obliterated frOm his memory. So scrupulously were articles preserved in this depository that not even withered flowers were rejected ; white roses and blush-roses dnd moss- rOses — fit emblems Of virgin purity and shamefacedness — which had been lost ot" flung away and trampled into the pol- lution of the streets — locks of hair, the golden and the glossy dark, the long tresses of woman and the crisp curls of man, signified that lovers Were now and then so heedless of the faith intrusted to them as to drop its symbol from the treas- ure-place of the bosom. Many of these things were imbued with perfumes, and perhaps a sweet scent had depslrted from the lives of their former possessors ever since they had so wilfully or negligently lost them. Here were gold pencil- cases, little tuby hearts with gOlden arrows through them, bosom-pins, pieces of coin, and small articles of every de- scription, comprising bearly all that have been lost since a long while ago. Most of them, doubtless^ had a history and a meaning, if there were time to search it out and room to tell it. Whoever has missed anything valuable, whether ont of his heart, mind or pocket, would do well to m^ke inquiry at the Central IntelligehOe-Office. And in the corner of one of the drawers of the oaken cabinet, after considerable research, was found a great MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 297 pearl looking like the soul of celestial purity congealed and polished. "There is my jewel— my very pearl!" cried the stranger, almost beside himself with rapture. "It is mine! Give it me this moment, or I phall perish!" "I perceive," said the man of intelligenpe, examining it more closely, "that this is the pearl of great price." ' ' The very same, ' ' answered the stranger. ' ' Judge, then, of my misery at losing i' out of my bosom! Restore it to me! I must pot live without it an instant longer!" "Pardon me," rejoined the intelhgencer, calmly, "you ask what is beyond my duty. This pearl, as you well know, is held uppn a peculiar tenure, and, having once let it escape from your keeping, you have no greater claim to it — nay, not so greg,t — as any other person." I cannot give it back." Nor could the entreaties of the njiserable man — who saw before his eyes the jewel qf his Ufe, without the power to reclaim it — soften the heart of this stern being impassive to human sympathy, though exercisijig such an apparent influence over human fortunes. Fin3,lly the loser of the inestimjable pearl clutched his hands aniong his hair and ran njadly forth into the world, which was affrighted at his desperate looks. There passed him on the doorstep a fashionable youp.g- gentleman whose business was to inquire for a damask rose- bud, the gift of his lady-love, which he had lost out of his button-hole within an hour after receiving it. Bo varipua .. were the errands of those who visited this central office where all human wishes seemed to be madP known, and, so far as destiny would allow, negotiated to their fulfilnient. The next that entered was a man beyonnj the middle age beaming the look of one who knew the world and his own course in it. He had just alighted from a handson?.e private carriage, which had orders to wait in the street while its owner transacted his business. This person came up to the desk with a quick, determined step, and looked the intelli- gencer in the face with a resolute eye, though, at the same 298 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS time, some secret trouble gleamed from it in red and dusky light. "I have an estate to dispose of," said he, with a brevity that seemed characteristic. "Describe it," said the intelligencer. The applicant proceeded to give the boundaries of his property, its nature, comprising tillage, pasture, woodland and pleasure-grounds in ample circuit, together with a man- sion-house in the construction of which it had been his object to realize a castle in the air, hardening its shadowy walls into granite and renderteg^its visionary splendor perceptible to the awakened eye. Judging from his description, it was beautiful enough to vanish like a dream, yet substantial enough to endure for centuries. He spoke, too, of the gorgeous furniture, the refinements of upholstery, and all the luxuri- ous artifices that combined to render this a residence where life might flow onward in a stream of golden days undis- turbed by the ruggedness which fate loves to fling into it. "I am a man of strong will," said he, in conclusion, "and at my first setting out in life as a poor unfriended youth I resolved to make myself the possessor of such a mansion and estate as this, together with the abundant revenue necessary to uphold it. I have succeeded to the extent of my utmost wish, and this is the estate which I have now concluded to dispose of." "And your terms?" asked the intelligencer, after'taking down the particulars with which the stranger had supplied him. "Easy — abundantly easy," answered the successful man, smiling, but with a stern and almost frightful contraction of the brow, as if to quell an inward pang. "I have been en- gaged in various sorts of business — a distiller, a trader to Africa, an East India merchant, a speculator in the stocks — and in the course of these affairs have contracted an en- cumbrance of a certain nature. The purchaser of the estate shall merely be required to assume this burden to himself." "I understand you," said the man of intelligence, putting MOSSES FEOM AN OLD MANSE 299 his pen behind his ear. "I fear that no bargain can be nego- tiated on these conditions. Very probably the next possessor may acqture the estate with a similar encumbrance, but it will be of his own contracting, and will not lighten your burden in the least." "And am I to live on," fiercely exclaimed the stranger, ^ "with the dirt of these accursed acres and the granite of this infernal mansion crushing down my soul? How if I should turn the edifice into an^ahasliouBe- or-a hospital- or Jsia3;„ ifc down and build ji chjirch?" "You can at least make the experiment," said the intelli- gencer, "but the whole matter is one which you must settle for yourself . " The man of deplorable success withdrew and got into his coach, which rattled off lightly over the wooden pavements, though laden with the Weight of much land, a stately house and ponderous heaps of gold, all compressed into an evil conscience. There now appeared many applicants for places. Among the most noteworthy of whom was a small, smoke-dried fig- ure who gave himself out to be one of the bad spirits that had waited upon Doctor Faustus in his laboratory. He pre- tended to show a certificate of character, which, he averred, had been given him by that famous necromancer, and counter- signed by several masters whom he had subsequently served. "I am afraid, my good friend," observed the intelligencer, "that your chance of getting a service is but poor. Nowa- days men act the evil spirit for themselves and for their neigh- bors, and play the part more effectually than ninety-nine out of a hundred of your fraternity." But just as the poor fiend was assuming a vaporous con- sistency, being about to vanish through the floor in sad dis- appointment and chagrin, the editor of a political newspaper chanced to enter the office in quest of "a" scribbler of "party paragraphs. The former servant of Doctor Faustus, withi some misgivings as to his sufficiency.,Q£. venom, was aUowedj to trynElinBiJ53~inThir^ capacity. Next appeared, likewise 300 hawthoene's works seeking a service, the mysterious Man in Red who had aided Bonaparte in his ascent to imperial power. He was exam- ined as to his qualifications by an aspiring politician, but finally rejec^ied as lacking familiarity with the eTOaJng tactics oLthp pres^aJuiay. People epntinued to succeed each other with as much briskness as if everybody turned aside out of the roar and tu]:;iHlt of thp city to record here some want or superfluity or desire. Some had goods or possessions of which they wished to negotiate the sale. A China merchant had lost his health by a long residence in that wasting climate; he very liberally offered his disease, and hi s wealth a long with it, to any physician who would rid him of both together. A soldier offered his wreath of laurels for as good a leg as that which it had cpst him on the battlefield. One poor weary wretch desired nothing but to be accommodated with any creditable method of laying down his life, for misfortune and pecuniary troubles had so subdued his spirits that he could no longer conceive the possibility of happiness, nor had the heart to try it. Ifevertheless, happening to over- hear some conversation in the intelligence-office respecting wealth to be rapidly accumulated by a certain mode of spec- ulation, he resolved to live out this one other experiment of better fortune. Many persons desired to exchange their youthful vices for others better suited to the gravity of ad- vancing age; a few, we are glad to say, made earnest efforts to exchange vice for virtue, and hard as the bargain was, suc- ceeded in effecting it. But it was remarkable that what all were the least willing to give up, even on the most advan- fageoiTS" terms, were Jhe habits, the oddities, the character- istic 'traits, the little .ridiculoua ind!iilgences somewhere ^bfiEL tweeg^_fg^te_aiid Jollies, of which nobody but themselv^ CQuJdijnderatand the fascination. TJie great folio in whicli the man of intelligence recorded all Ijhese freaks of idle hearts and aspirations of deep hearts an4 4esperate belongmgs oTmiserable hearts and evITprayers of perverted hearts would be curious reading wei^ it possible MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSB 301 to obtain it for J)tiblication. HiiTtian c-harantRr in it.g inrlivirl- ual dBveloptiiet its, human nature in the mass, m^J^best^^be studiid in_ite .wishes ;, andTKii'was^ffie^ecOTdrof them all? There was an endless diversity of mode and circumstance, yet withal such^a similarity i^ the teal ground wotk that any one page of the volume, whethet wntien™in~iEEe days before the Flood, or the yesterday that is just gone by, or to be written on the mottow that is close at hand or a thou- sand ages hence, might serve as a specimen of the whole. , S'ot but thdt there were wild sdlUeS of fantasy that could scarcely occut to more than one man's brain, whether rea- sb&able or luiiatic. The straiigest wishes — ^yet most incident to men who had gohe deep into scientific pui-ssuits and attained a high intellectual stage, thoUgh not the loftiest — were to con- tend with Nature and wrest from her some secret or some power which she had seen fit to withhold from mortalgrasp. She loves tb delude her aspiring Strtdetits ahd mock them with mysteries that s§em but just bieybnd their htmost r^ach. To concoct tL&^ itiinerals, to produce liew forms of vegetable liffe; to create an insect, if ^ nothing higher in the living scale, is a sort bt wish that^ has ofteh revelled in the breast of_j, maEjjL-scielice. An astronomer w£o UVeid far more among th§ distant worlds of space thaii in this lower Sphere recorded a wish to behold the oppbsite side Of the ihoon, which; unless the systetn of the fitmamfent be reversed, she can neV^er turn toward the earth. Oh the same page of the volutrie was Wiritten the wish of a little child to have the stars for playthings. The most ordinary wish that was Writteh down with wearisome recurrence, was, of course, for wealth. Wealth, wealth, in sums from a fe^tt^ shiUings up ^;o unrfeckonable thousands. Btit in reality, this oftbh-i-ep^kted expression eovBted as hiahy different desires. Wealth is the golden essehcfe of thb dutward Wot-ld, embodying altiiost everything tEat exists beyond thei limits of "the soul, and tWbfore it is thblSatilM yearning fbr the life. in,lthe. midst of .whJfibjE© fisA otFsBlyei^ "ajEd of Iv-hich gold is the condition cSE^eajoy- 803 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS '^s'lVJ^SLjaeQ abridge into this general wish. Here and there, it is true, the volume testified to some heart so per- verted as to desire gold for its own sake. Many wished for pow OT— a strange desire indeed,_since it is_but^"other foim of slavery. Old people wished for the delights of youth; a fopT^or'a fashionable coat; an idle reader, for a new novel; a versifier, for a rhyme to some stubborn word ; a painter, for Titian's secret of coloring; a prince, for a cottage; a re- publican, for a kingdom and a palace; a hbertine, for his neighbor's wife; a man of palate, for green peas; and a poor man, for a crust of bread. The ambitious desires of public men, elsewhere so craftily concealed, were here ex- pressed openly and boldly side by side with t he unselfish wishes of the philanthropist for the welfare of theracej_sp beautifuij, so^ comf of ting iiTTJontrast with the egotism that continually weighed self against the worlds Into"lEe"3arker secrets of the book of wishes we will not penetrate. It would be an instructive employment for a student of mankind, perusing thi s vol una e carefully and comparing its records with men's perfecteddesigns as expressed in their deeds and daily life, to ascertain how far the one accorded with the other. Undoubtedly, in most cases, the correspond- ence would be found remote. The holy and generous wish that rises like incense from a pure heart toward heaven often lavishes its sweet perfume on the blast of evil times. The foul, selfish, murderous wish that steams forth from a cor- rupted heart often passes into the spiritual atmosphere with- out being concreted into an earthly deed. Yet this vo hime is probably truer, as a representation of _the hum,an,-li«aEt, (than is the living drama of action as it evolves ar ound us. 'There is more of good and more of evil in it, more redeem- ing points of the bad and more errors of the virtuous, higher upsoarings and baser degradation of the soul — in short, a more perplexing amalgamation of vice and virtue — than' we" witness in tlKlSutvgff^jtTOrld. Decency and external con- science often produce a far fairer outside than is warranted by the stains within. And be it owned, on the other hand, MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 303 that a man seldom repeats to his nearest friend, any more than' he realizes in act, the purest wishes which, at some (■ blessed time or other, have arisen from the depths of his^ nature and witnessed for him in this volume. Yet there is ^ enough on every le af to mak e the ^ggod. man shudder for his«. 0.wn~wild and-TdleT w ishesy-asji yell as fo r^iiha^iDner- whose whole life is the iiicaaia>tioir-Q£ a wdefced' desire: But again the door is opened and we hear the tumultuous jiiii I MiiiMi I I... . _.j , , ■-.Finn i m .in tt in -i f inr' . _.-„.^.— ..™_»r i i i m. ir.miwwiiiiWiMiin innrnT-i- _.. atir of the. world — a deep and awful sound expressing in an- other form some portion of what is written in the volume that lies before the man of intelligence. A grandfatherly personage tottered hastily into the office with such an ear- nestness in his infirm alacrity that his white hair floated backward as he hurried up to the desk, while his dim eyes caught a momentary lustre from his vehemence of purpose. This venerable figure explained that he was in search of to-morrow. '-' "I have spent all my life in pursuit of it," added the sage old gentleman, "being assured that to-morrow has some vast benefit or other in store for me. But I am now getting a little in years and must make haste, for, unless I overtake to-morrow soon, I begin to be afraid it will finally escape me." "This fugitive to-morrow, my venerable friend," said the man of intelligence, "is a stray child of Time, and is flying from his father into the region of the infinite. Continue your pursuit, and you wiU doubtless come up with him; but, ' as to the earthly gifts which you expect, he has scattered them all a mong a throng of yesterdays ." " ' '"'^Ztl^i^ ■^~'^- ""'iJBligeatocontent himself with this enigmatical response,^ ' the grandsire hastened forth with a quick clatter of his staff upon the floor, and as he disappeared a little boy scampered through the door in chase of a butterfly which had got astray amid the barren sunshine of the city. Had th e old, gentleman been shrewd er, he might have detected to-morr ow_ u Sggf'gEe'i ^ jBIance'oFtb at e jaudy insect . The golden but- terfly glistened through Itheshadowy apartment and brushed 304 Hawthorne's wokks its wings against fixe book of wishes, and fluttered forth again witlj the child still in pursuit. A man now pntere4 ip neglpcted attirp, with the aspect of a thinker, bvi|; somevfrl^at too rough-hewq and brawny for a scholar. Hjs fftps "w^^s full of stwdy vigor, with some finer and keeqep attrj]Dute beneath; jihough harsh at first, it was tempered with the glcfw of a large, warm heart whiph had force enough to heat his powerful in^iellect through and through- Re advanced to the intelligencer ^pd looked at him with a glance pf such stern sif^perity that perhaps few secrets were beyond its scope. "I sepk for fruth," said he. "It is precisely the most rq,re pursuit tj^at l^as ever come under my cognizance," replied tlje intelhgenper as he made the new inscription in his volmne. "Most mB» seek to im- pose some .punning fglsehppd upon thepiselves for truth. But I can lend no help to your researches; you^ugj^achiese the niiracle-ipr yourself. At some foftunate moment you may ^nd Truth at your side, or perhaps she may be mistily discprned far in advance, or po^sibjy behind you." "Nqt behind nae," said tbp sepker, "for I have left noth- ing on nfxj track without a thorough investigation. She flits before me, passing now through a naked solitude, and now mingling with the throng of a popular assembly, and now writing with the pen of a J^rench philosopher, and now stand- ing at the altar of an pld cathedral in the guise of a Catholic priest performing the high mass. Oh, weary search ! But I must not falter, and surply my ]ipart-deep quest of Truth shall avail at last." He paused and flxed his eyes upon the intelligencer with a depth of investigation that seemed to hold commerce with the inner nature of this being, wholly regardless of his ex- ternal development. "And what are you?" said he. "It will not satisfy me to point to this fantastic show of an intelligence-office an4 this mockery of business. Tell me what is beneath it, and what your real agency in life and your influence upon mankind?" MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 305 "Yours is a mind," answered the man of intelligence, "before which the forms and fantasies that conceal the inner idea from the multitude vanish at once and leave the naked reality beneath. Know, then, the secret. My agency in worldly action — ^my connection with the press and tumult and intermingling and development of human affairs — ^is merely delusive. The desir^ of man's heart does for him whatever I seem to doT" 1 am no minister of action, but the BecordingSprit. ' ' What further secrets were then spoken remains a mys- tery, inasmuch as the roar of the city, the bustle of human business, the outcry of the jostling masses, the rush and tumult of man's life in its noisy and brief career, arose so high that it drowned the words of these two talkers. And whether they stood talking in the moon or in Vanity Fair - or in a city of this actual world is more than I can say. ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL ONE of the few incidents of Indian warfare naturally susceptible of the moonlight of romance was that expedition undertaken for the defence of the fron- tiers in the year 1725 which resulted in the well-remembered "Lovell's Fight." Imagination, by casting certain circum- stances judiciously into the shade, may see much to admire in the heroism of a little band who gave battle to twice their number in the heart of the enemy's country. The open bravery displayed by both parties was in accordance with civilized ideas of valor, and chivalry itself might not blush to record the deeds of one or two individuals. The battle, though so fatal to those who fought, was not unfortunate in its consequences to the country, for it broke the strength of a tribe and conduced to the peace which subsisted during several ensuing years. History and tradition are unusually minute in their memorials of this affair, and the captain of 306 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS a scouting-party of frontiermen has acquired as actual a military renown as many a victorious leader of thousands. Some of the incidents contained in the following pages will be recognized, notwithstanding the substitution of fictitious names, by such as have heard from old men's lips the fate of the few combatants who were in condition to retreat after "Lovell's Fight." The early sunbeams hovered cheerfully upon the treetops beneath which two weary and wounded men had stretched their limbs the night before. Their bed of withered oak- leaves was strewn upon the small level space at the foot of a rock situated near the summit of one of the gentle swells by which the face of the country is there diversified. The mass of granite rearing its smooth, flat surface fifteen or twenty feet above their heads was not unHke a gigantic gravestone, upon which the veins seemed to form an inscrip- tion in forgotten characters. On a tract of several acres around this rock oaks and other hardwood trees had supplied the place of the pines which were the usual grovrth of the land, and a young and vigorous sapling stood close beside the travellers. The severe wound of the elder man had probably deprived him of sleep, for so soon as the first ray of sunshine rested on the top of the highest tree he reared himself painfully from his recumbent posture and sat erect. The deep lines of his countenance and the scattered gray of his hair marked him as past the middle age, but his muscular frame would, but for the effects of his wound, have been as capable of sustaining fatigue as in the early vigor of life. Languor and exhaustion now sat upon his haggard features, and the despairing glance which he sent forward through the depths of the forest proved his own conviction that his pilgrimage was at an end. He next turned his eyes to the companion who reclined by his side. The youth — ^for he had scarcely attained the years of manhood — lay with his head upon his arm in the embrace of an unquiet sleep which a thrill of pain from his wounds §epmed each moment to the poii^t of break- MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 307 ing. His right hand grasped a musket, and, to judge from the violent action of his features, his slumbers were bringing back a vision of the conflict of which he was one of the few survivors. A shout — deep and loud in his dreaming fancy — ^found its way in an imperfect murmur to his lips, and, starting even at the slight sound of his own voice, he sud- denly awoke. The first act of reviving recollection was to make anxious inquiries respecting the condition of his wounded fellow-traveller. The latter shook his head. "Reuben, my boy," said he, "this rock beneath which we sit wiU serve for an old hunter's gravestone. There is many and many a long mile of howling wilderness before us yet ; nor would it avail me anything if the smoke of my own chimney were but on the other side of that swell of land. The Indian bullet was deadlier than I thought." "You are weary with our three days' travel," replied the youth, "and a little longer rest will recruit you. Sit you here while I search the wood for the herbs and roots that must be our sustenance, and, having eaten, you shaU lean on me, and we will turn our faces homeward. I doubt not that with my help you can attain to some one of the frontier garrisons." "There is not two days' life in me, Reuben," said the other, calmly, "and I will no longer burden you with my useless body, when you can scarcely support your own. Your wounds are deep and your strength is failing fast; yet if you hasten onward alone, you may be preserved. For me there is no hope, and I will await death here." "If it must be so, I will remain and watch by you," said Reuben, resolutely. "No, my son — no," rejoined his companion. "Let the wish of a dying man have weight with you; give me one grasp of your hand, and get you hence. Think you that my last moments will be eased by the thought that I leave you to die a more Hngering death? I have loved you Uke a father, Reuben, and at a time like this I should have some- 808 HAWTHORNE'S WORKS thing of a father's authority. I charge you to be gone, that I may die in peace." "And because you have been a father to me, should I therefore leave you to perish and to lie unburied in the wil- derness?" exclaimed the youth. "Wo! If your end be, in truth, approaching, I will watch by you and receive your parting words. I will dig a grave here by the rock, in which, if my weakness overcome me, we will rest together; or if Heaven gives me strength, I will seek my way home." "In the cities and wherever man dwell," replied the other, "they bury their dead in the earth ; they hide them from the sight of the living; but here, where no step may pass perhaps for a hundred years, wherefore should I not rest beneath the open sky, covered only by the oak-leaves when the autumn winds shall strew them? And for a monu- ment here is this gray rock, on which my dying hand shall carve the name of Roger Malvin, and the traveller in days to come wiU know that here sleeps a hunter and a warrior. Tarry not, then, for a folly like this, but hasten away-^if not for your own sake, for here who will else be desolate." Malvin spoke the last few words in a faltering voice, and their effect upon his companion was strongly visible. They reminded him that there were other and less questionable duties than that of sharing the fate of a man whom his death could not benefit. Nor can it be affirmed that no selfish feeling strove to enter Reuben's heart, though the consciousness made him more earnestly resist his compan- ion's entreaties. "How terrible to wait the slow approach of death in this solitude!" exclaimed he. "A brave man does not shrink in the battle, and when friends stand round the bed even women may die composedly; but here — " "I shall not shrink even here, Reuben Bourne," inter- rupted Malvin. "I am a man of no weak heart; and if I were, there is a surer support than that of earthly friends. You are young, and life is dear to you. Your last moments will need Opnaf prt; far paore than mine j and when you have MOSSES PKOM AN OLD MANSE 309 laid me in tbe earjili a,nd are ^loije and i^iglit is settling on the fprpst, you will fee} all the bitterness of the death that may not be escaped. But I will urge no selfish motive to your geperous n^t'ire. Leave me for my sake, that, having said a prayer for your saf pj;y, J may have space to settle my q.ccount wpidisturbed by worldly sprrows." "And your 4aTighter! How shall I dare to meet her eye?" exclaimed Reuben. "She will ask the fate of her father, T^hpse life I yowed to defend with my own. Must I tell her th^t he tr3,vellpd threp days' march with me from the fie}d pf battlp, ^.nd that then I left him to perish in the wilderness? "Were it not better to lie dpwn and die by your ^idp than to retiirp ^e\£e arid S3,y this tp Dorcas?'' "Tell mj daughter," sai4 Roger JVEalvin, "that, though yourself spre wpuftded ^nd weak and weary, you led my tottering fpptsteps m^.ny a n^ile and left me only at my ear- nest entreg-ty because I -yyould not have your blood upon my ^oul. Tpll her thfit thrpugh pain and danger you were faithfi^l, and that if your life-blood cpvjld hftve saved me it ■^OTjld h^-'^e flowed to its l3,st drop. 4-nd tell her that you will bp something de^/f pf than a father, and that my blessing is with you both, and that my dying eyes can see a long and pleasant pa,th in ■v^hich yoTi will jomrney together-" As Malyip spoke he alpiost raised himself from the ground, and the ei^ergy of his concluding words seemed to fill the wild and lonply fprest. with a visipn pf happiness. But when he sapk exhausted upon his bed of oak-leaves, the light which had kipdled in Peuben's pye was quenched. He felt as if it were both sin and folly to think of happiness at such a moment. His coinpaiiion ■vy^'tched his changing coun- tenance, and sought with generous art to wile him to his own good. "Perhaps I deceived nayself in regard tp the time I have to live," he resumed. "It may be thq,t -with speedy assist- ance I might recover of my wound. The former fugitives must ere this hf-Y® carried ti4ings pf our fatal battle to the frontiers, and parties will be out to supcor those in like con- 310n Hawthorne's works dition with ourselves. Should you meet one of these and guide them hither, who can tell but that I may sit by my own fireside again?" A mournful smile strayed across the features of the dying man as he insinuated that unfounded hope — which, however, was not without its effect on Reuben. ITo merely selfish motive, nor even the desolate condition of Dorcas, could have induced him to desert his companion at such a mo- ment. But his wishes seized upon the thought that Mal- vin's life naight be preserved, and his sanguine nature heightened almost to certainty the remote possibility of procuring human aid. "Surely there is reason — ^weighty reason — ^to hope that friends are not far distant," he said, half aloud. "There fled one coward unwounded in the beginning of the fight, and most probably he made good speed. Every true man on the frontier would shoulder his musket at the news, and, though no party may range so far into the woods as this, I shall perhaps encounter them in one day's march. Counsel me faithfully," he added, turning to Malvin in distrust of his own motives. "Were your situation mine, would you desert me while life remained?" "It is now twenty years," replied Roger Malvin, sighing, however, as he secretly acknowledged the Avide dissimilarity between the two cases — "it is now twenty years since I escaped with one dear friend from Indian captivity near Montreal. We journeyed many days through the woods till at length, overcome with hunger and weariness, my friend lay down and besought me to leave him ; for he knew that if I remained we both must perish. And, with but lit- tle hope of obtaining succor, I heaped a pillow of dry leaves beneath his head and hastened on." "And did you return in time to save him?" asked Reuben, hanging on Malvin's words as if they were to be prophetic of his own success. "I did," answered the other. "I came upon the camp of a hunting-party before sunset of the same day; I guided MOSSES PEOM AN OLD MANSE 311 them to the spot where my comrade was expecting death, and he is now a hale and hearty man upon his own farm, far within the frontiers, while I lie wounded here in the depths of the wilderness." This example, powerful in effecting Reuben's decision, was aided, unconsciously to himself, by the hidden strength of many another motive. Roger Malvin perceived that the victory was nearly won. "Now go, my son, and Heaven prosper you!" he said. "Turn not back with your friends when you meet them, lest yoiu" wounds and weariness overcome you, but send hither- ward two or three that may be spared to search for me. And believe me, Reuben, my heart will be lighter with every step you take toward home." Yet there was per- haps a change both in his countenance and voice as he spoke thus; for, after all, it was a ghastly fate to be left expiring in the wilderness. Reuben Bourne, but half convinced that he was acting rightly, at length raised himself from the ground and pre- pared for his departure. And first, though contrary to Mal- vin's wishes, he collected a stock of roots and herbs, which had been their only food during the last two days. This useless supply he placed within reach of the dying man, for whom, also, he swept together a fresh bed of dry oak- leaves. Then, climbing to the summit of the rock, which on one side was rough and broken, he bent the oak sapling downward and bound his handkerchief to the topmost branch. This precaution was not unnecessary to direct any who might come in search of Malvin, for every part of the rock except its broad, smooth front was concealed at a little distance by the dense undergrowth of the forest. The handkerchief had been the bandage of a wound upon Reuben's arm, and as he bound it to the tree he vowed by the blood that stained it that he would return either to save his companion's life or to lay his body in the grave. He then descended, and stood with downcast eyes to receive Roger Malvin's parting words. 312 bawthoene's works The ^zpe^ence of t^e latter suggested much and minute advice respecting ^he you