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From TWICETOLD TALES ...........................................................................................................................1

Nathaniel Hawthorne...............................................................................................................................1

There was once a time when New England groaned under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those

threatened ones which brought on the Revolution. James II, the bigoted successor of Charles the Voluptuous,

had annulled the charters of all the colonies, and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our

liberties and endanger our religion. The administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single

characteristic of tyranny: a Governor and Council, holding office from the King, and wholly independent of

the country; laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people immediate or by their

representatives; the rights of private citizens violated, and the titles of all landed property declared void; the

voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the press; and, finally, disaffection overawed by the first band of

mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in sullen

submission by that filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the mother country, whether its

head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector, or Popish Monarch. Till these evil times, however, such

allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than

At length a rumor reached our shores that the Prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise, the success of

which would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of New England. It was but a

doubtful whisper: it might be false, or the attempt might fail; and, in either case, the man that stirred against

King James would lose his head. Still the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people smiled

mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold glances at their oppressors; while far and wide there was a

subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish

despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of strength, and

perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund

Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the redcoats of the Governor's

Guard, and made their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was near setting when the march

The roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets, less as the martial music of the

soldiers, than as a mustercall to the inhabitants themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assembled in

King Street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterwards, of another encounter between

the troops of Britain, and a people struggling against her tyranny. Though more than sixty years had elapsed

since the pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their

character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. There were the sober

garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech, and

the confidence in Heaven's blessing on a righteous cause, which would have marked a band of the original

Puritans, when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be

extinct; since there were men in the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees, before a

house was reared to the God for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too,

smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here,

also, were the veterans of King Philip's war, who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old, with

pious fierceness, while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. Several ministers

were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence, as if there

were sanctity in their very garments. These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but not to

disperse them. Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, in disturbing the peace of the town at a period when

the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment, was almost the universal subject of inquiry,

"Satan will strike his masterstroke presently," cried some, "because he knoweth that his time is short. All

our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison! We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King Street!"

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and

assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession, the

crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied, at that period, that New England might have a John Rogers of

"The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew!" cried others. "We are to be massacred,

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although the wiser class believed the Governor's object somewhat

less atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers,

was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to

strike terror by a parade of military force, and to confound the opposite faction by possessing himself of their

"Stand firm for the old charter Governor!" shouted the crowd, seizing upon the idea. "The good old Governor

While this cry was at the loudest, the people were surprised by the wellknown figure of Governor Bradstreet

himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door, and, with characteristic

"My children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of

The event was soon to be decided. All this time, the roll of the drum had been approaching through Cornhill,

louder and deeper, till with reverberations from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial footsteps, it

burst into the street. A double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the

passage, with shouldered matchlocks, and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. Their

steady march was like the progress of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next,

moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party of mounted gentlemen, the

central figure being Sir Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldierlike. Those around him were his

favorite councillors, and the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand rode Edward Randolph, our

archenemy, that "blasted wretch," as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient

government, and was followed with a sensible curse, through life and to his grave. On the other side was

Bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind, with a downcast look,

dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him, their only countryman

by birth, among the oppressors of his native land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor, and two or three civil

officers under the Crown, were also there. But the figure which most attracted the public eye, and stirred up

the deepest feeling, was the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel, riding haughtily among the magistrates in

his priestly vestments, the fitting representatives of prelacy and persecution, the union of church and state,

and all those abominations which had driven the Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in

The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England, and its moral, the deformity of any

government that does not grow out of the nature of things and the character of the people. On one side the

religious multitude, with their sad visages and dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic rulers, with

the high churchman in the midst, and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad, flushed

with wine, proud of unjust authority, and scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, waiting

but the word to deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obedience could be secured.

"O Lord of Hosts," cried a voice among the crowd, "provide a Champion for thy people!"

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry, to introduce a remarkable personage. The

crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the soldiers

had advanced no more than a third of its length. The intervening space was emptya paved solitude,

between lofty edifices, which threw almost a twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen the figure of

an ancient man, who seemed to have emerged from among the people, and was walking by himself along the

centre of the street, to confront the armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark cloak and a

steeplecrowned hat, in the fashion of at least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff

When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique

majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at

But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those of fourscore years and upwards, were disturbed,

deeming it strange that they should forget one of such evident authority, whom they must have known in their

early days, the associate of Winthrop, and all the old councillors, giving laws, and making prayers, and

leading them against the savage. The elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with locks as gray in

their youth, as their own were now. And the young! How could he have passed so utterly from their

memoriesthat hoary sire, the relic of longdeparted times, whose awful benediction had surely been

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

Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the street.

As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came full upon his ears, the old man

raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him in

gray but unbroken dignity. Now, he marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time to the military

music. Thus the aged form advanced on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the

other, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the middle, and

The eye, the face, and attitude of command; the solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule a host

in the battlefield or be raised to God in prayer, were irresistible. At the old man's word and outstretched arm,

the roll of the drum was hushed at once, and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm seized

upon the multitude. That stately form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an

ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause, whom the oppressor's drum had

summoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of New

The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode

hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary

apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, but glancing his severe eye round the group, which half

encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the dark old

man was chief ruler there, and that the Governor and Council, with soldiers at their back, representing the

"What does this old fellow here?" cried Edward Randolph, fiercely. "On, Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers

forward, and give the dotard the same choice that you give all his countrymento stand aside or be trampled

"Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grandsire," said Bullivant, laughing. "See you not, he is some old

roundheaded dignitary, who hath lain asleep these thirty years, and knows nothing o' the change of times?

"Are you mad, old man?" demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and harsh tones. "How dare you stay the

"I have stayed the march of a King himself, ere now," replied the gray figure, with stern composure. "I am

here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place; and

beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth, in the good

old cause of his saints. And what speak ye of James? There is no longer a Popish tyrant on the throne of

England, and by tomorrow noon, his name shall be a byword in this very street, where ye would make it a

word of terror. Back, thou wast a Governor, back! With this night thy power is endedtomorrow, the

The people had been drawing nearer and nearer, and drinking in the words of their champion, who spoke in

accents long disused, like one unaccustomed to converse, except with the dead of many years ago. But his

voice stirred their souls. They confronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to convert the very

stones of the street into deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man; then he cast his hard and

cruel eye over the multitude, and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, so difficult to kindle or to

quench; and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form, which stood obscurely in an open space, where neither

friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were his thoughts, he uttered no word which might discover. But

whether the oppressor were overawed by the Gray Champion's look, or perceived his peril in the threatening

attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and

guarded retreat. Before another sunset, the Governor, and all that rode so proudly with him, were prisoners,

and long ere it was known that James had abdicated, King William was proclaimed throughout New England.

But where was the Gray Champion? Some reported that, when the troops had gone from King Street, and the

people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, Bradstreet, the aged Governor, was seen to embrace a form

more aged than his own. Others soberly affirmed, that while they marvelled at the venerable grandeur of his

aspect, the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, till, where he stood,

there was an empty space. But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. The men of that generation watched

for his reappearance, in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when his funeral passed,

And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name might be found in the records of that stern Court of

Justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty for the age, but glorious in all aftertimes, for its humbling

lesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. I have heard, that whenever the descendants of the

Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires, the old man appears again. When eighty years had passed, he

walked once more in King Street. Five years later, in the twilight of an April morning, he stood on the green,

beside the meetinghouse, at Lexington, where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab of slate inlaid,

commemorates the first fallen of the Revolutions. And when our fathers were toiling at the breastwork on

Bunker's Hill, all through that night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it be, ere he comes

again! His hour is one of darkness, and adversity, and peril. But should domestic tyranny oppress us, or the

invader's step pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come, for he is the type of New England's

hereditary spirit; and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must ever be the pledge, that New England's

There is a certain church in the city of New York which I have always regarded with peculiar interest, on

account of a marriage there solemnized, under very singular circumstances, in my grandmother's girlhood.

That venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the scene, and ever after made it her favorite narrative.

Whether the edifice now standing on the same site be the identical one to which she referred, I am not

antiquarian enough to know; nor would it be worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error, by

reading the date of its erection on the tablet over the door. It is a stately church, surrounded by an inclosure of

the loveliest green, within which appear urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, the

tributes of private affection, or more splendid memorials of historic dust. With such a place, though the

tumult of the city rolls beneath its tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary interest.

The marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement, though there had been two

intermediate weddings on the lady's part, and forty years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixtyfive,

Mr. Ellenwood was a shy, but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men who brood over their own

hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a vein of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, though

always an indolent one, because his studies had no definite object, either of public advantage or personal

ambition; a gentleman, high bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable relaxation,

in his behalf, of the common rules of society. In truth, there were so many anomalies in his character, and

though shrinking with diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so often to become the

topic of the day, by some wild eccentricity of conduct, that people searched his lineage for an hereditary taint

of insanity. But there was no need of this. His caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of an

engrossing purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of other food. If he were mad, it

The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom, in everything but age, as can well be

conceived. Compelled to relinquish her first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her own

years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in possession of a splendid

fortune. A southern gentleman, considerably younger than herself, succeeded to her hand, and carried her to

Charleston, where, after many uncomfortable years, she found herself again a widow. It would have been

singular, if any uncommon delicacy of feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. Dabney's; it could not

but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of

the heart's principles, consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her southern husband, which had

inevitably driven her to connect the idea of his death with that of her comfort. To be brief, she was that

wisest, but unloveliest, variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity,

dispensing with all that should have been her happiness, and making the best of what remained. Sage in most

matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable for the one frailty that made her ridiculous. Being

childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy, in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow

old and ugly, on any consideration; she struggled with Time, and held fast her roses in spite of him, till the

venerable thief appeared to have relinquished the spoil, as not worth the trouble of acquiring it.

The approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood was

announced soon after Mrs. Dabney's return to her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed

to concur in supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part in arranging the affair; there were

considerations of expediency which she would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. Ellenwood; and there

was just the specious phantom of sentiment and romance in this late union of two early lovers which

sometimes makes a fool of a woman who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of life. All the

wonder was, how the gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom and agonizing consciousness of ridicule,

could have been induced to take a measure at once so prudent and so laughable. But while people talked the

weddingday arrived. The ceremony was to be solemnized according to the Episcopalian forms, and in open

church, with a degree of publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the

galleries, and the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle. It had been arranged, or possibly it was the

custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately to church. By some accident the bridegroom was

a little less punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants; with whose arrival, after this tedious, but

The clumsy wheels of several oldfashioned coaches were heard, and the gentlemen and ladies composing

the bridal party came through the church door with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine.

The whole group, except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gayety. As they streamed up the

broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as if

they mistook the church for a ballroom, and were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant was

the spectacle that few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the moment

when the bride's foot touched the threshold the bell swung heavily in the tower above her, and sent forth its

deepest knell. The vibrations died away and returned with prolonged solemnity, as she entered the body of

"On my honor," replied the gentleman, "I believe the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. What

has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest Julia, were approaching the altar the bell would ring out its

The bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with the bustle of entrance to hear the first

boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. They therefore

continued to advance with undiminished gayety. The gorgeous dresses of the time, the crimson velvet coats,

the goldlaced hats, the hoop petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade, and embroidery, the buckles, canes, and

swords, all displayed to the best advantage on persons suited to such finery, made the group appear more like

a brightcolored picture than anything real. But by what perversity of taste had the artist represented his

principal figure as so wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor of

attire, as if the loveliest maiden had suddenly withered into age, and become a moral to the beautiful around

her! On they went, however, and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell

seemed to fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscuring the bright pageant, till it shone forth

This time the party wavered, stopped, and huddled closer together, while a slight scream was heard from

some of the ladies, and a confused whispering among the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they might have

been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of flowers, suddenly shaken by a puff of wind, which

threatened to scatter the leaves of an old, brown, withered rose, on the same stalk with two dewy buds,such

being the emblem of the widow between her fair young bridemaids. But her heroism was admirable. She had

started with an irrepressible shudder, as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart; then,

recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in dismay, she took the lead, and paced calmly up the aisle.

The bell continued to swing, strike, and vibrate, with the same doleful regularity as when a corpse is on its

"My young friends here have their nerves a little shaken," said the widow, with a smile, to the clergyman at

the altar. "But so many weddings have been ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet turned out

"Madam," answered the rector, in great perplexity, "this strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage

sermon of the famous Bishop Taylor, wherein he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future woe, that,

to speak somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang the bridal chamber in black, and cut the

wedding garment out of a coffin pall. And it has been the custom of divers nations to infuse something of

sadness into their marriage ceremonies, so to keep death in mind while contracting that engagement which is

life's chiefest business. Thus we may draw a sad but profitable moral from this funeral knell."

But, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keener point, he did not fail to dispatch an

attendant to inquire into the mystery, and stop those sounds, so dismally appropriate to such a marriage. A

brief space elapsed, during which the silence was broken only by whispers, and a few suppressed titterings,

among the wedding party and the spectators, who, after the first shock, were disposed to draw an illnatured

merriment from the affair. The young have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. The

widow's glance was observed to wander, for an instant, towards a window of the church, as if searching for

the timeworn marble that she had dedicated to her first husband; then her eyelids dropped over their faded

orbs, and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave. Two buried men, with a voice at her ear, and

a cry afar off, were calling her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with momentary truth of feeling, she

thought how much happier had been her fate, if, after years of bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral,

and she were followed to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her husband. But why had

Still the deathbell tolled so mournfully, that the sunshine seemed to fade in the air. A whisper,

communicated from those who stood nearest the windows, now spread through the church; a hearse, with a

train of several coaches, was creeping along the street, conveying some dead man to the churchyard, while

the bride awaited a living one at the altar. Immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends

were heard at the door. The widow looked down the aisle, and clinched the arm of one of her bridemaids in

"You frighten me, my dear madam!" cried she. "For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, my dear, nothing," said the widow; then, whispering close to her ear, "There is a foolish fancy that

I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my bridegroom to come into the church, with my first two husbands for

As she spoke, a dark procession paced into the church. First came an old man and women, like chief

mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot in the deepest black, all but their pale features and hoary hair;

he leaning on a staff, and supporting her decrepit form with his nerveless arm. Behind appeared another, and

another pair, as aged, as black, and mournful as the first. As they drew near, the widow recognized in every

face some trait of former friends, long forgotten, but now returning, as if from their old graves, to warn her to

prepare a shroud; or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and infirmity, and claim

her as their companion by the tokens of her own decay. Many a merry night had she danced with them, in

youth. And now, in joyless age, she felt that some withered partner should request her hand, and all unite, in a

While these aged mourners were passing up the aisle, it was observed that, from pew to pew, the spectators

shuddered with irrepressible awe, as some object, hitherto concealed by the intervening figures, came full in

sight. Many turned away their faces; others kept a fixed and rigid stare; and a young girl giggled hysterically,

and fainted with the laughter on her lips. When the spectral procession approached the altar, each couple

separated, and slowly diverged, till, in the centre, appeared a form, that had been worthily ushered in with all

this gloomy pomp, the death knell, and the funeral. It was the bridegroom in his shroud!

No garb but that of the grave could have befitted such a deathlike aspect; the eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam

of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed in the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin. The corpse

stood motionless, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the bell, which fell

"Come, my bride!" said those pale lips, "the hearse is ready. The sexton stands waiting for us at the door of

How shall the widow's horror be represented? It gave her the ghastliness of a dead man's bride. Her youthful

friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom, and herself; the whole scene

expressed, by the strongest imagery, the vain struggle of the gilded vanities of this world, when opposed to

age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman.

"Mr. Ellenwood," said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of authority, "you are not well. Your mind has been

agitated by the unusual circumstances in which you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred. As an old

"Home! yes, but not without my bride," answered he, in the same hollow accents. "You deem this mockery;

perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroideryhad I forced my

withered lips to smile at my dead heartthat might have been mockery, or madness. But now, let young and

old declare, which of us has come hither without a wedding garment, the bridegroom or the bride!"

He stepped forward at a ghostly pace, and stood beside the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of his

shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None, that beheld

them, could deny the terrible strength of the moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to draw.

"Cruel!" repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a wild bitterness: "Heaven judge which of us

has been cruel to the other! In youth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took away

all the substance of my life, and made it a dream without reality enough even to grieve atwith only a

pervading gloom, through which I walked wearily, and cared not whither. But after forty years, when I have

built my tomb, and would not give up the thought of resting therenor not for such a life as we once

picturedyou call me to the altar. At your summons I am here. But other husbands have enjoyed your youth,

your beauty, your warmth of heart, and all that could be termed your life. What is there for me but your decay

and death? And therefore I have bidden these funeral friends, and bespoken the sexton's deepest knell, and

am come, in my shroud, to wed you, as with a burial service, that we may join our hands at the door of the

It was not frenzy; it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotion, in a heart unused to it, that now

wrought upon the bride. The stern lesson of the day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. She seized

"Yes!" cried she. "Let us wed, even at the door of the sepulchre! My life is gone in vanity and emptiness. But

at its close there is one true feeling. It has made me what I was in youth; it makes me worthy of you. Time is

With a long and deep regard, the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his own.

How strange that gush of human feeling from the frozen bosom of a corpse! He wiped away the tears even

"Beloved of my youth," said he, "I have been wild. The despair of my whole lifetime had returned at once,

and maddened me. Forgive; and be forgiven. Yes; it is evening with us now; and we have realized none of

our morning dreams of happiness. But let us join our hands before the altar as lovers whom adverse

circumstances have separated through life, yet who meet again as they are leaving it, and find their earthly

affection changed into something holy as religion. And what is Time, to the married of Eternity?"

Amid the tears of many, and a swell of exalted sentiment, in those who felt aright, was solemnized the union

of two immortal souls. The train of withered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the pale features

of the aged bride, and the deathbell tolling through the whole, till its deep voice overpowered the marriage

words, all marked the funeral of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as if stirred by the

sympathies of this impressive scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal knell, then rising

to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe. And when the awful rite was finished, and with cold

hand in cold hand, the Married of Eternity withdrew, the organ's peal of solemn triumph drowned the

[1] Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, Maine, who died about eighty years

since, made himself remarkable by the same eccentricity that is here related of the Reverend Mr. Hooper. In

his case, however, the symbol had a different import. In early life he had accidentally killed a beloved friend,

The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meetinghouse, pulling busily at the bellrope. The old people of

the village came stooping along the street. Children, with bright faces, tripped merrily beside their parents, or

mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at

the pretty maidens, and fancied that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on week days. When the

throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend

Mr. Hooper's door. The first glimpse of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its

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

All within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly his

meditative way towards the meetinghouse. With one accord they started, expressing more wonder than if

"Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper," replied the sexton. "He was to have exchanged pulpits with Parson

Shute, of Westbury; but Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral sermon."

The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly person, of about

thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched his

band, and brushed the weekly dust from his Sunday's garb. There was but one thing remarkable in his

appearance. Swathed about his forehead, and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken by his

breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of crape, which

entirely concealed his features, except the mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight, further

than to give a darkened aspect to all living and inanimate things. With this gloomy shade before him, good

Mr. Hooper walked onward, at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and looking on the ground, as is

customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on the

meetinghouse steps. But so wonderstruck were they that his greeting hardly met with a return.

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

"I don't like it," muttered an old woman, as she hobbled into the meetinghouse. "He has changed himself

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

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into the meetinghouse, and set all

the congregation astir. Few could refrain from twisting their heads towards the door; many stood upright, and

turned directly about; while several little boys clambered upon the seats, and came down again with a terrible

racket. There was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling of the men's feet, greatly at

variance with that hushed repose which should attend the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared

not to notice the perturbation of his people. He entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to

the pews on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a whitehaired great grandsire, who

occupied an armchair in the centre of the aisle. It was strange to observe how slowly this venerable man

became conscious of something singular in the appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the

prevailing wonder, till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face

with his congregation, except for the black veil. That mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook

with his measured breath, as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity between him and the holy page, as

he read the Scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did he seek to

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape, that more than one woman of delicate nerves was forced to

leave the meetinghouse. Yet perhaps the palefaced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one: he strove to win his people

heavenward by mild, persuasive influences, rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the Word.

The sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same characteristics of style and manner as the

general series of his pulpit oratory. But there was something, either in the sentiment of the discourse itself, or

in the imagination of the auditors, which made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard

from their pastor's lips. It was tinged, rather more darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's

temperament. The subject had reference to secret sin, and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest

and dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the Omniscient can

detect them. A subtle power was breathed into his words. Each member of the congregation, the most

innocent girl, and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, behind his awful

veil, and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped hands on their

bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said, at least, no violence; and yet, with every tremor

of his melancholy voice, the hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So sensible

were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minister, that they longed for a breath of wind to blow

aside the veil, almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture, and

At the close of the services, the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their

pentup amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some

gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their mouths all whispering in the centre; some went

homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; some talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath day with

ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery;

while one or two affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper's eyes were so weakened

by the midnight lamp, as to require a shade. After a brief interval, forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the

rear of his flock. Turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads,

saluted the middle aged with kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled

authority and love, and laid his hands on the little children's heads to bless them. Such was always his custom

on the Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions,

aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. Old Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse

of memory, neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the

food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, at the moment

of closing the door, was observed to look back upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the

minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, glimmering

"How strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, should

"Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper's intellects," observed her husband, the physician of the

village. "But the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary, even on a soberminded man like

myself. The black veil, though it covers only our pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person,

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

The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the

funeral of a young lady. The relatives and friends were assembled in the house, and the more distant

acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased, when their talk was

interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate

emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take a

last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he stooped, the veil hung straight down from his forehead, so

that, if her eyelids had not been closed forever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper

be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who watched the interview

between the dead and living, scrupled not to affirm, that, at the instant when the clergyman's features were

disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance

retained the composure of death. A superstitious old woman was the only witness of this prodigy. From the

coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of the staircase, to make

the funeral prayer. It was a tender and heartdissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial

hopes, that the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard among

the saddest accents of the minister. The people trembled, though they but darkly understood him when he

prayed that they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had

been, for the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers went heavily forth, and

the mourners followed, saddening all the street, with the dead before them, and Mr. Hooper in his black veil

"I had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's spirit were walking hand in hand."

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned a

melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, which often excited a sympathetic

smile where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. There was no quality of his disposition which

made him more beloved than this. The company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting

that the strange awe, which had gathered over him throughout the day, would now be dispelled. But such was

not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black

veil, which had added deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such

was its immediate effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the black

crape, and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair stood up before the minister. But the bride's cold

fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness caused a whisper that

the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come from her grave to be married. If ever another

wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the wedding knell. After performing the

ceremony, Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the newmarried couple in a

strain of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests, like a cheerful gleam from

the hearth. At that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the lookingglass, the black veil involved his

own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he

spilt the untasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed forth into the darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of little else than Parson Hooper's black veil. That, and the

mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the street, and

good women gossiping at their open windows. It was the first item of news that the tavernkeeper told to his

guests. The children babbled of it on their way to school. One imitative little imp covered his face with an old

black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized himself, and he wellnigh lost

It was remarkable that all of the busybodies and impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to put the

plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared the slightest call

for such interference, he had never lacked advisers, nor shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment.

If he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of selfdistrust, that even the mildest censure would lead him

to consider an indifferent action as a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no

individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. There was

a feeling of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift the

responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a deputation of the church, in order

to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before it should grow into a scandal. Never did an embassy so ill

discharge its duties. The minister received then with friendly courtesy, but became silent, after they were

seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important business. The topic, it might be

supposed, was obvious enough. There was the black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper's forehead, and

concealing every feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a

melancholy smile. But that piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the

symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they might speak freely of it,

but not till then. Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr.

Hooper's eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. Finally, the deputies returned

abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled, except by a council of the

But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black veil had impressed all

beside herself. When the deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she,

with the calm energy of her character, determined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling

round Mr. Hooper, every moment more darkly than before. As his plighted wife, it should be her privilege to

know what the black veil concealed. At the minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a

direct simplicity, which made the task easier both for him and her. After he had seated himself, she fixed her

eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the

multitude: it was but a double fold of crape, hanging down from his forehead to his mouth, and slightly

"No," said she aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides a face

which I am always glad to look upon. Come, good sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud. First lay aside

"There is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved

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

"Elizabeth, I will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol,

and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, and

as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must

"What grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly inquired, "that you should thus darken your eyes

"If it be a sign of mourning," replied Mr. Hooper, "I, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark

"But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?" urged Elizabeth. "Beloved

and respected as you are, there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness of secret sin.

The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that were already abroad in the

village. But Mr. Hooper's mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled againthat same sad smile, which

always appeared like a faint glimmering of light, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil.

"If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough," he merely replied; "and if I cover it for secret sin, what

And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist all her entreaties. At length Elizabeth sat

silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in thought, considering, probably, what new methods might be

tried to withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom

of mental disease. Though of a firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. But, in an

instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil,

when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its terrors fell around her. She arose, and stood trembling before him.

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

"Have patience with me, Elizabeth!" cried he, passionately. "Do not desert me, though this veil must be

between us here on earth. Be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between our

souls! It is but a mortal veilit is not for eternity! O! you know not how lonely I am, and how frightened, to

be alone behind my black veil. Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity forever!"

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly departed, pausing at the door, to give one long shuddering

gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. But, even amid his grief, Mr. Hooper

smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from happiness, though the horrors, which it

From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper's black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to discover

the secret which it was supposed to hide. By persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice, it was

reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise rational,

and tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr. Hooper was

irreparbly a bugbear. He could not walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the gentle

and timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw

themselves in his way. The impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his customary walk at

sunset to the burial ground; for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind

the gravestones, peeping at his black veil. A fable went the rounds that the stare of the dead people drove him

thence. It grieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to observe how the children fled from his approach,

breaking up their merriest sports, while his melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused

him to feel more strongly than aught else, that a preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the

black crape. In truth, his own antipathy to the veil was known to be so great, that he never willingly passed

before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should be affrighted by

himself. This was what gave plausibility to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper's conscience tortured him for some

great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely intimated. Thus, from

beneath the black veil, there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped

the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. It was said that ghost and fiend consorted

with him there. With selfshudderings and outward terrors, he walked continually in its shadow, groping

darkly within his own soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless

wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the veil. But still good Mr. Hooper

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect, of making its wearer a very efficient

clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious emblemfor there was no other apparent causehe became a man

of awful power over souls that were in agony for sin. His converts always regarded him with a dread peculiar

to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that, before he brought them to celestial light, they had

been with him behind the black veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections.

Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr. Hooper, and would not yield their breath till he appeared; though ever, as

he stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. Such were the terrors

of the black veil, even when Death had bared his visage! Strangers came long distances to attend service at

his church, with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden them to behold his

face. But many were made to quake ere they departed! Once, during Governor Belcher's administration, Mr.

Hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief

magistrate, the council, and the representatives, and wrought so deep an impression, that the legislative

measures of that year were characterized by all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway.

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions;

kind and loving, though unloved, and dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their health and joy,

but ever summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. As years wore on, shedding their snows above his sable

veil, he acquired a name throughout the New England churches, and they called him Father Hooper. Nearly

all his parishioners, who were of mature age when he was settled, had been borne away by many a funeral: he

had one congregation in the church, and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and having wrought so late

into the evening, and done his work so well, it was now good Father Hooper's turn to rest.

Several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight, in the death chamber of the old clergyman. Natural

connections he had none. But there was the decorously grave, though unmoved physician, seeking only to

mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he could not save. There were the deacons, and other eminently

pious members of his church. There, also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a young and zealous

divine, who had ridden in haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring minister. There was the nurse, no hired

handmaiden of death, but one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the

chill of age, and would not perish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth! And there lay the hoary head

of good Father Hooper upon the death pillow, with the black veil still swathed about his brow, and reaching

down over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. All through life that

piece of crape had hung between him and the world: it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and

woman's love, and kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to

deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him from the sunshine of eternity.

For some time previous, his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between the past and the present,

and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to come. There had been

feverish turns, which tossed him from side to side, and wore away what little strength he had. But in his most

convulsive struggles, and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought retained its sober

influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul

could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at this pillow, who, with averted eyes, would have covered

that aged face, which she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the deathstricken old man

lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse, and breath that grew

fainter and fainter, except when a long, deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his

"Venerable Father Hooper," said he, "the moment of your release is at hand. Are you ready for the lifting of

Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that his

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

"And is it fitting," resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, "that a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless

example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it fitting that a father in the

church should leave a shadow on his memory, that may seem to blacken a life so pure? I pray you, my

venerable brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to your

reward. Before the veil of eternity be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from your face!"

And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. But,

exerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched both his hands

from beneath the bedclothes, and pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister

"Dark old man!" exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what horrible crime upon your soul are you now

Father Hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward with his

hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back till he should speak. He even raised himself in bed; and there

he sat, shivering with the arms of death around him, while the black veil hung down, awful, at that last

moment, in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now seemed to

"Why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled face round the circle of pale spectators.

"Tremble also at each other! Have men avoided me, and women shown no pity, and children screamed and

fled, only for my black veil? What, but the mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of crape

so awful? When the friend shows his inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best beloved; when man does

not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin; then deem me a

monster, for the symbol beneath which I have lived, and die! I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a

While his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his pillow, a

veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled

corpse they bore him to the grave. The grass of many years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the

burial stone is mossgrown, and good Mr. Hooper's face is dust; but awful is still the thought that it

There is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the curious history of the early settlement of

Mount Wollaston, or Merry Mount. In the slight sketch here attempted, the facts, recorded on the grave pages

of our New England annalists, have wrought themselves, almost spontaneously, into a sort of allegory. The

masques, mummeries, and festive customs, described in the text, are in accordance with the manners of the

age. Authority on these points may be found in Strutt's Book of English Sports and Pastimes.

Bright were the days at Merry Mount, when the Maypole was the banner staff of that gay colony! They who

reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over New England's rugged hills, and

scatter flower seeds throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom were contending for an empire. Midsummer eve

had come, bringing deep verdure to the forest, and roses in her lap, of a more vivid hue than the tender buds

of Spring. But May, or her mirthful spirit, dwelt all the year round at Merry Mount, sporting with the

Summer months, and revelling with Autumn, and basking in the glow of Winter's fireside. Through a world

of toil and care she flitted with a dreamlike smile, and came hither to find a home among the lightsome hearts

Never had the Maypole been so gayly decked as at sunset on midsummer eve. This venerated emblem was a

pinetree, which had preserved the slender grace of youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the old

wood monarchs. From its top streamed a silken banner, colored like the rainbow. Down nearly to the ground

the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and others of the liveliest green, and some with silvery leaves,

fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic knots of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. Garden

flowers, and blossoms of the wilderness, laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and dewy that they

must have grown by magic on that happy pinetree. Where this green and flowery splendor terminated, the

shaft of the Maypole was stained with the seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. On the lowest green

bough hung an abundant wreath of roses, some that had been gathered in the sunniest spots of the forest, and

others, of still richer blush, which the colonists had reared from English seed. O, people of the Golden Age,

But what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the Maypole? It could not be that the fauns and

nymphs, when driven from their classic groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, as all the

persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the West. These were Gothic monsters, though perhaps of Grecian

ancestry. On the shoulders of a comely youth uprose the head and branching antlers of a stag; a second,

human in all other points, had the grim visage of a wolf; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal

man, showed the beard and horns of a venerable hegoat. There was the likeness of a bear erect, brute in all

but his hind legs, which were adorned with pink silk stockings. And here again, almost as wondrous, stood a

real bear of the dark forest, lending each of his fore paws to the grasp of a human hand, and as ready for the

dance as any in that circle. His inferior nature rose half way, to meet his companions as they stooped. Other

faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted or extravagant, with red noses pendulous before

their mouths, which seemed of awful depth, and stretched from ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. Here

might be seen the Savage Man, well known in heraldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green leaves. By

his side a noble figure, but still a counterfeit, appeared an Indian hunter, with feathery crest and wampum

belt. Many of this strange company wore foolscaps, and had little bells appended to their garments, tinkling

with a silvery sound, responsive to the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. Some youths and maidens

were of soberer garb, yet well maintained their places in the irregular throng by the expression of wild revelry

upon their features. Such were the colonists of Merry Mount, as they stood in the broad smile of sunset round

Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy forest, heard their mirth, and stolen a halfaffrighted glance,

he might have fancied them the crew of Comus, some already transformed to brutes, some midway between

man and beast, and the others rioting in the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change. But a band of

Puritans, who watched the scene, invisible themselves, compared the masques to those devils and ruined

Within the ring of monsters appeared the two airiest forms that had ever trodden on any more solid footing

than a purple and golden cloud. One was a youth in glistening apparel, with a scarf of the rainbow pattern

crosswise on his breast. His right hand held a gilded staff, the ensign of high dignity among the revellers, and

his left grasped the slender fingers of a fair maiden, not less gayly decorated than himself. Bright roses

glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy curls of each, and were scattered round their feet, or had sprung

up spontaneously there. Behind this lightsome couple, so close to the Maypole that its boughs shaded his

jovial face, stood the figure of an English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in heathen

fashion, and wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. By the riot of his rolling eye, and the pagan

decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very Comus of the crew.

"Votaries of the Maypole," cried the flowerdecked priest, "merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed to

your mirth. But be this your merriest hour, my hearts! Lo, here stand the Lord and Lady of the May, whom I,

a clerk of Oxford, and high priest of Merry Mount, am presently to join in holy matrimony. Up with your

nimble spirits, ye morrisdancers, green men, and glee maidens, bears and wolves, and horned gentlemen!

Come; a chorus now, rich with the old mirth of Merry England, and the wilder glee of this fresh forest; and

then a dance, to show the youthful pair what life is made of, and how airily they should go through it! All ye

that love the Maypole, lend your voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and Lady of the May!"

This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry Mount, where jest and delusion, trick and fantasy,

kept up a continual carnival. The Lord and Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid down at sunset,

were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life, beginning the measure that same bright eve. The

wreath of roses, that hung from the lowest green bough of the Maypole, had been twined for them, and would

be thrown over both their heads, in symbol of their flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore, a

"Begin you the stave, reverend Sir," cried they all; "and never did the woods ring to such a merry peal as we

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cithern, and viol, touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play from a

neighboring thicket, in such a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the sound. But the

May Lord, he of the gilded staff, chancing to look into his Lady's eyes, was wonder struck at the almost

"Edith, sweet Lady of the May," whispered he reproachfully, "is yon wreath of roses a garland to hang above

our graves, that you look so sad? O, Edith, this is our golden time! Tarnish it not by any pensive shadow of

the mind; for it may be that nothing of futurity will be brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now

"That was the very thought that saddened me! How came it in your mind too?" said Edith, in a still lower

tone than he, for it was high treason to be sad at Merry Mount. "Therefore do I sigh amid this festive music.

And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream, and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are

visionary, and their mirth unreal, and that we are no true Lord and Lady of the May. What is the mystery in

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower of withering rose leaves from the

Maypole. Alas, for the young lovers! No sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were

sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of

inevitable change. From the moment that they truly loved, they had subjected themselves to earth's doom of

care and sorrow, and troubled joy, and had no more a home at Merry Mount. That was Edith's mystery. Now

leave we the priest to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the Maypole, till the last sunbeam be

withdrawn from its summit, and the shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the dance. Meanwhile, we may

Two hundred years ago, and more, the old world and its inhabitants became mutually weary of each other.

Men voyaged by thousands to the West: some to barter glass beads, and such like jewels, for the furs of the

Indian hunter; some to conquer virgin empires; and one stern band to pray. But none of these motives had

much weight with the colonists of Merry Mount. Their leaders were men who had sported so long with life,

that when Thought and Wisdom came, even these unwelcome guests were led astray by the crowd of vanities

which they should have put to flight. Erring Thought and perverted Wisdom were made to put on masques,

and play the fool. The men of whom we speak, after losing the heart's fresh gayety, imagined a wild

philosophy of pleasure, and came hither to act out their latest daydream. They gathered followers from all

that giddy tribe whose whole life is like the festal days of soberer men. In their train were minstrels, not

unknown in London streets; wandering players, whose theatres had been the halls of noblemen; mummers,

ropedancers, and mountebanks, who would long be missed at wakes, church ales, and fairs; in a word, mirth

makers of every sort, such as abounded in that age, but now began to be discountenanced by the rapid growth

of Puritanism. Light had their footsteps been on land, and as lightly they came across the sea. Many had been

maddened by their previous troubles into a gay despair; others were as madly gay in the flush of youth, like

the May Lord and his Lady; but whatever might be the quality of their mirth, old and young were gay at

Merry Mount. The young deemed themselves happy. The elder spirits, if they knew that mirth was but the

counterfeit of happiness, yet followed the false shadow wilfully, because at least her garments glittered

brightest. Sworn triflers of a lifetime, they would not venture among the sober truths of life not even to be

All the hereditary pastimes of Old England were transplanted hither. The King of Christmas was duly

crowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore potent sway. On the Eve of St. John, they felled whole acres of the

forest to make bonfires, and danced by the blaze all night, crowned with garlands, and throwing flowers into

the flame. At harvest time, though their crop was of the smallest, they made an image with the sheaves of

Indian corn, and wreathed it with autumnal garlands, and bore it home triumphantly. But what chiefly

characterized the colonists of Merry Mount was their veneration for the Maypole. It has made their true

history a poet's tale. Spring decked the hallowed emblem with young blossoms and fresh green boughs;

Summer brought roses of the deepest blush, and the perfected foliage of the forest; Autumn enriched it with

that red and yellow gorgeousness which converts each wildwood leaf into a painted flower; and Winter

silvered it with sleet, and hung it round with icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a frozen

sunbeam. Thus each alternate season did homage to the Maypole, and paid it a tribute of its own richest

splendor. Its votaries danced round it, once, at least, in every month; sometimes they called it their religion,

Unfortunately, there were men in the new world of a sterner faith than those Maypole worshippers. Not far

from Merry Mount was a settlement of Puritans, most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before

daylight, and then wrought in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it prayer time again. Their weapons

were always at hand to shoot down the straggling savage. When they met in conclave, it was never to keep up

the old English mirth, but to hear sermons three hours long, or to proclaim bounties on the heads of wolves

and the scalps of Indians. Their festivals were fast days, and their chief pastime the singing of psalms. Woe to

the youth or maiden who did but dream of a dance! The selectman nodded to the constable; and there sat the

lightheeled reprobate in the stocks; or if he danced, it was round the whippingpost, which might be termed

A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the difficult woods, each with a horseload of iron armor to

burden his footsteps, would sometimes draw near the sunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were the silken

colonists, sporting round their Maypole; perhaps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to communicate their

mirth to the grave Indian; or masquerading in the skins of deer and wolves, which they had hunted for that

especial purpose. Often, the whole colony were playing at blindman's buff, magistrates and all, with their

eyes bandaged, except a single scapegoat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the tinkling of the bells at his

garments. Once, it is said, they were seen following a flowerdecked corpse, with merriment and festive

music, to his grave. But did the dead man laugh? In their quietest times, they sang ballads and told tales, for

the edification of their pious visitors; or perplexed them with juggling tricks; or grinned at them through

horse collars; and when sport itself grew wearisome, they made game of their own stupidity, and began a

yawning match. At the very least of these enormities, the men of iron shook their heads and frowned so

darkly that the revellers looked up imagining that a momentary cloud had overcast the sunshine, which was to

be perpetual there. On the other hand, the Puritans affirmed that, when a psalm was pealing from their place

of worship, the echo which the forest sent them back seemed often like the chorus of a jolly catch, closing

with a roar of laughter. Who but the fiend, and his bond slaves, the crew of Merry Mount, had thus disturbed

them? In due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on the other as anything could be

among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the Maypole. The future complexion of New England was

involved in this important quarrel. Should the grizzly saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners,

then would their spirits darken all the clime, and make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon

and psalm forever. But should the banner staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the

hills, and flowers would beautify the forest, and late posterity do homage to the Maypole.

After these authentic passages from history, we return to the nuptials of the Lord and Lady of the May. Alas!

we have delayed too long, and must darken our tale too suddenly. As we glance again at the Maypole, a

solitary sunbeam is fading from the summit, and leaves only a faint, golden tinge blended with the hues of the

rainbow banner. Even that dim light is now withdrawn, relinquishing the whole domain of Merry Mount to

the evening gloom, which has rushed so instantaneously from the black surrounding woods. But some of

Yes, with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had passed from Merry Mount. The ring of gay masquers was

disordered and broken; the stag lowered his antlers in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb; the bells of

the morrisdancers tinkled with tremulous affright. The Puritans had played a characteristic part in the

Maypole mummeries. Their darksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes of their foes, and made

the scene a picture of the moment, when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered fantasies of a dream.

The leader of the hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while the route of monsters cowered around

him, like evil spirits in the presence of a dread magician. No fantastic foolery could look him in the face. So

stern was the energy of his aspect, that the whole man, visage, frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron,

gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance with his headpiece and breastplate. It was the Puritan of

"Stand off, priest of Baal!" said he, with a grim frown, and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice. "I

know thee, Blackstone![1] Thou art the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted

church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity, and to give example of it in thy life. But now shall it be seen

that the Lord hath sanctified this wilderness for his peculiar people. Woe unto them that would defile it! And

[1] Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should suspect a mistake here. The Rev. Mr. Blackstone,

though an eccentric, is not known to have been an immoral man. We rather doubt his identity with the priest

And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the hallowed Maypole. Nor long did it resist his arm. It groaned

with a dismal sound; it showered leaves and rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast; and finally, with all its

green boughs and ribbons and flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the banner staff of Merry

Mount. As it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods threw forth a more sombre

"There," cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on his work, "there lies the only Maypole in New England! The

thought is strong within me that, by its fall, is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirth makers, amongst

But the votaries of the Maypole gave one groan for their idol. At the sound, the Puritan leader glanced at the

crew of Comus, each a figure of broad mirth, yet, at this moment, strangely expressive of sorrow and dismay.

"Valiant captain," quoth Peter Palfrey, the Ancient of the band, "what order shall be taken with the

"I thought not to repent me of cutting down a Maypole," replied Endicott, "yet now I could find in my heart

to plant it again, and give each of these bestial pagans one other dance round their idol. It would have served

"True, good Ancient," said the leader. "Wherefore, bind the heathen crew, and bestow on them a small matter

of stripes apiece, as earnest of our future justice. Set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest themselves, so

soon as Providence shall bring us to one of our own wellordered settlements where such accommodations

may be found. Further penalties, such as branding and cropping of ears, shall be thought of hereafter."

"None as yet," answered Endicott, bending his iron frown upon the culprit. "It must be for the Great and

General Court to determine, whether stripes and long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may atone

for his transgressions. Let him look to himself! For such as violate our civil order, it may be permitted us to

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

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

"Here be a couple of shining ones," continued Peter Palfrey, pointing his weapon at the Lord and Lady of the

May. "They seem to be of high station among these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will not be fitted with

Endicott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. There they stood,

pale, downcast, and apprehensive. Yet there was an air of mutual support and of pure affection, seeking aid

and giving it, that showed them to be man and wife, with the sanction of a priest upon their love. The youth,

in the peril of the moment, had dropped his gilded staff, and thrown his arm about the Lady of the May, who

leaned against his breast, too lightly to burden him, but with weight enough to express that their destinies

were linked together, for good or evil. They looked first at each other, and then into the grim captain's face.

There they stood, in the first hour of wedlock, while the idle pleasures, of which their companions were the

emblems, had given place to the sternest cares of life, personified by the dark Puritans. But never had their

youthful beauty seemed so pure and high as when its glow was chastened by adversity.

"Youth," said Endicott, "ye stand in an evil case thou and thy maiden wife. Make ready presently, for I am

"Stern man," cried the May Lord, "how can I move thee? Were the means at hand, I would resist to the death.

Being powerless, I entreat! Do with me as thou wilt, but let Edith go untouched!"

"Not so," replied the immitigable zealot. "We are not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, which

requireth the stricter discipline. What sayest thou, maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy share of the

Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woful case. Their foes were triumphant, their friends

captive and abased, their home desolate, the benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous destiny, in the

shape of the Puritan leader, their only guide. Yet the deepening twilight could not altogether conceal that the

iron man was softened; he smiled at the fair spectacle of early love; he almost sighed for the inevitable blight

"The troubles of life have come hastily on this young couple," observed Endicott. "We will see how they

comport themselves under their present trials ere we burden them with greater. If, among the spoil, there be

any garments of a more decent fashion, let them be put upon this May Lord and his Lady, instead of their

"And shall not the youth's hair be cut?" asked Peter Palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the lovelock and long

"Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkinshell fashion," answered the captain. "Then bring them along

with us, but more gently than their fellows. There be qualities in the youth, which may make him valiant to

fight, and sober to toil, and pious to pray; and in the maiden, that may fit her to become a mother in our

Israel, bringing up babes in better nurture than her own hath been. Nor think ye, young ones, that they are the

happiest, even in our lifetime of a moment, who misspend it in dancing round a Maypole!"

And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid the rock foundation of New England, lifted the wreath of

roses from the ruin of the Maypole, and threw it, with his own gauntleted hand, over the heads of the Lord

and Lady of the May. It was a deed of prophecy. As the moral gloom of the world overpowers all systematic

gayety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest. They returned to it no more.

But as their flowery garland was wreathed of the brightest roses that had grown there, so, in the tie that united

them, were intertwined all the purest and best of their early joys. They went heavenward, supporting each

other along the difficult path which it was their lot to tread, and never wasted one regretful thought on the

In the course of the year 1656, several of the people called Quakers, led, as they professed, by the inward

movement of the spirit, made their appearance in New England. Their reputation, as holders of mystic and

pernicious principles, having spread before them, the Puritans early endeavored to banish, and to prevent the

further intrusion of the rising sect. But the measures by which it was intended to purge the land of heresy,

though more than sufficiently vigorous, were entirely unsuccessful. The Quakers, esteeming persecution as a

divine call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy courage, unknown to the Puritans themselves, who had

shunned the cross, by providing for the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant wilderness. Though it

was the singular fact, that every nation of the earth rejected the wandering enthusiasts who practised peace

towards all men, the place of greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore, in their eyes the most eligible, was

The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally distributed by our pious forefathers; the popular antipathy, so

strong that it endured nearly a hundred years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as powerful

for the Quakers, as peace, honor, and reward, would have been for the worldly minded. Every European

vessel brought new cargoes of the sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they hoped to share; and

when shipmasters were restrained by heavy fines from affording them passage, they made long and circuitous

journeys through the Indian country, and appeared in the province as if conveyed by a supernatural power.

Their enthusiasm, heightened almost to madness by the treatment which they received, produced actions

contrary to the rules of decency, as well as of rational religion, and presented a singular contrast to the calm

and staid deportment of their sectarian successors of the present day. The command of the spirit, inaudible

except to the soul, and not to be controverted on grounds of human wisdom, was made a plea for most

indecorous exhibitions, which, abstractedly considered, well deserved the moderate chastisement of the rod.

These extravagances, and the persecution which was at once their cause and consequence, continued to

increase, till, in the year 1659, the government of Massachusetts Bay indulged two members of the Quaker

An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to this act, but a large share of the awful

responsibility must rest upon the person then at the head of the government. He was a man of narrow mind

and imperfect education, and his uncompromising bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent and

hasty passions; he exerted his influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the

enthusiasts; and his whole conduct, in respect to them, was marked by brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose

revengeful feelings were not less deep because they were inactive, remembered this man and his associates in

after times. The historian of the sect affirms that, by the wrath of Heaven, a blight fell upon the land in the

vicinity of the "bloody town" of Boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand, as it

were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and triumphantly recounts the judgments that overtook

them, in old age or at the parting hour. He tells us that they died suddenly and violently and in madness; but

nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he records the loathsome disease, and "death by

On the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker persuasion, a

Puritan settler was returning from the metropolis to the neighboring country town in which he resided. The

air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a young moon, which

had now nearly reached the verge of the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, wrapped in a gray frieze

cloak, quickened his pace when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four

miles lay between him and his home. The low, strawthatched houses were scattered at considerable intervals

along the road, and the country having been settled but about thirty years, the tracts of original forest still

bore no small proportion to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind wandered among the branches, whirling

away the leaves from all except the pinetrees, and moaning as if it lamented the desolation of which it was

the instrument. The road had penetrated the mass of woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just

emerging into an open space, when the traveller's ears were saluted by a sound more mournful than even that

of the wind. It was like the wailing of someone in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and

lonely firtree, in the centre of a cleared but uninclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could not but

remember that this was the very spot which had been made accursed a few hours before by the execution of

the Quakers whose bodies had been thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree on which they

suffered. He struggled however, against the superstitious fears which belonged to the age, and compelled

"The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to tremble if it be otherwise," thought he, straining his eyes

through the dim moonlight. "Methinks it is like the wailing of a child; some infant, it may be, which has

strayed from its mother, and chanced upon this place of death. For the ease of mine own conscience I must

He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat fearfully across the field. Though now so desolate, its soil

was pressed down and trampled by the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of that

day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness. The traveller, at length reached the

firtree, which from the middle upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been

erected beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death. Under this unhappy tree, which in after

times was believed to drop poison with its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. It was a

slender and light clad little boy, who leaned his face upon a hillock of freshturned and halffrozen earth,

and wailed bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of crime. The

Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child's shoulder, and addressed him

"You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you weep," said he. "But dry your eyes,

and tell me where your mother dwells. I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you in her

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to the stranger. It was a pale,

brighteyed countenance, certainly not more than six years old, but sorrow, fear, and want had destroyed

much of its infantile expression. The Puritan seeing the boy's frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled

"Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were to leave you here. What! you do not fear

to sit beneath the gallows on a newmade grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch. Take heart, child,

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

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and the

outlandish name, almost made the Puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung up out

of the grave on which he sat. But perceiving that the apparition stood the test of a short mental prayer, and

remembering that the arm which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational supposition. "The

poor child is stricken in his intellect," thought he, "but verily his words are fearful in a place like this." He

"Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn night, and I fear you are illprovided with

food. I am hastening to a warm supper and bed, and if you will go with me you shall share them!"

"I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry, and shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor

lodging," replied the boy, in the quiet tone which despair had taught him, even so young. "My father was of

the people whom all men hate. They have laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my home."

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim's hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loathsome

reptile. But he possessed a compassionate heart, which not even religious prejudice could harden into stone.

"God forbid that I should leave this child to perish, though he comes of the accursed sect," said he to himself.

"Do we not all spring from an evil root? Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine upon us? He shall

not perish, neither in body, nor, if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul." He then spoke aloud and

kindly to Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave. "Was every door in the land shut

"They drove me forth from the prison when they took my father thence," said the boy, "and I stood afar off

watching the crowd of people, and when they were gone I came hither, and found only his grave. I knew that

"No, child, no; not while I have a roof over my head, or a morsel to share with you!" exclaimed the Puritan,

whose sympathies were now fully excited. "Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm."

The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to him than

any in a living breast. The traveller, however, continued to entreat him tenderly, and seeming to acquire some

degree of confidence, he at length arose. But his slender limbs tottered with weakness, his little head grew

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

"I ate of bread and water with my father in the prison," replied Ilbrahim, "but they brought him none neither

yesterday nor today, saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey's end. Trouble not thyself

The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame

and anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the instruments in this persecution. In the awakened warmth of his

feelings he resolved that, at whatever risk, he would not forsake the poor little defenceless being whom

Heaven had confided to his care. With this determination he left the accursed field, and resumed the

homeward path from which the wailing of the boy had called him. The light and motionless burden scarcely

impeded his progress, and he soon beheld the fire rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a native of

a distant clime, had built in the western wilderness. It was surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated

ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of a woodcovered hill, whither it seemed to have crept for

"Look up, child," said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder, "there is our

At the word "home," a thrill passed through the child's frame, but he continued silent. A few moments

brought them to a cottage door, at which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages were

wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. The

summons was answered by a bondservant, a coarseclad and dullfeatured piece of humanity, who, after

ascertaining that his master was the applicant, undid the door, and held a flaring pineknot torch to light him

in. Farther back in the passageway, the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little crowd of

children came bounding forth to greet their father's return. As the Puritan entered, he thrust aside his cloak,

"Dorothy, here is a little outcast, whom Providence hath put into our hands," observed he. "Be kind to him,

"What pale and brighteyed little boy is this, Tobias?" she inquired. "Is he one whom the wilderness folk

"No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from the wilderness," he replied. "The heathen savage would have

given him to eat of his scanty morsel, and to drink of his birchen cup; but Christian men, alas, had cast him

Then he told her how he had found him beneath the gallows, upon his father's grave; and how his heart had

prompted him, like the speaking of an inward voice, to take the little outcast home, and be kind unto him. He

acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe him, as if he were his own child, and to afford him the

instruction which should counteract the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into his infant mind. Dorothy was

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

The tears burst forth from his full heart as he attempted to reply; but Dorothy at length understood that he had

a mother, who, like the rest of her sect, was a persecuted wanderer. She had been taken from the prison a

short time before, carried into the uninhabited wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger or wild beasts.

This was no uncommon method of disposing of the Quakers, and they were accustomed to boast that the

"Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, and a kind one," said Dorothy, when she had gathered this

information. "Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be my child, as I will be your mother."

The good woman prepared the little bed, from which her own children had successively been borne to

another restingplace. Before Ilbrahim would consent to occupy it, he knelt down, and as Dorothy listened to

his simple and affecting prayer, she marvelled how the parents that had taught it to him could have been

judged worthy of death. When the boy had fallen asleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual countenance,

pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the bedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a pensive

Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emigrants from the old country. He had remained in England

during the first years of the civil war, in which he had borne some share as a cornet of dragoons, under

Cromwell. But when the ambitious designs of his leader began to develop themselves, he quitted the army of

the Parliament, and sought a refuge from the strife, which was no longer holy, among the people of his

persuasion in the colony of Massachusetts. A more worldly consideration had perhaps an influence in

drawing him thither; for New England offered advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes, as well as to

dissatisfied religionists, and Pearson had hitherto found it difficult to provide for a wife and increasing

family. To this supposed impurity of motive the more bigoted Puritans were inclined to impute the removal

by death of all the children, for whose earthly good the father had been overthoughtful. They had left their

native country blooming like roses, and like roses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those expounders of

the ways of Providence, who had thus judged their brother, and attributed his domestic sorrows to his sin,

were not more charitable when they saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void in their hearts by

the adoption of an infant of the accursed sect. Nor did they fail to communicate their disapprobation to

Tobias; but the latter, in reply, merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely boy, whose appearance and

deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as could possibly have been adduced in his own favor. Even

his beauty, however, and his winning manners, sometimes produced an effect ultimately unfavorable; for the

bigots, when the outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been softened and again grew hard, affirmed that no

Their antipathy to the poor infant was also increased by the ill success of divers theological discussions, in

which it was attempted to convince him of the errors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful

controversialist; but the feeling of his religion was strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be enticed

nor driven from the faith which his father had died for. The odium of this stubbornness was shared in a great

measure by the child's protectors, insomuch that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began to experience a most

bitter species of persecution, in the cold regards of many a friend whom they had valued. The common

people manifested their opinions more openly. Pearson was a man of some consideration, being a

representative to the General Court and an approved lieutenant in the trainbands, yet within a week after his

adoption of Ilbrahim he had been both hissed and hooted. Once, also, when walking through a solitary piece

of woods, he heard a loud voice from some invisible speaker; and it cried, "What shall be done to the

backslider? Lo! the scourge is knotted for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord three knots!"

These insults irritated Pearson's temper for the moment; they entered also into his heart, and became

imperceptible but powerful workers towards an end which his most secret thought had not yet whispered.

On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a member of their family, Pearson and his wife deemed it

proper that he should appear with them at public worship. They had anticipated some opposition to this

measure from the boy, but he prepared himself in silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the new

mourning suit which Dorothy had wrought for him. As the parish was then, and during many subsequent

years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the commencement of religious exercises was the beat of a drum.

At the first sound of that martial call to the place of holy and quiet thoughts, Tobias and Dorothy set forth,

each holding a hand of little Ilbrahim, like two parents linked together by the infant of their love. On their

path through the leafless woods they were overtaken by many persons of their acquaintance, all of whom

avoided them, and passed by on the other side; but a severer trial awaited their constancy when they had

descended the hill, and drew near the pinebuilt and undecorated house of prayer. Around the door, from

which the drummer still sent forth his thundering summons, was drawn up a formidable phalanx, including

several of the oldest members of the congregation, many of the middle aged, and nearly all the younger

males. Pearson found it difficult to sustain their united and disapproving gaze, but Dorothy, whose mind was

differently circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her, and faltered not in her approach. As they

entered the door, they overheard the muttered sentiments of the assemblage, and when the reviling voices of

The interior aspect of the meetinghouse was rude. The low ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked wood

work, and the undraperied pulpit, offered nothing to excite the devotion, which, without such external aids,

often remains latent in the heart. The floor of the building was occupied by rows of long, cushionless

benches, supplying the place of pews, and the broad aisle formed a sexual division, impassable except by

Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the meetinghouse, and Ilbrahim, being within the years of

infancy, was retained under the care of the latter. The wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their rusty

cloaks as he passed by; even the mildfeatured maidens seemed to dread contamination; and many a stern old

man arose, and turned his repulsive and unheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the sanctuary

were polluted by his presence. He was a sweet infant of the skies that had strayed away from his home, and

all the inhabitants of this miserable world closed up their impure hearts against him, drew back their

Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother, and retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave and

decorous demeanor, such as might befit a person of matured taste and understanding, who should find him

self in a temple dedicated to some worship which he did not recognize, but felt himself bound to respect. The

exercises had not yet commenced, however, when the boy's attention was arrested by an event, apparently of

trifling interest. A woman, having her face muffled in a hood, and a cloak drawn completely about her form,

advanced slowly up the broad aisle and took a place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim's faint color varied,

When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, the minister arose, and having turned the hourglass

which stood by the great Bible, commenced his discourse. He was now well stricken in years, a man of pale,

thin countenance, and his gray hairs were closely covered by a black velvet skullcap. In his younger days he

had practically learned the meaning of persecution from Archbishop Laud, and he was not now disposed to

forget the lesson against which he had murmured then. Introducing the often discussed subject of the

Quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and a description of their tenets, in which error predominated, and

prejudice distorted the aspect of what was true. He adverted to the recent measures in the province, and

cautioned his hearers of weaker parts against calling in question the just severity which Godfearing

magistrates had at length been compelled to exercise. He spoke of the danger of pity, in some cases a

commendable and Christian virtue, but inapplicable to this pernicious sect. He observed that such was their

devilish obstinacy in error, that even the little children, the sucking babes, were hardened and desperate

heretics. He affirmed that no man, without Heaven's especial warrants should attempt their conversion, lest

while he lent his hand to draw them from the slough, he should himself be precipitated into its lowest depths.

The sands of the second hour were principally in the lower half of the glass when the sermon concluded. An

approving murmur followed, and the clergyman, having given out a hymn, took his seat with much

selfcongratulation, and endeavored to read the effect of his eloquence in the visages of the people. But while

voices from all parts of the house were tuning themselves to sing, a scene occurred, which, though not very

unusual at that period in the province, happened to be without precedent in this parish.

The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in the front rank of the audience, now arose, and with

slow, stately, and unwavering step, ascended the pulpit stairs. The quiverings of incipient harmony were

hushed, and the divine sat in speechless and almost terrified astonishment, while she undid the door, and

stood up in the sacred desk from which his maledictions had just been thundered. She then divested herself of

the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most singular array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was girded about

her waist with a knotted cord; her raven hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness was defiled by

pale streaks of ashes, which she had strown upon her head. Her eyebrows, dark and strongly defined, added

to the deathly whiteness of a countenance, which, emaciated with want, and wild with enthusiasm and strange

sorrows, retained no trace of earlier beauty. This figure stood gazing earnestly on the audience, and there was

no sound, nor any movement, except a faint shuddering which every man observed in his neighbor, but was

scarcely conscious of in himself. At length, when her fit of inspiration came, she spoke, for the first few

moments, in a low voice, and not invariably distinct utterance. Her discourse gave evidence of an imagination

hopelessly entangled with her reason; it was a vague and incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however,

seemed to spread its own atmosphere round the hearer's soul, and to move his feelings by some influence

unconnected with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful but shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like

bright things moving in a turbid river; or a strong and singularlyshaped idea leaped forth, and seized at once

on the understanding or the heart. But the course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the persecutions

of her sect, and from thence the step was short to her own peculiar sorrows. She was naturally a woman of

mighty passions, and hatred and revenge now wrapped themselves in the garb of piety; the character of her

speech was changed, her images became distinct though wild, and her denunciations had an almost hellish

"The Governor and his mighty men," she said, "have gathered together, taking counsel among themselves and

saying, 'What shall we do unto this people even unto the people that have come into this land to put our

iniquity to the blush?' And lo! the devil entereth into the council chamber, like a lame man of low stature and

gravely apparelled, with a dark and twisted countenance, and a bright, downcast eye. And he standeth up

among the rulers; yea, he goeth to and fro, whispering to each; and every man lends his ear, for his word is

'Slay, slay!' But I say unto ye, Woe to them that slay! Woe to them that shed the blood of saints! Woe to them

that have slain the husband, and cast forth the child, the tender infant, to wander homeless and hungry and

cold, till he die; and have saved the mother alive, in the cruelty of their tender mercies! Woe to them in their

lifetime! cursed are they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts! Woe to them in their death hour, whether

it come swiftly with blood and violence, or after long and lingering pain! Woe, in the dark house, in the

rottenness of the grave, when the children's children shall revile the ashes of the fathers! Woe, woe, woe, at

the judgment, when all the persecuted and all the slain in this bloody land, and the father, the mother, and the

child, shall await them in a day that they cannot escape! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose hearts

are moving with a power that ye know not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood! Lift your voices,

Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity which she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was silent.

Her voice was succeeded by the hysteric shrieks of several women, but the feelings of the audience generally

had not been drawn onward in the current with her own. They remained stupefied, stranded as it were, in the

midst of a torrent, which deafened them by its roaring, but might not move them by its violence. The

clergyman, who could not hitherto have ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily force, now

"Get you down, woman, from the holy place which you profane," he said. "Is it to the Lord's house that you

come to pour forth the foulness of your heart and the inspiration of the devil? Get you down, and remember

that the sentence of death is on you; yea, and shall be executed, were it but for this day's work!"

"I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utterance," replied she, in a depressed and even mild tone. "I have

done my mission unto thee and to thy people. Reward me with stripes, imprisonment, or death, as ye shall be

The weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. The people,

in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the floor of the house, whispering among themselves, and

glancing towards the intruder. Many of them now recognized her as the woman who had assaulted the

Governor with frightful language as he passed by the window of her prison; they knew, also, that she was

adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved only by an involuntary banishment into the wilderness. The

new outrage, by which she had provoked her fate, seemed to render further lenity impossible; and a

gentleman in military dress, with a stout man of inferior rank, drew towards the door of the meetinghouse,

Scarcely did her feet press the floor, however, when an unexpected scene occurred. In that moment of her

peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy pressed forth, and threw his arms round his

She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened expression, for she knew that the boy had been cast

out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his face again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one of the

happy visions with which her excited fancy had often deceived her, in the solitude of the desert or in prison.

But when she felt his hand warm within her own, and heard his little eloquence of childish love, she began to

"Blessed art thou, my son," she sobbed. "My heart was withered; yea, dead with thee and with thy father; and

She knelt down and embraced him again and again, while the joy that could find no words expressed itself in

broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. The sorrows of past

years, and the darker peril that was nigh, cast not a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting moment. Soon,

however, the spectators saw a change upon her face, as the consciousness of her sad estate returned, and grief

supplied the fount of tears which joy had opened. By the words she uttered, it would seem that the indulgence

of natural love had given her mind a momentary sense of its errors, and made her know how far she had

"In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy," she said, "for thy mother's path has gone darkening

onward, till now the end is death. Son, son, I have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tottering, and I

have fed thee with the food that I was fainting for; yet I have ill performed a mother's part by thee in life, and

now I leave thee no inheritance but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through the world, and find all

hearts closed against thee and their sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. My child, my child, how

She hid her face on Ilbrahim's head, and her long, raven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning, fell

down about him like a veil. A low and interrupted moan was the voice of her heart's anguish, and it did not

fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook their involuntary virtue for a sin. Sobs were audible in the

female section of the house, and every man who was a father drew his hand across his eyes. Tobias Pearson

was agitated and uneasy, but a certain feeling like the consciousness of guilt oppressed him, so that he could

not go forth and offer himself as the protector of the child. Dorothy, however, had watched her husband's eye.

Her mind was free from the influence that had begun to work on his, and she drew near the Quaker woman,

"Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his mother," she said, taking Ilbrahim's hand. "Providence has

signally marked out my husband to protect him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under our roof now

many days, till our hearts have grown very strongly unto him. Leave the tender child with us, and be at ease

The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in Dorothy's face.

Her mild but saddened features, and neat matronly attire, harmonized together, and were like a verse of

fireside poetry. Her very aspect proved that she was blameless, so far as mortal could be so, in respect to God

and man; while the enthusiast, in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as evidently violated

the duties of the present life and the future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. The two females, as

they held each a hand of Ilbrahim, formed a practical allegory; it was rational piety and unbridled fanaticism

"No, we are not of your people," replied Dorothy, with mildness, "but we are Christians, looking upward to

the same heaven with you. Doubt not that your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing on our tender

and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, I trust, my own children have gone before me, for I also have been a

mother; I am no longer so," she added, in a faltering tone, "and your son will have all my care."

"But will ye lead him in the path which his parents have trodden?" demanded the Quaker. "Can ye teach him

the enlightened faith which his father has died for, and for which I, even I, am soon to become an unworthy

martyr? The boy has been baptized in blood; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon his forehead?"

"I will not deceive you," answered Dorothy. "If your child become our child, we must breed him up in the

instruction which Heaven has imparted to us; we must pray for him the prayers of our own faith; we must do

towards him according to the dictates of our own consciences, and not of yours. Were we to act otherwise, we

The mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled countenance, and then turned her eyes upward to

heaven. She seemed to pray internally, and the contention of her soul was evident.

"Friend," she said at length to Dorothy, "I doubt not that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy

hands. Nay, I will believe that even thy imperfect lights may guide him to a better world, for surely thou art

on the path thither. But thou hast spoken of a husband. Doth he stand here among this multitude of people?

She turned her face upon the male auditors, and after a momentary delay, Tobias Pearson came forth from

among them. The Quaker saw the dress which marked his military rank, and shook her head; but then she

noted the hesitating air, the eyes that struggled with her own, and were vanquished; the color that went and

came, and could find no resting place. As she gazed, an unmirthful smile spread over her features, like

sunshine that grows melancholy in some desolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she spake.

"I hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within me and saith, 'Leave thy child, Catharine, for his place is here,

and go hence, for I have other work for thee. Break the bonds of natural affection, martyr thy love, and know

that in all these things eternal wisdom hath its ends.' I go, friends; I go. Take ye my boy, my precious jewel. I

go hence, trusting that all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands there is a labor in the vineyard."

She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at first struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and

tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his cheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her hands

"Farewell, friends in mine extremity," she said to Pearson and his wife; "the good deed ye have done me is a

treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned a thousandfold hereafter. And farewell ye, mine enemies, to whom

it is not permitted to harm so much as a hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for a moment. The day

is coming when ye shall call upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, and I will rise up and

She turned her steps towards the door, and the men, who had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew, and

suffered her to pass. A general sentiment of pity overcame the virulence of religious hatred. Sanctified by her

love and her affliction, she went forth, and all the people gazed after her till she had journeyed up the hill, and

was lost behind its brow. She went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to renew the wanderings of past

years. For her voice had been already heard in many lands of Christendom; and she had pined in the cells of a

Catholic Inquisition before she felt the lash and lay in the dungeons of the Puritans. Her mission had

extended also to the followers of the Prophet, and from them she had received the courtesy and kindness

which all the contending sects of our purer religion united to deny her. Her husband and herself had resided

many months in Turkey, where even the Sultan's countenance was gracious to them; in that pagan land, too,

was Ilbrahim's birthplace, and his oriental name was a mark of gratitude for the good deeds of an unbeliever.

When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the rights over Ilbrahim that could be delegated, their

affection for him became like the memory of their native land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece of

the immovable furniture of their hearts. The boy, also, after a week or two of mental disquiet, began to gratify

his protectors by many inadvertent proofs that he considered them as parents, and their house as home.

Before the winter snows were melted, the persecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and heathen

country, seemed native in the New England cottage, and inseparable from the warmth and security of its

hearth. Under the influence of kind treatment, and in the consciousness that he was loved, Ilbrahim's

demeanor lost a premature manliness, which had resulted from his earlier situation; he became more

childlike, and his natural character displayed itself with freedom. It was in many respects a beautiful one, yet

the disordered imaginations of both his father and mother had perhaps propagated a certain unhealthiness in

the mind of the boy. In his general state, Ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most trifling events, and

from every object about him; he seemed to discover rich treasures of happiness, by a faculty analogous to that

of the witch hazel, which points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. His airy gayety, coming to him

from a thousand sources, communicated itself to the family, and Ilbrahim was like a domesticated sunbeam,

brightening moody countenances, and chasing away the gloom from the dark corners of the cottage.

On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the boy's

prevailing temper sometimes yielded to moments of deep depression. His sorrows could not always be

followed up to their original source, but most frequently they appeared to flow, though Ilbrahim was young to

be sad for such a cause, from wounded love. The flightiness of his mirth rendered him often guilty of

offences against the decorum of a Puritan household, and on these occasions he did not invariably escape

rebuke. But the slightest word of real bitterness, which he was infallible in distinguishing from pretended

anger, seemed to sink into his heart and poison all his enjoyments, till he became sensible that he was entirely

forgiven. Of the malice, which generally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness, Ilbrahim was altogether

destitute: when trodden upon, he would not turn; when wounded, he could but die. His mind was wanting in

the stamina for selfsupport; it was a plant that would twine beautifully round something stronger than itself,

but if repulsed, or torn away, it had no choice but to wither on the ground. Dorothy's acuteness taught her that

severity would crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured him with the gentle care of one who handles a

butterfly. Her husband manifested an equal affection, although it grew daily less productive of familiar

The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to the Quaker infant and his protectors, had not undergone a

favorable change, in spite of the momentary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over their

sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of which he was the object, were very grievous to Ilbrahim, especially

when any circumstance made him sensible that the children, his equals in age, partook of the enmity of their

parents. His tender and social nature had already overflowed in attachments to everything about him, and still

there was a residue of unappropriated love, which he yearned to bestow upon the little ones who were taught

to hate him. As the warm days of spring came on, Ilbrahim was accustomed to remain for hours, silent and

inactive, within hearing of the children's voices at their play; yet, with his usual delicacy of feeling, he

avoided their notice, and would flee and hide himself from the smallest individual among them. Chance,

however, at length seemed to open a medium of communication between his heart and theirs; it was by means

of a boy about two years older than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from a tree in the vicinity of Pearson's

habitation. As the sufferer's own home was at some distance, Dorothy willingly received him under her roof,

Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred him, in

other circumstances, from attempting to make a friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter immediately

impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it required some examination to discover that the cause was a very

slight distortion of the mouth, and the irregular, broken line, and near approach of the eyebrows. Analogous,

perhaps, to these trifling deformities, was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint, and the uneven

prominence of the breast; forming a body, regular in its general outline, but faulty in almost all its details.

The disposition of the boy was sullen and reserved, and the village schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in

intellect; although, at a later period of life, he evinced ambition and very peculiar talents. But whatever might

be his personal or moral irregularities, Ilbrahim's heart seized upon, and clung to him, from the moment that

he was brought wounded into the cottage; the child of persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that

of the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had created a sort of relationship between

them. Food, rest, and the fresh air, for which he languished, were neglected; he nestled continually by the

bedside of the little stranger, and, with a fond jealousy, endeavored to be the medium of all the cares that

were bestowed upon him. As the boy became convalescent, Ilbrahim contrived games suitable to his

situation, or amused him by a faculty which he had perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric birthplace.

It was that of reciting imaginary adventures, on the spur of the moment, and apparently in inexhaustible

succession. His tales were of course monstrous, disjointed, and without aim; but they were curious on account

of a vein of human tenderness which ran through them all, and was like a sweet, familiar face, encountered in

the midst of wild and unearthly scenery. The auditor paid much attention to these romances, and sometimes

interrupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying shrewdness above his years, mingled with a

moral obliquity which grated very harshly against Ilbrahim's instinctive rectitude. Nothing, however, could

arrest the progress of the latter's affection, and there were many proofs that it met with a response from the

dark and stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy's parents at length removed him, to complete his

Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure; but he made anxious and continual inquiries

respecting him, and informed himself of the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. On a

pleasant summer afternoon, the children of the neighborhood had assembled in the little forestcrowned

amphitheatre behind the meetinghouse, and the recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of

a score of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy voices, which danced among the trees like sunshine

become audible; the grown men of this weary world, as they journeyed by the spot, marvelled why life,

beginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom; and their hearts, or their imaginations, answered them

and said, that the bliss of childhood gushes from its innocence. But it happened that an unexpected addition

was made to the heavenly little band. It was Ilbrahim, who came towards the children with a look of sweet

confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had no longer to

fear a repulse from their society. A hush came over their mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood

whispering to each other while he drew nigh; but, all at once, the devil of their fathers entered into the

unbreeched fanatics, and sending up a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker child. In an instant,

he was the centre of a brood of babyfiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him with stones, and

displayed an instinct of destruction far more loathsome than the bloodthirstiness of manhood.

The invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from the tumult, crying out with a loud voice, "Fear not, Ilbrahim,

come hither and take my hand;" and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After watching the victim's

struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the foulhearted little villain lifted his staff and

struck Ilbrahim on the mouth, so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child's arms had been

raised to guard his head from the storm of blows; but now he dropped them at once. His persecutors beat him

down, trampled upon him, dragged him by his long, fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on the point of becoming as

veritable a martyr as ever entered bleeding into heaven. The uproar, however, attracted the notice of a few

neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and of conveying him to Pearson's

Ilbrahim's bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing accomplished his recovery; the injury done

to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though not so visible. Its signs were principally of a negative

character, and to be discovered only by those who had previously known him. His gait was thenceforth slow,

even, and unvaried by the sudden bursts of sprightlier motion, which had once corresponded to his

overflowing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its former play of expression, the dance of sunshine

reflected from moving water, was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was attracted in a far

less degree by passing events, and he appeared to find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to

him than at a happier period. A stranger, founding his judgment upon these circumstances, would have said

that the dulness of the child's intellect widely contradicted the promise of his features, but the secret was in

the direction of Ilbrahim's thoughts, which were brooding within him when they should naturally have been

wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion on which

his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he burst into passionate weeping, and ran and hid

himself, for his heart had become so miserably sore that even the hand of kindness tortured it like fire.

Sometimes, at night and probably in his dreams, he was heard to cry "Mother! Mother!" as if her place, which

a stranger had supplied while Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his extreme affliction.

Perhaps, among the many lifeweary wretches then upon the earth, there was not one who combined

innocence and misery like this poor, brokenhearted infant, so soon the victim of his own heavenly nature.

While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different character

had come to its perfection in his adopted father. The incident with which this tale commences found Pearson

in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted, and longing for a more fervid faith than he possessed.

The first effect of his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, and incipient love for the child's

whole sect; but joined to this, and resulting perhaps from selfsuspicion, was a proud and ostentatious

contempt of all their tenets and practical extravagances. In the course of much thought, however, for the

subject struggled irresistibly into his mind, the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and the

points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another aspect, or vanished entirely away. The

work within him appeared to go on even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt, when he lay down

to rest, would often hold the place of a truth, confirmed by some forgotten demonstration, when he recalled

his thoughts in the morning. But while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts, his contempt, in

nowise decreasing towards them, grew very fierce against himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his

acquaintance wore a sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. Such was his state of mind at

the period of Ilbrahim's misfortune; and the emotions consequent upon that event completed the change, of

In the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors, nor the infatuation of their victims, had decreased.

The dungeons were never empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with the lash; the life of a

woman, whose mild and Christian spirit no cruelty could embitter, had been sacrificed; and more innocent

blood was yet to pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. Early after the Restoration, the English

Quakers represented to Charles II that a "vein of blood was open in his dominions;" but though the

displeasure of the voluptuous king was roused, his interference was not prompt. And now the tale must stride

forward over many months, leaving Pearson to encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife to a firm

endurance of a thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop like a cankered rosebud; his mother to

wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to a woman.

A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson's habitation, and there were no cheerful faces

to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy light, and

large logs, dripping with halfmelted snow, lay ready to be cast upon the embers. But the apartment was

saddened in its aspect by the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once adorned it; for the

exaction of repeated fines, and his own neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished the owner. And

with the furniture of peace, the implements of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was broken, the helm

and cuirass were cast away forever; the soldier had done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked

hand to guard his head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it rested was drawn before the

He who listened, while the other read, was the master of the house, now emaciated in form, and altered as to

the expression and healthiness of his countenance; for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary thoughts,

and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The hale and weatherbeaten old man who sat

beside him had sustained less injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. In person he was tall

and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful to the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath

the broadbrimmed hat, and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page the snow drifted

against the windows, or eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney, and

the blaze leaped fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at a certain angle, and

swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it

came as if the Past were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed each a whisper, as if the Desolation of Ages

The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining however his hand between the pages which he had been

reading, while he looked steadfastly at Pearson. The attitude and features of the latter might have indicated

the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed, and his frame

"Friend Tobias," inquired the old man, compassionately, "hast thou found no comfort in these many blessed

"Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct," replied Pearson without lifting his eyes.

"Yea, and when I have hearkened carefully the words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for another and

a lesser grief than mine. Remove the book," he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. "I have no part in its

"Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never known the light," said the elder Quaker earnestly, but with

mildness. "Art thou he that wouldst be content to give all, and endure all, for conscience' sake; desiring even

peculiar trials, that thy faith might be purified and thy heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt thou sink

beneath an affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here below, and to them that lay up

"It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!" exclaimed Pearson, with the impatience of a variable spirit. "From

my youth upward I have been a man marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day after day, I have

endured sorrows such as others know not in their lifetime. And now I speak not of the love that has been

turned to hatred, the honor to ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, want, and

nakedness. All this I could have borne, and counted myself blessed. But when my heart was desolate with

many losses I fixed it upon the child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and

now he too must die as if my love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed man, and I will lay me down in the

"Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee; for I also have had my hours of darkness, wherein I

have murmured against the cross," said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of distracting his

companion's thoughts from his own sorrows. "Even of late was the light obscured within me, when the men

of blood had banished me on pain of death, and the constables led me onward from village to village towards

the wilderness. A strong and cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they sunk deep into the flesh, and

thou mightst have tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood that followed. As we went on"

"Have I not borne all this; and have I murmured?" interrupted Pearson impatiently.

"Nay, friend but hear me," continued the other. "As we journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so that no

man could see the rage of the persecutors or the constancy of my endurance, though Heaven forbid that I

should glory therein. The lights began to glimmer in the cottage windows, and I could discern the inmates as

they gathered in comfort and security every man with his wife and children by their own evening hearth. At

length we came to a tract of fertile land; in the dim light, the forest was not visible around it; and behold!

there was a strawthatched dwelling which bore the very aspect of my home, far over the wild ocean, far in

our own England. Then came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remembrances that were like death to my soul.

The happiness of my early days was painted to me; the disquiet of my manhood, the altered faith of my

declining years. I remembered how I had been moved to go forth a wanderer when my daughter, the

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

"Yea, yea," replied the old man hurriedly. "I was kneeling by her bedside when the voice spoke loud within

me; but immediately I rose, and took my staff, and gat me gone. Oh! that it were permitted me to forget her

woful look when I thus withdrew my arm, and left her journeying through the dark valley alone! for her soul

was faint, and she had leaned upon my prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed by the thought that

I had been an erring Christian and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her pale, dying features,

seemed to stand by me and whisper, 'Father, you are deceived; go home and shelter your gray head.' O Thou,

to whom I have looked in my farthest wanderings," continued the Quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven,

"inflict not upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of my soul, when I believed that all I

had done and suffered for Thee was at the instigation of a mocking fiend! But I yielded not; I knelt down and

wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely into the flesh. My prayer was heard, and I went

The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while

reciting this tale; and his unwonted emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. They sat

in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in its red embers new scenes of persecution yet to

be encountered. The snow still drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the logs had

gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney and hissed upon the hearth. A cautious footstep might now

and then be heard in a neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of both Quakers to the

door which led thither. When a fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his thoughts, by a natural association,

"I have wellnigh sunk under my own share of this trial," observed he, sighing heavily; "yet I would that it

might be doubled to me, if so the child's mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and many, but

"Fear not for Catharine," replied the old Quaker, "for I know that valiant woman, and have seen how she can

bear the cross. A mother's heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with her faith; but

soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice. The boy hath

done his work, and she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her. Blessed, blessed are

The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous sound; it was a quick and heavy knocking at

the outer door. Pearson's wan countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him what to

dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried soldier who

"The men of blood have come to seek me," he observed with calmness. "They have heard how I was moved

to return from banishment; and now am I to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end I have long

"Nay, I will present myself before them," said Pearson, with recovered fortitude. "It may be that they seek me

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

They therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which they opened, bidding the applicant "Come in,

in God's name!" A furious blast of wind drove the storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp; they had

barely time to discern a figure, so white from head to foot with the drifted snow that it seemed like Winter's

"Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may," said Pearson. "It must needs be pressing, since thou

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

Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slumbering embers of the fire till they sent up a clear and lofty

blaze; it was a female voice that had spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in that

"Catharine, blessed woman!" exclaimed the old man, "art thou come to this darkened land again? art thou

come to bear a valiant testimony as in former years? The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from

the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant; but strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, Catharine, for

"Rejoice, friends!" she replied. "Thou who hast long been of our people, and thou whom a little child hath led

to us, rejoice! Lo! I come, the messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is overpast. The heart of

the king, even Charles, hath been moved in gentleness towards us, and he hath sent forth his letters to stay the

hands of the men of blood. A ship's company of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, and I also sailed

As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about the room, in search of him for whose sake security was

dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful task

"Sister," he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm tone, "thou tellest us of His love, manifested in temporal

good; and now must we speak to thee of that selfsame love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto, Catharine,

thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome and difficult path, and leading an infant by the hand; fain

wouldst thou have looked heavenward continually, but still the cares of that little child have drawn thine eyes

and thy affections to the earth. Sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede thine own no

But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled; she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the very snow

that hung drifted into her hair. The firm old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye upon

"I am a woman, I am but a woman; will He try me above my strength?" said Catharine very quickly, and

almost in a whisper. "I have been wounded sore; I have suffered much; many things in the body; many in the

mind; crucified in myself, and in them that were dearest to me. Surely," added she, with a long shudder, "He

hath spared me in this one thing." She broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence. "Tell me, man of

cold heart, what has God done to me? Hath He cast me down, never to rise again? Hath He crushed my very

heart in his hand? And thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? Give me back

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

On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his aged guest, and to Dorothy, that Ilbrahim's brief and

troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. The two former would willingly have remained by him, to make use

of the prayers and pious discourses which they deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if they be

impotent as to the departing traveller's reception in the world whither he goes, may at least sustain him in

bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbrahim uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked

upon him; so that Dorothy's entreaties, and their own conviction that the child's feet might tread heaven's

pavement and not soil it, had induced the two Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew

calm, and, except for now and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have been thought to slumber. As

nightfall came on, however, and the storm began to rise, something seemed to trouble the repose of the boy's

mind, and to render his sense of hearing active and acute. If a passing wind lingered to shake the casement, he

strove to turn his head towards it; if the door jarred to and fro upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously

thitherward; if the heavy voice of the old man, as he read the Scriptures, rose but a little higher, the child

almost held his dying breath to listen; if a snowdrift swept by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing of a

But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever secret hope had agitated him, and with one low, complaining

whisper, turned his cheek upon the pillow. He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness, and besought

her to draw near him; she did so, and Ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it with a gentle pressure,

as if to assure himself that he retained it. At intervals, and without disturbing the repose of his countenance, a

very faint trembling passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but somewhat cool wind had breathed

upon him, and made him shiver. As the boy thus led her by the hand, in his quiet progress over the borders of

eternity, Dorothy almost imagined that she could discern the near, though dim, delightfulness of the home he

was about to reach; she would not have enticed the little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself that

she must leave him and return. But just when Ilbrahim's feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise he heard a

voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces of the weary path which he had travelled. As Dorothy

looked upon his features, she perceived that their placid expression was again disturbed; her own thoughts

had been so wrapped in him, that all sounds of the storm, and of human speech, were lost to her; but when

In a moment his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled there,

with no violence of joy, but contentedly, as if he were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her face, and

reading its agony, said, with feeble earnestness, "Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now." And with

The king's mandate to stay the New England persecutors was effectual in preventing further martyrdoms; but

the colonial authorities, trusting in the remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed instability of

the royal government, shortly renewed their severities in all other respects. Catharine's fanaticism had

become wilder by the sundering of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted there was she to receive

the blow, and whenever a dungeon was unbarred thither she came, to cast herself upon the floor. But in

process of time a more Christian spirit a spirit of forbearance, though not of cordiality or

approbationbegan to pervade the land in regard to the persecuted sect. And then, when the rigid old

Pilgrims eyed her rather in pity than in wrath; when the matrons fed her with the fragments of their children's

food, and offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly bed; when no little crowd of schoolboys left their sports

to cast stones after the roving enthusiast; then did Catharine return to Pearson's dwelling and made that her

As if Ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered round his ashes; as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven to

teach his parent a true religion, her fierce and vindictive nature was softened by the same griefs which had

once irritated it. When the course of years had made the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar in the

settlement, she became a subject of not deep, but general, interest; a being on whom the otherwise

superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. Every one spoke of her with that degree of pity which it is

pleasant to experience; every one was ready to do her the little kindnesses which are not costly, yet manifest

good will and when at last she died, a long train of her once bitter persecutors followed her, with decent

sadness and tears that were not painful, to her place by Ilbrahim's green and sunken grave.

A young fellow, a tobacco pedlar by trade, was on his way from Morristown, where he had dealt largely with

the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the village of Parker's Falls, on Salmon River. He had a neat little

cart, painted green, with a box of cigars depicted on each side panel, and an Indian chief, holding a pipe and a

golden tobacco stalk, on the rear. The pedlar drove a smart little mare, and was a young man of excellent

character, keen at a bargain, but none the worse liked by the Yankees; who, as I have heard them say, would

rather be shaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. Especially was he beloved by the pretty girls along the

Connecticut, whose favor he used to court by presents of the best smoking tobacco in his stock; knowing well

that the country lasses of New England are generally great performers on pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in

the course of my story, the pedlar was inquisitive, and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the news

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco pedlar, whose name was Dominicus Pike, had travelled

seven miles through a solitary piece of woods, without speaking a word to anybody but himself and his little

gray mare. It being nearly seven o'clock, he was as eager to hold a morning gossip as a city shopkeeper to

read the morning paper. An opportunity seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar with a sunglass, he

looked up, and perceived a man coming over the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the pedlar had stopped

his green cart. Dominicus watched him as he descended, and noticed that he carried a bundle over his

shoulder on the end of a stick, and travelled with a weary, yet determined pace. He did not look as if he had

started in the freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do the same all day.

"Good morning, mister," said Dominicus, when within speaking distance. "You go a pretty good jog. What's

The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did not

come from Parker's Falls, which, as being the limit of his own day's journey, the pedlar had naturally

"Well then," rejoined Dominicus Pike, "let's have the latest news where you did come from. I'm not particular

Being thus importuned, the travellerwho was as ill looking a fellow as one would desire to meet in a

solitary piece of woodsappeared to hesitate a little, as if he was either searching his memory for news, or

weighing the expediency of telling it. At last, mounting on the step of the cart, he whispered in the ear of

Dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud and no other mortal would have heard him.

"I do remember one little trifle of news," said he. "Old Mr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered in

his orchard, at eight o'clock last night, by an Irishman and a nigger. They strung him up to the branch of a St.

As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated, the stranger betook himself to his journey again,

with more speed than ever, not even turning his head when Dominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar

and relate all the particulars. The pedlar whistled to his mare and went up the hill, pondering on the doleful

fate of Mr. Higginbotham whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of long

nines, and a great deal of pigtail, lady's twist, and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished at the rapidity with

which the news had spread. Kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; the murder had been

perpetrated only at eight o'clock the preceding night; yet Dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning,

when, in all probability, poor Mr. Higginbotham's own family had but just discovered his corpse, hanging on

the St. Michael's peartree. The stranger on foot must have worn sevenleague boots to travel at such a rate.

"Ill news flies fast, they say," thought Dominicus Pike; "but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hired

The difficulty was solved by supposing that the narrator had made a mistake of one day in the date of the

occurrence; so that our friend did not hesitate to introduce the story at every tavern and country store along

the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. He found

himself invariably the first bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered with questions that he could not

avoid filling up the outline, till it became quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece of

corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader; and a former clerk of his, to whom Dominicus

related the facts, testified that the old gentleman was accustomed to return home through the orchard about

nightfall, with the money and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. The clerk manifested but little grief

at Mr. Higginbotham's catastrophe, hinting, what the pedlar had discovered in his own dealings with him, that

he was a crusty old fellow, as close as a vice. His property would descend to a pretty niece who was now

What with telling the news for the public good, and driving bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much

delayed on the road that he chose to put up at a tavern, about five miles short of Parker's Falls. After supper,

lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated himself in the barroom, and went through the story of the murder,

which had grown so fast that it took him half an hour to tell. There were as many as twenty people in the

room, nineteen of whom received it all for gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly farmer, who had arrived

on horseback a short time before, and was now seated in a corner smoking his pipe. When the story was

concluded, he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair right in front of Dominicus, and stared him full in

"Will you make affidavit," demanded he, in the tone of a country justice taking an examination, "that old

Squire Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in his orchard the night before last, and found hanging on

"I tell the story as I heard it, mister," answered Dominicus, dropping his halfburnt cigar; "I don't say that I

saw the thing done. So I can't take my oath that he was murdered exactly in that way."

"But I can take mine," said the farmer, "that if Squire Higginbotham was murdered night before last, I drank a

glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store, as I was

riding by, and treated me, and then asked me to do a little business for him on the road. He didn't seem to

"I guess he'd have mentioned, if it was," said the old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the corner,

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham! The pedlar had no heart to mingle in the conversation

any more, but comforted himself with a glass of gin and water, and went to bed where, all night long, he

dreamed of hanging on the St. Michael's peartree. To avoid the old farmer (whom he so detested that his

suspension would have pleased him better than Mr. Higginbotham's), Dominicus rose in the gray of the

morning, put the little mare into the green cart, and trotted swiftly away towards Parker's Falls. The fresh

breeze, the dewy road, and the pleasant summer dawn, revived his spirits, and might have encouraged him to

repeat the old story had there been anybody awake to hear it. But he met neither ox team, light wagon chaise,

horseman, nor foot traveller, till, just as he crossed Salmon River, a man came trudging down to the bridge

"Good morning, mister," said the pedlar, reining in his mare. "If you come from Kimballton or that

neighborhood, may be you can tell me the real fact about this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old

Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe, at first, that the stranger himself had a deep tinge of

negro blood. On hearing this sudden question, the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow hue

becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking and stammering, he thus replied:"No! no! There was no colored

man! It was an Irishman that hanged him last night, at eight o'clock. I came away at seven! His folks can't

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interrupted himself, and though he seemed weary enough

before, continued his journey at a pace which would have kept the pedlar's mare on a smart trot. Dominicus

stared after him in great perplexity. If the murder had not been committed till Tuesday night, who was the

prophet that had foretold it, in all its circumstances, on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higginbotham's corpse were

not yet discovered by his own family, how came the mulatto, at above thirty miles' distance, to know that he

was hanging in the orchard, especially as he had left Kimballton before the unfortunate man was hanged at

all? These ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger's surprise and terror, made Dominicus think of raising

a hue and cry after him, as an accomplice in the murder; since a murder, it seemed, had really been

"But let the poor devil go," thought the pedlar. "I don't want his black blood on my head; and hanging the

nigger wouldn't unhang Mr. Higginbotham. Unhang the old gentleman; It's a sin, I know; but I should hate to

With these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into the street of Parker's Falls, which, as everybody knows, is

as thriving a village as three cotton factories and a slitting mill can make it. The machinery was not in

motion, and but a few of the shop doors unbarred, when he alighted in the stable yard of the tavern, and made

it his first business to order the mare four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was to impart Mr.

Higginbotham's catastrophe to the hostler. He deemed it advisable, however, not to be too positive as to the

date of the direful fact, and also to be uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an Irishman and a mulatto, or

by the son of Erin alone. Neither did he profess to relate it on his own authority, or that of any one person; but

The story ran through the town like fire among girdled trees, and became so much the universal talk that

nobody could tell whence it had originated. Mr. Higginbotham was as well known at Parker's Falls as any

citizen of the place, being part owner of the slitting mill, and a considerable stockholder in the cotton

factories. The inhabitants felt their own prosperity interested in his fate. Such was the excitement, that the

Parker's Falls Gazette anticipated its regular day of publication, and came out with half a form of blank paper

and a column of double pica emphasized with capitals, and headed HORRID MURDER OF MR.

HIGGINBOTHAM! Among other dreadful details, the printed account described the mark of the cord round

the dead man's neck, and stated the number of thousand dollars of which he had been robbed; there was much

pathos also about the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one fainting fit to another, ever since her

uncle was found hanging on the St. Michael's peartree with his pockets inside out. The village poet likewise

commemorated the young lady's grief in seventeen stanzas of a ballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and, in

consideration of Mr. Higginbotham's claims on the town, determined to issue handbills, offering a reward of

five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his murderers, and the recovery of the stolen property.

Meanwhile the whole population of Parker's Falls, consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of boardinghouses,

factory girls, millmen, and schoolboys, rushed into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity as more

than compensated for the silence of the cotton machines, which refrained from their usual din out of respect

to the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his untimely ghost would have

exulted in this tumult. Our friend Dominicus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precautions, and

mounting on the town pump, announced himself as the bearer of the authentic intelligence which had caused

so wonderful a sensation. He immediately became the great man of the moment, and had just begun a new

edition of the narrative, with a voice like a field preacher, when the mail stage drove into the village street. It

had travelled all night, and must have shifted horses at Kimballton, at three in the morning.

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, followed by a thousand people; for if any man had been

minding his own business till then, he now left it at sixes and sevens, to hear the news. The pedlar, foremost

in the race, discovered two passengers, both of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap to find

themselves in the centre of a mob. Every man assailing them with separate questions, all propounded at once,

the couple were struck speechless, though one was a lawyer and the other a young lady.

"Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us the particulars about old Mr. Higginbotham!" bawled the

mob. "What is the coroner's verdict? Are the murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham's niece come out

The coachman said not a word, except to swear awfully at the hostler for not bringing him a fresh team of

horses. The lawyer inside had generally his wits about him even when asleep; the first thing he did, after

learning the cause of the excitement, was to produce a large, red pocketbook. Meantime Dominicus Pike,

being an extremely polite young man, and also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story as glibly

as a lawyer's, had handed the lady out of the coach. She was a fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as

a button, and had such a sweet pretty mouth, that Dominicus would almost as lief have heard a love tale from

"Gentlemen and ladies," said the lawyer to the shopkeepers, the millmen, and the factory girls, "I can assure

you that some unaccountable mistake, or, more probably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously contrived to injure

Mr. Higginbotham's credit, has excited this singular uproar. We passed through Kimballton at three o'clock

this morning, and most certainly should have been informed of the murder had any been perpetrated. But I

have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higginbotham's own oral testimony, in the negative. Here is a note relating

to a suit of his in the Connecticut courts, which was delivered me from that gentleman himself. I find it dated

So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signature of the note, which irrefragably proved, either that this

perverse Mr. Higginbotham was alive when he wrote it, oras some deemed the more probable case, of two

doubtful onesthat he was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue to transact it even after his death.

But unexpected evidence was forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to the pedlar's explanation, merely

seized a moment to smooth her gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, making

A wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy and bright; that same unhappy

niece, whom they had supposed, on the authority of the Parker's Falls Gazette, to be lying at death's door in a

fainting fit. But some shrewd fellows had doubted, all along, whether a young lady would be quite so

"You see," continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile, "that this strange story is quite unfounded as to

myself; and I believe I may affirm it to be equally so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He has the

kindness to give me a home in his house, though I contribute to my own support by teaching a school. I left

Kimballton this morning to spend the vacation of commencement week with a friend, about five miles from

Parker's Falls. My generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bedside, and gave me two

dollars and fifty cents to pay my stage fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. He then laid his

pocketbook under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to take some biscuit in my bag, instead of

breakfasting on the road. I feel confident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative alive, and trust that I shall

The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech, which was so sensible and well worded, and delivered

with such grace and propriety, that everybody thought her fit to be preceptress of the best academy in the

State. But a stranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was an object of abhorrence at Parker's

Falls, and that a thanksgiving had been proclaimed for his murder; so excessive was the wrath of the

inhabitants on learning their mistake. The millmen resolved to bestow public honors on Dominicus Pike, only

hesitating whether to tar and feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh him with an ablution at the town pump,

on the top of which he had declared himself the bearer of the news. The selectmen, by advice of the lawyer,

spoke of prosecuting him for a misdemeanor, in circulating unfounded reports, to the great disturbance of the

peace of the Commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus, either from mob law or a court of justice, but an

eloquent appeal made by the young lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heartfelt gratitude to his

benefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out of town, under a discharge of artillery from the

schoolboys, who found plenty of ammunition in the neighboring claypits and mud holes. As he turned his

head to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham's niece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty

pudding, hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. His whole person was so bespattered with

the like filthy missiles, that he had almost a mind to ride back, and supplicate for the threatened ablution at

the town pump; for, though not meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of charity.

However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, and the mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved

opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry. Being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he

refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his story had excited. The handbills of the selectmen would

cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in the State; the paragraph in the Parker's Falls Gazette would be

reprinted from Maine to Florida, and perhaps form an item in the London newspapers; and many a miser

would tremble for his money bags and life, on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedlar

meditated with much fervor on the charms of the young schoolmistress, and swore that Daniel Webster never

spoke nor looked so like an angel as Miss Higginbotham, while defending him from the wrathful populace at

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, having all along determined to visit that place, though

business had drawn him out of the most direct road from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the

supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circumstances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect

which the whole case assumed. Had nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it might

now have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow man was evidently acquainted either with the report or

the fact; and there was a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. When, to this

singular combination of incidents, it was added that the rumor tallied exactly with Mr. Higginbotham's

character and habits of life; and that he had an orchard, and a St. Michael's peartree, near which he always

passed at nightfall: the circumstantial evidence appeared so strong that Dominicus doubted whether the

autograph produced by the lawyer, or even the niece's direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. Making

cautious inquiries along the road, the pedlar further learned that Mr. Higginbotham had in his service an

Irishman of doubtful character, whom he had hired without a recommendation, on the score of economy.

"May I be hanged myself," exclaimed Dominicus Pike aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, "if I'll

believe old Higginbotham is unhanged till I see him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own mouth! And

as he's a real shaver, I'll have the minister or some other responsible man for an indorser."

It was growing dusk when he reached the tollhouse on Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from

the village of this name. His little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback, who trotted

through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the tollgatherer, and kept on towards the village.

Dominicus was acquainted with the tollman, and, while making change, the usual remarks on the weather

"I suppose," said the pedlar, throwing back his whiplash, to bring it down like a feather on the mare's flank,

"Yes," answered the tollgatherer. "He passed the gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if

you can see him through the dusk. He's been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff's sale there. The

old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me; but tonight, he nodded,as if to say, 'Charge

my toll,' and jogged on; for wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o'clock."

"I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does," continued the tollgatherer. "Says I to

myself, tonight, he's more like a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood."

The pedlar strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on the

village road. He seemed to recognize the rear of Mr. Higginbotham; but through the evening shadows, and

amid the dust from the horse's feet, the figure appeared dim and unsubstantial; as if the shape of the

mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness and gray light. Dominicus shivered.

"Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world, by way of the Kimballton turnpike," thought he.

He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, till

the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. On reaching this point, the pedlar no longer saw the man on

horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far from a number of stores and two taverns,

clustered round the meetinghouse steeple. On his left were a stone wall and a gate, the boundary of a

woodlot, beyond which lay an orchard, farther still, a mowing field, and last of all, a house. These were the

premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been left in the

background by the Kimballton turnpike. Dominicus knew the place; and the little mare stopped short by

"For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!" said he, trembling. "I never shall be my own man again, till I

He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round the gate post, and ran along the green path of the

woodlot as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke

fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard,

he saw the fated peartree. One great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path, and threw

the darkest shadow on that one spot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the branch!

The pedlar had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of peaceful occupation, nor could he

account for his valor on this awful emergency. Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a

sturdy Irishman with the butt end of his whip, and foundnot indeed hanging on the St. Michael's peartree,

but trembling beneath it, with a halter round his neckthe old, identical Mr. Higginbotham!

"Mr. Higginbotham," said Dominicus tremulously, "you're an honest man, and I'll take your word for it. Have

If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the simple machinery by which this "coming

event" was made to "cast its shadow before." Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr.

Higginbotham; two of them, successively, lost courage and fled, each delaying the crime one night by their

disappearance; the third was in the act of perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of fate, like

It only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took the pedlar into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to the

pretty schoolmistress, and settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the interest. In

due time, the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors, by dying a Christian death, in bed, since which

melancholy event Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton, and established a large tobacco

In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story, told as truth, of a manlet us call him

Wakefieldwho absented himself for a long time from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not

very uncommon, norwithout a proper distinction of circumstancesto be condemned either as naughty or

nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest, instance on record,

of marital delinquency; and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human

oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings in

the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the shadow of a

reason for such selfbanishment, dwelt upwards of twenty years. During that period, he beheld his home

every day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his matrimonial

felicitywhen his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory, and his

wife, long, long ago, resigned to her autumnal widowhoodhe entered the door one evening, quietly, as

This outline is all that I remember. But the incident, though of the purest originality, unexampled, and

probably never to be repeated, is one, I think, which appeals to the generous sympathies of mankind. We

know, each for himself, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might. To my

own contemplations, at least, it has often recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that the story

must be true, and a conception of its hero's character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time

is well spent in thinking of it. If the reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he prefer to ramble

with me through the twenty years of Wakefield's vagary, I bid him welcome; trusting that there will be a

pervading spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done up neatly, and condensed into the final

sentence. Thought has always its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral.

What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name. He was

now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, habitual

sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness would keep

his heart at rest, wherever it might be placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so; his mind occupied itself

in long and lazy musings, that ended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it; his thoughts were seldom so

energetic as to seize hold of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the term, made no part of

Wakefield's gifts. With a cold but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind never feverish with riotous

thoughts, nor perplexed with originality, who could have anticipated that our friend would entitle himself to a

foremost place among the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances been asked, who was the man in

London the surest to perform nothing today which should be remembered on the morrow, they would have

thought of Wakefield. Only the wife of his bosom might have hesitated. She, without having analyzed his

character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness, that had rusted into his inactive mind; of a peculiar sort of

vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him; of a disposition to craft which had seldom produced more

positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets, hardly worth revealing; and, lastly, of what she called a little

strangeness, sometimes, in the good man. This latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps nonexistent.

Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His equipment

is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an oilcloth, topboots, an umbrella in one hand and a small

portmanteau in the other. He has informed Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night coach into the country.

She would fain inquire the length of his journey, its object, and the probable time of his return; but, indulgent

to his harmless love of mystery, interrogates him only by a look. He tells her not to expect him positively by

the return coach, nor to be alarmed should he tarry three or four days; but, at all events, to look for him at

supper on Friday evening. Wakefield himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what is before him. He

holds out his hand, she gives her own, and meets his parting kiss in the matterofcourse way of a ten years'

matrimony; and forth goes the middleaged Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved to perplex his good lady by a

whole week's absence. After the door has closed behind him, she perceives it thrust partly open, and a vision

of her husband's face, through the aperture, smiling on her, and gone in a moment. For the time, this little

incident is dismissed without a thought. But, long afterwards, when she has been more years a widow than a

wife, that smile recurs, and flickers across all her reminiscences of Wakefield's visage. In her many musings,

she surrounds the original smile with a multitude of fantasies, which make it strange and awful: as, for

instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that parting look is frozen on his pale features; or, if she dreams of

him in heaven, still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty smile. Yet, for its sake, when all others have

But our business is with the husband. We must hurry after him along the street, ere he lose his individuality,

and melt into the great mass of London life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let us follow close at

his heels, therefore, until, after several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him comfortably established

by the fireside of a small apartment, previously bespoken. He is in the next street to his own, and at his

journey's end. He can scarcely trust his good fortune, in having got thither unperceivedrecollecting that, at

one time, he was delayed by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern; and, again, there were footsteps

that seemed to tread behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him; and, anon, he heard a

voice shouting afar, and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless, a dozen busybodies had been watching

him, and told his wife the whole affair. Poor Wakefield! Little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this

great world! No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man: and, on the morrow,

if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. Wakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself, even

for a little week, from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she, for a single moment, to deem thee dead, or

lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou wouldst be wofully conscious of a change in thy true wife forever

after. It is perilous to make a chasm in human affections; not that they gape so long and widebut so quickly

Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting from

his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. "No,"thinks

In the morning he rises earlier than usual, and sets himself to consider what he really means to do. Such are

his loose and rambling modes of thought that he has taken this very singular step with the consciousness of a

purpose, indeed, but without being able to define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The vagueness of

the project, and the convulsive effort with which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally characteristic

of a feebleminded man. Wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and finds himself

curious to know the progress of matters at homehow his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a

week; and, briefly, how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances, in which he was a central object, will

be affected by his removal. A morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. But, how is he to

attain his ends? Not, certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable lodging, where, though he slept and

awoke in the next street to his home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stagecoach had been whirling him

away all night. Yet, should he reappear, the whole project is knocked in the head. His poor brains being

hopelessly puzzled with this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the head of the

street, and send one hasty glance towards his forsaken domicile. Habitfor he is a man of habitstakes him

by the hand, and guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just at the critical moment, he is

aroused by the scraping of his foot upon the step. Wakefield! whither are you going?

At that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. Little dreaming of the doom to which his first backward step

devotes him, he hurries away, breathless with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn his head at the

distant corner. Can it be that nobody caught sight of him? Will not the whole householdthe decent Mrs.

Wakefield, the smart maid servant, and the dirty little footboyraise a hue and cry, through London streets,

in pursuit of their fugitive lord and master? Wonderful escape! He gathers courage to pause and look

homeward, but is perplexed with a sense of change about the familiar edifice, such as affects us all, when,

after a separation of months or years, we again see some hill or lake, or work of art, with which we were

friends of old. In ordinary cases, this indescribable impression is caused by the comparison and contrast

between our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. In Wakefield, the magic of a single night has wrought a

similar transformation, because, in that brief period, a great moral change has been effected. But this is a

secret from himself. Before leaving the spot, he catches a far and momentary glimpse of his wife, passing

athwart the front window, with her face turned towards the head of the street. The crafty nincompoop takes to

his heels, scared with the idea that, among a thousand such atoms of mortality, her eye must have detected

him. Right glad is his heart, though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal fire of his

So much for the commencement of this long whimwham. After the initial conception, and the stirring up of

the man's sluggish temperament to put it in practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural train. We

may suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and selecting sundry

garments, in a fashion unlike his customary suit of brown, from a Jew's oldclothes bag. It is accomplished.

Wakefield is another man. The new system being now established, a retrograde movement to the old would

be almost as difficult as the step that placed him in his unparalleled position. Furthermore, he is rendered

obstinate by a sulkiness occasionally incident to his temper, and brought on at present by the inadequate

sensation which he conceives to have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. He will not go back

until she be frightened half to death. Well; twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, each time with a

heavier step, a paler cheek, and more anxious brow; and in the third week of his nonappearance he detects a

portent of evil entering the house, in the guise of an apothecary. Next day the knocker is muffled. Towards

nightfall comes the chariot of a physician, and deposits its bigwigged and solemn burden at Wakefield's

door, whence, after a quarter of an hour's visit, he emerges, perchance the herald of a funeral. Dear woman!

Will she die? By this time, Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feeling, but still lingers away

from his wife's bedside, pleading with his conscience that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture. If

aught else restrains him, he does not know it. In the course of a few weeks she gradually recovers; the crisis is

over; her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, let him return soon or late, it will never be feverish for him

again. Such ideas glimmer through the midst of Wakefield's mind, and render him indistinctly conscious that

an almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from his former home. "It is but in the next street!" he

sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world. Hitherto, he has put off his return from one particular day to

another; henceforward, he leaves the precise time undetermined. Not tomorrowprobably next

weekpretty soon. Poor man! The dead have nearly as much chance of revisiting their earthly homes as the

Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an article of a dozen pages! Then might I exemplify how an

influence beyond our control lays its strong hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its consequences

into an iron tissue of necessity. Wakefield is spellbound. We must leave him for ten years or so, to haunt

around his house, without once crossing the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, with all the affection of

which his heart is capable, while he is slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be remarked, he had lost

Now for a scene! Amind the throng of a London street we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with few

characteristics to attract careless observers, yet bearing, in his whole aspect, the handwriting of no common

fate, for such as have the skill to read it. He is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled; his

eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to look inward. He

bends his head, and moves with an indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display his full front to

the world. Watch him long enough to see what we have described, and you will allow that

circumstanceswhich often produce remarkable men from nature's ordinary handiworkhave produced

one such here. Next, leaving him to sidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite direction, where a

portly female, considerably in the wane of life, with a prayerbook in her hand, is proceeding to yonder

church. She has the placid mien of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away, or have become so

essential to her heart, that they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the lean man and wellconditioned

woman are passing, a slight obstruction occurs, and brings these two figures directly in contact. Their hands

touch; the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder; they stand, face to face, staring into

each other's eyes. After a ten years' separation, thus Wakefield meets his wife!

The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder. The sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds to

church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a perplexed glance along the street. She passes in, however,

opening her prayerbook as she goes. And the man! with so wild a face that busy and selfish London stands

to gaze after him, he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself upon the bed. The latent

feelings of years break out; his feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength; all the miserable

strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance: and he cries out, passionately, "Wakefield ! Wakefield!

Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation must have so moulded him to himself, that, considered in

regard to his fellowcreatures and the business of life, he could not be said to possess his right mind. He had

contrived, or rather he had happened, to dissever himself from the worldto vanishto give up his place

and privileges with living men, without being admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit is nowise

parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the city, as of old; but the crowd swept by and saw him not; he was, we

may figuratively say, always beside his wife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth of the one nor

the affection of the other. It was Wakefield's unprecedented fate to retain his original share of human

sympathies, and to be still involved in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them. It

would be a most curious speculation to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellect,

separately, and in unison. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it, but deem himself the

same man as ever; glimpses of the truth indeed. would come, but only for the moment; and still he would

keep saying, "I shall soon go back!"nor reflect that he had been saying so for twenty years.

I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear, in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week to

which Wakefield had at first limited his absence. He would look on the affair as no more than an interlude in

the main business of his life. When, after a little while more, he should deem it time to reenter his parlor, his

wife would clap her hands for joy, on beholding the middleaged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what a mistake!

Would Time but await the close of our favorite follies, we should be young men, all of us, and till Doomsday.

One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, Wakefield is taking his customary walk towards the

dwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty night of autumn, with frequent showers that patter down

upon the pavement, and are gone before a man can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house, Wakefield

discerns, through the parlor windows of the second floor, the red glow and the glimmer and fitful flash of a

comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, the nose and

chin, and the broad waist, form an admirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the upflickering and

downsinking blaze, almost too merrily for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant a shower chances

to fall, and is driven, by the unmannerly gust, full into Wakefield's face and bosom. He is quite penetrated

with its autumnal chill. Shall he stand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth has a good fire to warm

him, and his own wife will run to fetch the gray coat and smallclothes, which, doubtless, she has kept

carefully in the closet of their bed chamber? No! Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends the

stepsheavily!for twenty years have stiffened his legs since he came downbut he knows it not. Stay,

Wakefield! Would you go to the sole home that is left you? Then step into your grave! The door opens. As he

passes in, we have a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile, which was the precursor of

the little joke that he has ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. How unmercifully has he quizzed

This happy eventsupposing it to be suchcould only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We

will not follow our friend across the threshold. He has left us much food for thought, a portion of which shall

lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped into a figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious

world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, that, by

stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. Like

[1] The Indian tradition, on which this somewhat extravagant tale is founded, is both too wild and too

beautiful to be adequately wrought up in prose. Sullivan, in his History of Maine, written since the

Revolution, remarks, that even then the existence of the Great Carbuncle was not entirely discredited.

At nightfall, once in the olden time, on the rugged side of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers were

refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruitless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come thither, not

as friends nor partners in the enterprise, but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by his own selfish and

solitary longing for this wondrous gem. Their feeling of brotherhood, however, was strong enough to induce

them to contribute a mutual aid in building a rude hut of branches, and kindling a great fire of shattered pines,

that had drifted down the headlong current of the Amonoosuck, on the lower bank of which they were to pass

the night. There was but one of their number, perhaps, who had become so estranged from natural

sympathies, by the absorbing spell of the pursuit, as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight of human

faces, in the remote and solitary region whither they had ascended. A vast extent of wilderness lay between

them and the nearest settlement, while a scant mile above their heads was that black verge where the hills

throw off their shaggy mantle of forest trees, and either robe themselves in clouds or tower naked into the

sky. The roar of the Amonoosuck would have been too awful for endurance if only a solitary man had

The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, where each

man was the host, and all were the guests of the whole company. They spread their individual supplies of

food on the flat surface of a rock, and partook of a general repast; at the close of which, a sentiment of good

fellowship was perceptible among the party, though repressed by the idea, that the renewed search for the

Great Carbuncle must make them strangers again in the morning. Seven men and one young woman, they

warmed themselves together at the fire, which extended its bright wall along the whole front of their

wigwam. As they observed the various and contrasted figures that made up the assemblage, each man looking

like a caricature of himself, in the unsteady light that flickered over him, they came mutually to the

conclusion, that an odder society had never met, in city or wilderness, on mountain or plain.

The eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weatherbeaten man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of

wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had long

been his most intimate companions. He was one of those illfated mortals, such as the Indians told of, whom,

in their early youth, the Great Carbuncle smote with a peculiar madness, and became the passionate dream of

their existence. All who visited that region knew him as the Seeker, and by no other name. As none could

remember when he first took up the search, there went a fable in the valley of the Saco, that for his inordinate

lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had been condemned to wander among the mountains till the end of time,

still with the same feverish hopes at sunrisethe same despair at eve. Near this miserable Seeker sat a little

elderly personage, wearing a highcrowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. He was from beyond the

sea, a Doctor Cacaphodel, who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by continually stooping over

charcoal furnaces, and inhaling unwholesome fumes during his researches in chemistry and alchemy. It was

told of him, whether truly or not, that at the commencement of his studies, he had drained his body of all its

richest blood, and wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an unsuccessful experimentand had

never been a well man since. Another of the adventurers was Master Ichabod Pigsnort, a weighty merchant

and selectman of Boston, and an elder of the famous Mr. Norton's church. His enemies had a ridiculous story

that Master Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour after prayer time, every morning and evening, in

wallowing naked among an immense quantity of pinetree shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of

Massachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice had no name that his companions knew of, and was chiefly

distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles, which

were supposed to deform and discolor the whole face of nature, to this gentleman's perception. The fifth

adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was the greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was a

brighteyed man, but wofully pined away, which was no more than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his

ordinary diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the densest cloud within his reach, sauced with

moonshine, whenever he could get it. Certain it is, that the poetry which flowed from him had a smack of all

these dainties The sixth of the party was a young man of haughty mien, and sat somewhat apart from the rest,

wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while the fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress,

and gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his sword. This was the Lord de Vere, who, when at home,

was said to spend much of his time in the burial vault of his dead progenitors, rummaging their mouldy

coffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden among bones and dust; so that, besides

Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, and by his side a blooming little person, in whom a

delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into the rich glow of a young wife's affection. Her name

was Hannah and her husband's Matthew; two homely names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair, who

seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the Great

Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, all so

intent upon a single object, that, of whatever else they began to speak, their closing words were sure to be

illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. Several related the circumstances that brought them thither. One had

listened to a traveller's tale of this marvellous stone in his own distant country, and had immediately been

seized with such a thirst for beholding it as could only be quenched in its intensest lustre. Another, so long

ago as when the famous Captain Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing far at sea, and had felt no rest

in all the intervening years till now that he took up the search. A third, being encamped on a hunting

expedition full forty miles south of the White Mountains, awoke at midnight, and beheld the Great Carbuncle

gleaming like a meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell backward from it. They spoke of the innumerable

attempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld

success from all adventurers, though it might seem so easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered the

moon, and almost matched the sun. It was observable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of every

other in anticipating better fortune than the past, yet nourished a scarcely hidden conviction that he would

himself be the favored one. As if to allay their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the Indian traditions that a

spirit kept watch about the gem, and bewildered those who sought it either by removing it from peak to peak

of the higher hills, or by calling up a mist from the enchanted lake over which it hung. But these tales were

deemed unworthy of credit, all professing to believe that the search had been baffled by want of sagacity or

perseverance in the adventurers, or such other causes as might naturally obstruct the passage to any given

In a pause of the conversation the wearer of the prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party, making

each individual, in turn, the object of the sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance.

"So, fellowpilgrims," said he, "here we are, seven wise men, and one fair damselwho, doubtless, is as

wise as any graybeard of the company: here we are, I say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. Methinks,

now, it were not amiss that each of us declare what he proposes to do with the Great Carbuncle, provided he

have the good hap to clutch it. What says our friend in the bear skin? How mean you, good sir, to enjoy the

prize which you have been seeking, the Lord knows how long, among the Crystal Hills?"

"How enjoy it!" exclaimed the aged Seeker, bitterly. "I hope for no enjoyment from it; that folly has passed

long ago! I keep up the search for this accursed stone because the vain ambition of my youth has become a

fate upon me in old age. The pursuit alone is my strength,the energy of my soul,the warmth of my

blood,and the pith and marrow of my bones! Were I to turn my back upon it I should fall down dead on the

hither side of the Notch, which is the gateway of this mountain region. Yet not to have my wasted lifetime

back again would I give up my hopes of the Great Carbuncle! Having found it, I shall bear it to a certain

cavern that I wot of, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and die, and keep it buried with me forever."

"O wretch, regardless of the interests of science!" cried Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation.

"Thou art not worthy to behold, even from afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever was

concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the

possession of the Great Carbuncle. Immediately on obtaining itfor I have a presentiment, good people that

the prize is reserved to crown my scientific reputationI shall return to Europe, and employ my remaining

years in reducing it to its first elements. A portion of the stone will I grind to impalpable powder; other parts

shall be dissolved in acids, or whatever solvents will act upon so admirable a composition; and the remainder

I design to melt in the crucible, or set on fire with the blowpipe. By these various methods I shall gain an

accurate analysis, and finally bestow the result of my labors upon the world in a folio volume."

"Excellent!" quoth the man with the spectacles. "Nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the

necessary destruction of the gem; since the perusal of your folio may teach every mother's son of us to

"But, verily," said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, "for mine own part I object to the making of these counterfeits,

as being calculated to reduce the marketable value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have an interest in

keeping up the price. Here have I quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in the care of my clerks,

and putting my credit to great hazard, and, furthermore, have put myself in peril of death or captivity by the

accursed heathen savagesand all this without daring to ask the prayers of the congregation, because the

quest for the Great Carbuncle is deemed little better than a traffic with the Evil One. Now think ye that I

would have done this grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, and estate, without a reasonable chance of

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

"Truly, I hope not," said the merchant. "Now, as touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own that I have

never had a glimpse of it; but be it only the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely outvalue the

Great Mogul's best diamond, which he holds at an incalculable sum. Wherefore, I am minded to put the Great

Carbuncle on shipboard, and voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or into Heathendom, if

Providence should send me thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best bidder among the potentates

of the earth, that he may place it among his crown jewels. If any of ye have a wiser plan, let him expound it."

"That have I, thou sordid man!" exclaimed the poet. "Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold that thou

wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre into such dross as thou wallowest in already? For myself, hiding the

jewel under my cloak, I shall hie me back to my attic chamber, in one of the darksome alleys of London.

There, night and day, will I gaze upon it; my soul shall drink its radiance; it shall be diffused throughout my

intellectual powers, and gleam brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. Thus, long ages after I am gone,

"Well said, Master Poet!" cried he of the spectacles. "Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou? Why, it will gleam

"To think!" ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather to himself than his companions, the best of whom he held

utterly unworthy of his intercourse "to think that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of conveying the

Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grub Street! Have not I resolved within myself that the whole earth contains no

fitter ornament for the great hall of my ancestral castle? There shall it flame for ages, making a noonday of

midnight, glittering on the suits of armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that hang around the wall, and

keeping bright the memory of heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers sought the prize in vain but that I

might win it, and make it a symbol of the glories of our lofty line? And never, on the diadem of the White

Mountains, did the Great Carbuncle hold a place half so honored as is reserved for it in the hall of the De

"It is a noble thought," said the Cynic, with an obsequious sneer. "Yet, might I presume to say so, the gem

would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would display the glories of your lordship's progenitors more truly in

"Nay, forsooth," observed Matthew, the young rustic, who sat hand in hand with his bride, "the gentleman

has bethought himself of a profitable use for this bright stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a like

"How, fellow!" exclaimed his lordship, in surprise. "What castle hall hast thou to hang it in?"

"No castle," replied Matthew, "but as neat a cottage as any within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye must know,

friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded the last week, have taken up the search of the Great Carbuncle,

because we shall need its light in the long winter evenings; and it will be such a pretty thing to show the

neighbors when they visit us. It will shine through the house so that we may pick up a pin in any corner and

will set all the windows aglowing as if there were a great fire of pine knots in the chimney. And then how

There was a general smile among the adventurers at the simplicity of the young couple's project in regard to

this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which the greatest monarch on earth might have been proud to

adorn his palace. Especially the man with spectacles, who had sneered at all the company in turn, now twisted

his visage into such an expression of illnatured mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather peevishly, what he

"The Great Carbuncle!" answered the Cynic, with ineffable scorn. "Why, you blockhead, there is no such

thing in rerum natura. I have come three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every peak of

these mountains, and poke my head into every chasm, for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the

satisfaction of any man one whit less an ass than thyself that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug!"

Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought most of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills; but none so

vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was one of those

wretched and evil men whose yearnings are downward to the darkness, instead of heavenward, and who,

could they but extinguish the lights which God hath kindled for us, would count the midnight gloom their

chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, several of the party were startled by a gleam of red splendor, that showed

the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains and the rockbestrewn bed of the turbulent river with an

illumination unlike that of their fire on the trunks and black boughs of the forest trees. They listened for the

roll of thunder, but heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest came not near them. The stars, those dial

points of heaven, now warned the adventurers to close their eyes on the blazing logs, and open them, in

The young married couple had taken their lodgings in the farthest corner of the wigwam, and were separated

from the rest of the party by a curtain of curiouslywoven twigs, such as might have hung, in deep festoons,

around the bridalbower of Eve. The modest little wife had wrought this piece of tapestry while the other

guests were talking. She and her husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke from visions of

unearthly radiance to meet the more blessed light of one another's eyes. They awoke at the same instant, and

with one happy smile beaming over their two faces, which grew brighter with their consciousness of the

reality of life and love. But no sooner did she recollect where they were, than the bride peeped through the

interstices of the leafy curtain, and saw that the outer room of the hut was deserted.

"Up, dear Matthew!" cried she, in haste. "The strange folk are all gone! Up, this very minute, or we shall lose

In truth, so little did these poor young people deserve the mighty prize which had lured them thither, that they

had slept peacefully all night, and till the summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine; while the other

adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing precipices, and set off to

realize their dreams with the earliest peep of dawn. But Matthew and Hannah, after their calm rest, were as

light as two young deer, and merely stopped to say their prayers and wash themselves in a cold pool of the

Amonoosuck, and then to taste a morsel of food, ere they turned their faces to the mountainside. It was a

sweet emblem of conjugal affection, as they toiled up the difficult ascent, gathering strength from the mutual

aid which they afforded. After several little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe, and the entanglement

of Hannah's hair in a bough, they reached the upper verge of the forest, and were now to pursue a more

adventurous course. The innumerable trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts,

which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine, that

rose immeasurably above them. They gazed back at the obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and

longed to be buried again in its depths rather than trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude.

"Shall we go on?" said Matthew, throwing his arm round Hannah's waist, both to protect her and to comfort

But the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman's love of jewels, and could not forego the hope of

possessing the very brightest in the world, in spite of the perils with which it must be won.

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

"Come, then," said Matthew, mustering his manly courage and drawing her along with him, for she became

And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and

thicklyinterwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, by the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had

barely reached three feet in altitude. Next, they came to masses and fragments of naked rock heaped

confusedly together, like a cairn reared by giants in memory of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of upper air

nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was no life but what was concentrated in their two hearts; they had

climbed so high that Nature herself seemed no longer to keep them company. She lingered beneath them,

within the verge of the forest trees, and sent a farewell glance after her children as they strayed where her

own green footprints had never been. But soon they were to be hidden from her eye Densely and dark the

mists began to gather below, casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape, and sailing heavily to one

centre, as if the loftiest mountain peak had summoned a council of its kindred clouds. Finally, the vapors

welded themselves, as it were, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a pavement over which the

wanderers might have trodden, but where they would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed earth

which they had lost. And the lovers yearned to behold that green earth again, more intensely, alas! than,

beneath a clouded sky, they had ever desired a glimpse of heaven. They even felt it a relief to their desolation

when the mists, creeping gradually up the mountain, concealed its lonely peak, and thus annihilated, at least

for them, the whole region of visible space. But they drew closer together, with a fond and melancholy gaze,

Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to climb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, as they

could find foothold, if Hannah's strength had not begun to fail, and with that, her courage also. Her breath

grew short. She refused to burden her husband with her weight, but often tottered against his side, and

recovered herself each time by a feebler effort. At last, she sank down on one of the rocky steps of the

"We are lost, dear Matthew," said she, mournfully. "We shall never find our way to the earth again. And oh

"Dear heart!we will yet be happy there," answered Matthew. "Look! In this direction, the sunshine

penetrates the dismal mist. By its aid, I can direct our course to the passage of the Notch. Let us go back,

"The sun cannot be yonder," said Hannah, with despondence. "By this time it must be noon. If there could

"But look!" repeated Matthew, in a somewhat altered tone. "It is brightening every moment. If not sunshine,

Nor could the young bride any longer deny that a radiance was breaking through the mist, and changing its

dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused with the

gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one object

after another started out of its impenetrable obscurity into sight, with precisely the effect of a new creation,

before the indistinctness of the old chaos had been completely swallowed up. As the process went on, they

saw the gleaming of water close at their feet, and found themselves on the very border of a mountain lake,

deep, bright, clear, and calmly beautiful, spreading from brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out of

the solid rock. A ray of glory flashed across its surface. The pilgrims looked whence it should proceed, but

closed their eyes with a thrill of awful admiration, to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from the brow

of a cliff impending over the enchanted lake. For the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery, and found

They threw their arms around each other, and trembled at their own success; for, as the legends of this

wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, they felt themselves marked out by fateand the

consciousness was fearful. Often, from childhood upward, they had seen it shining like a distant star. And

now that star was throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts. They seemed changed to one another's eyes, in

the red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and sky, and

to the mists which had rolled back before its power. But, with their next glance, they beheld an object that

drew their attention even from the mighty stone. At the base of the cliff, directly beneath the Great Carbuncle,

appeared the figure of a man, with his arms extended in the act of climbing, and his face turned upward, as if

to drink the full gush of splendor. But he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble.

"It is the Seeker," whispered Hannah, convulsively grasping her husband's arm. "Matthew, he is dead."

"The joy of success has killed him," replied Matthew, trembling violently. "Or, perhaps, the very light of the

"The Great Carbuncle," cried a peevish voice behind them. "The Great Humbug! If you have found it, prithee

They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose,

staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great

Carbuncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about

his person. Though its radiance actually threw the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he turned his

back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be convinced that there was the least glimmer there.

"There," said Matthew, incensed at such perverse blindness, and turning the Cynic round towards the

illuminated cliff. "Take off those abominable spectacles, and you cannot help seeing it!"

Now these colored spectacles probably darkened the Cynic's sight, in at least as great a degree as the smoked

glasses through which people gaze at an eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from his

nose, and fixed a bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But scarcely had he

encountered it, when, with a deep, shuddering groan, he dropped his head, and pressed both hands across his

miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in very truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any other light on

earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the poor Cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects through a medium

that deprived them of every glimpse of brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon

Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down, supported her in his arms, while he threw some of the

thrillingly cold water of the enchanted lake upon her face and bosom. It revived her, but could not renovate

"Yes, dearest!" cried Matthew, pressing her tremulous form to his breast,"we will go hence, and return to

our humble cottage. The blessed sunshine and the quiet moonlight shall come through our window. We will

kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth, at eventide, and be happy in its light. But never again will we desire

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

Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a draught from the lake, which presented them its waters

uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending their guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered not a word,

and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched heart, they began to descend the mountain. Yet, as they

left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit's lake, they threw a farewell glance towards the cliff, and

beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through which the gem burned duskily.

As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, the legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful Master

Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself

again to his warehouse, near the town dock, in Boston. But, as he passed through the Notch of the mountains,

a war party of Indians captured our unlucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there holding him in

bondage, till, by the payment of a heavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from his hoard of pinetree

shillings. By his long absence, moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that, for the rest of his life,

instead of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence worth of copper. Doctor Cacaphodel, the alchemist,

returned to his laboratory with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground to powder, dissolved in

acids, melted in the crucible, and burned with the blowpipe, and published the result of his experiments in

one of the heaviest folios of the day. And, for all these purposes, the gem itself could not have answered

better than the granite. The poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a great piece of ice, which he

found in a sunless chasm of the mountains and swore that it corresponded, in all points, with his idea of the

Great Carbuncle. The critics say, that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of the gem, it retained all the coldness

of the ice. The Lord de Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself with a waxlighted

chandelier, and filled, in due course of time, another coffin in the ancestral vault. As the funeral torches

gleamed within that dark receptacle, there was no need of the Great Carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly

The Cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered about the world a miserable object, and was punished

with an agonizing desire of light, for the wilful blindness of his former life. The whole night long, he would

lift his splendorblasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned his face eastward, at sunrise, as duly as a

Perisan idolater; he made a pilgrimage to Rome, to witness the magnificent illumination of St. Peter's Church;

and finally perished in the great fire of London, into the midst of which he had thrust himself, with the

desperate idea of catching one feeble ray from the blaze that was kindling earth and heaven.

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, and were fond of telling the legend of the Great Carbuncle.

The tale, however, towards the close of their lengthened lives, did not meet with the full credence that had

been accorded to it by those who remembered the ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed that, from the

hour when two mortals had shown themselves so simply wise as to reject a jewel which would have dimmed

all earthly things, its splendor waned. When other pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an opaque stone,

with particles of mica glittering on its surface. There is also a tradition that, as the youthful pair departed, the

gem was loosened from the forehead of the cliff, and fell into the enchanted lake, and that, at noontide, the

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and say that they have caught its radiance,

like a flash of summer lightning, far down the valley of the Saco. And be it owned that, many a mile from the

Crystal Hills, I saw a wondrous light around their summits, and was lured, by the faith of poesy, to be the

We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually influence our course through life, and

our final destiny. There are innumerable other eventsif such they may be calledwhich come close upon

us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their near approach, by the reflection of any light

or shadow across our minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of

hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true serenity. This idea may be

We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his native

place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the

counter. Be it enough to say that he was a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had

received an ordinary school education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After

journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat

determined him to sit down in the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stagecoach. As if

planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the midst,

and such a fresh bubbling spring that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David Swan.

Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head

upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeams could not

reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road after the heavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited

the young man better than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved

dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon

While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide awake, and passed to and fro, afoot, on

horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bedchamber. Some looked neither to the

right hand nor the left, and knew not that he was there; some merely glanced that way, without admitting the

slumberer among their busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, whose hearts

were brimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous superfluity on David Swan. A middleaged widow,

when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow

looked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David into the texture of his

evening's discourse, as an awful instance of dead drunkenness by the roadside. But censure, praise,

merriment, scorn, and indifference were all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan.

He had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled easily

along, and was brought to a standstill nearly in front of David's restingplace. A linchpin had fallen out, and

permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm

to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While the coachman and a

servant were replacing the wheel, the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the mapletrees, and

there espied the bubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe which the

humblest sleeped usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow; and his

spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up all of a sudden.

"How soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "From what a depth he draws that easy breath! Such

sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income; for it would

"And youth, besides," said the lady. "Healthy and quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like

The longer they looked the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the

wayside and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over

him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch

aside, so as to intercept it. And having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a mother to him.

"Providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband, "and to have brought us hither to

find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry.

"To what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "We know nothing of the youth's character."

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

While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his

features betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burden of

gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth except a distant relative, with

whose conduct he was dissatisfied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than to act the

The old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed

of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind

with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his

The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two, when a pretty young girl came along, with a tripping

pace, which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind

of motion that causedis there any harm in saying it?her garter to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken

girthif silk it werewas relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the mapletrees, and there

found a young man asleep by the spring! Blushing as red as any rose that she should have intruded into a

gentleman's bedchamber, and for such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. But there

was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wandering overheadbuzz, buzz, buzznow

among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he

appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free hearted

as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, and drove him

from beneath the mapleshade. How sweet a picture! This good deed accomplished, with quickened breath,

and a deeper blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for whom she had been battling with a dragon

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it

should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of

welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea,

had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her,

only, could he love with a perfect love; him, only, could she receive into the depths of her heart; and now her

image was faintly blushing in the fountain, by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never

Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical

time, to be looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaintance

with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again,

had good fortunethe best of fortunesstolen so near that her garments brushed against him; and he knew

The girl was hardly out of sight when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set

off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a

certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and

now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villany on a game of

cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of

the rogues whispered to his fellow,"Hist!Do you see that bundle under his head?"

"I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocketbook, or a snug little hoard of

small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons pocket."

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

They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other

began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear,

bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay,

had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as reflected

there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast.

But, at this moment, a dog scenting along the ground, came in beneath the mapletrees, and gazed alternately

at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.

"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must be close behind."

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not of

that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a blocktin tumbler screwed upon

the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their

unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they

had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of

murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither

conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, the

weariness with which many hours of toil had burdened it. Now he stirrednow, moved his lips, without a

soundnow, talked, in an inward tone, to the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels came

rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumberand

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without so much as a parting glance at that

fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its

watersnor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmurnor that one of Death had threatened to

crimson them with his bloodall, in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear

not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence

that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still

be regularity enough in mortal life to render foresight even partially available?

In those strange old times, when fantastic dreams and madmen's reveries were realized among the actual

circumstances of life, two persons met together at an appointed hour and place. One was a lady, graceful in

form and fair of feature, though pale and troubled, and smitten with an untimely blight in what should have

been the fullest bloom of her years; the other was an ancient and meanlydressed woman, of illfavored

aspect, and so withered, shrunken, and decrepit, that even the space since she began to decay must have

exceeded the ordinary term of human existence. In the spot where they encountered, no mortal could observe

them. Three little hills stood near each other, and down in the midst of them sunk a hollow basin, almost

mathematically circular, two or three hundred feet in breadth, and of such depth that a stately cedar might but

just be visible above the sides. Dwarf pines were numerous upon the hills, and partly fringed the outer verge

of the intermediate hollow, within which there was nothing but the brown grass of October, and here and

there a tree trunk that had fallen long ago, and lay mouldering with no green successsor from its roots. One of

these masses of decaying wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of green and sluggish

water at the bottom of the basin. Such scenes as this (so gray tradition tells) were once the resort of the Power

of Evil and his plighted subjects; and here, at midnight or on the dim verge of evening, they were said to

stand round the mantling pool, disturbing its putrid waters in the performance of an impious baptismal rite.

The chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was now gilding the three hilltops, whence a paler tint stole down

"Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass," said the aged crone, "according as thou hast desired. Say

quickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but a short hour that we may tarry here."

As the old withered woman spoke, a smile glimmered on her countenance, like lamplight on the wall of a

sepulchre. The lady trembled, and cast her eyes upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to return

"I am a stranger in this land, as you know," said she at length. "Whence I come it matters not; but I have left

those behind me with whom my fate was intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off forever. There is a

weight in my bosom that I cannot away with, and I have come hither to inquire of their welfare."

"And who is there by this green pool that can bring thee news from the ends of the earth?" cried the old

woman, peering into the lady's face. "Not from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet, be thou bold, and

the daylight shall not pass away from yonder hilltop before thy wish be granted."

The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her gray

She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had long been kindling burned fiercely up within her. As she

knelt down, the border of her garment was dipped into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old woman's

knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the lady's face, so that she was in darkness. Then she heard the

muttered words of prayer, in the midst of which she started, and would have arisen.

"Let me flee,let me flee and hide myself, that they may not look upon me!" she cried. But, with returning

For it seemed as if other voicesfamiliar in infancy, and unforgotten through many wanderings, and in all

the vicissitudes of her heart and fortunewere mingling with the accents of the prayer. At first the words

were faint and indistinct, not rendered so by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages of a book which

we strive to read by an imperfect and gradually brightening light. In such a manner, as the prayer proceeded,

did those voices strengthen upon the ear; till at length the petition ended, and the conversation of an aged

man, and of a woman broken and decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to the lady as she knelt. But

those strangers appeared not to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills. Their voices were

encompassed and reechoed by the walls of a chamber, the windows of which were rattling in the breeze; the

regular vibration of a clock, the crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers as they fell among the

ashes, rendered the scene almost as vivid as if painted to the eye. By a melancholy hearth sat these two old

people, the man calmly despondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and their words were all of sorrow.

They spoke of a daughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing dishonor along with her, and leaving

shame and affliction to bring their gray heads to the grave. They alluded also to other and more recent woe,

but in the midst of their talk their voices seemed to melt into the sound of the wind sweeping mournfully

among the autumn leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was she kneeling in the hollow between

"A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple have of it," remarked the old woman, smiling in the lady's

"And did you also hear them?" exclaimed she, a sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her agony

"Yea; and we have yet more to hear," replied the old woman. "Wherefore, cover thy face quickly."

Again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words of a prayer that was not meant to be acceptable in

heaven; and soon, in the pauses of her breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually increasing so

as to drown and overpower the charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through the obscurity of sound,

and were succeeded by the singing of sweet female voices, which, in their turn, gave way to a wild roar of

laughter, broken suddenly by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and

mourning and mirth. Chains were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats, and the scourge resounded

at their command. All these noises deepened and became substantial to the listener's ear, till she could

distinguish every soft and dreamy accent of the love songs that died causelessly into funeral hymns. She

shuddered at the unprovoked wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling of flames and she grew

faint at the fearful merriment raging miserably around her. In the midst of this wild scene, where unbound

passions jostled each other in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice of a man, and a manly and

melodious voice it might once have been. He went to and fro continually, and his feet sounded upon the floor.

In each member of that frenzied company, whose own burning thoughts had become their exclusive world, he

sought an auditor for the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as his reward

of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman's perfidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a home and

heart made desolate. Even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek the sob, rose up in unison, till they

changed into the hollow, fitful, and uneven sound of the wind, as it fought among the pinetrees on those

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

"Couldst thou have thought there were such merry times in a madhouse?" inquired the latter.

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

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

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

The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the pool,

as if sombre night were rising thence to overspread the world. Again that evil woman began to weave her

spell. Long did it proceed unanswered, till the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of her words,

like a clang that had travelled far over valley and rising ground, and was just ready to die in the air. The lady

shook upon her companion's knees as she heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew and sadder, and

deepened into the tone of a death bell, knolling dolefully from some ivymantled tower, and bearing tidings

of mortality and woe to the cottage, to the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer that all might weep for the doom

appointed in turn to them. Then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly on, as of mourners with a

coffin, their garments trailing on the ground, so that the ear could measure the length of their melancholy

array. Before them went the priest, reading the burial service, while the leaves of his book were rustling in the

breeze. And though no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there were revilings and anathemas,

whispered but distinct, from women and from men, breathed against the daughter who had wrung the aged

hearts of her parents,the wife who had betrayed the trusting fondness of her husband,the mother who

had sinned against natural affection, and left her child to die. The sweeping sound of the funeral train faded

away like a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had seemed to shake the coffin pall, moaned sadly round

the verge of the Hollow between three Hills. But when the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she lifted not

"Here has been a sweet hour's sport!" said the withered crone, chuckling to herself.

That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study.

There were three whitebearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a

withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, who

had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was that they were not long ago in their graves.

Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a frantic

speculation, and was now little better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his

health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of pains, such as the

gout, and divers other torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil fame,

or at least had been so till time had buried him from the knowledge of the present generation, and made him

obscure instead of infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a great beauty in her

day; but, for a long while past, she had lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories which

had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance worth mentioning that each of these

three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow

Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each other's throats for her sake. And, before proceeding

further, I will merely hint that Dr. Heidegger and all his foul guests were sometimes thought to be a little

beside themselves,as is not unfrequently the case with old people, when worried either by present troubles

"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, "I am desirous of your assistance in

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very curious place. It was a dim,

oldfashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood

several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with rows of gigantic folios and blackletter

quartos, and the upper with little parchmentcovered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a bronze

bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold

consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and narrow

oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases

hung a lookingglass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among many

wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt

within its verge, and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward. The opposite side of the

chamber was ornamented with the fulllength portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of

silk, satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a century ago, Dr. Heidegger had

been on the point of marriage with this young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had

swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening. The greatest curiosity of the study

remains to be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps.

There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. But it was well known to be a

book of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had

rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly

faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said,"Forbear!"

Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our tale a small round table, as black as ebony,

stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a cutglass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship.

The sunshine came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains, and fell

directly across this vase; so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old

"My dear old friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, "may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly

Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a

thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to

my own veracious self; and if any passages of the present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be

When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more

wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or

some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without

waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio,

bound in black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he

opened the volume, and took from among its blackletter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now

the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready to

"This rose," said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five and

fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it in my

bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured between the leaves of this old volume. Now,

would you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?"

"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. "You might as well ask whether an

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on

the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular change began to

be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower

were reviving from a deathlike slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became green; and there was

the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was scarcely

full blown; for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or

"That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends; carelessly, however, for they had

"Did you never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth?' " asked Dr. Heidegger, "which Ponce De Leon, the Spanish

"No," answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I

am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco. Its

source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centuries old, have been

kept as fresh as violets by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine, knowing my

"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's story; "and what may be the effect

"You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel," replied Dr. Heidegger; "and all of you, my respected friends,

are welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own part,

having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With your permission,

While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne glasses with the water of the Fountain of

Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending

from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant

perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties; and though utter

sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought

"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be well that, with the experience of a

lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing a second time

through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advantages, you

should not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the young people of the age!"

The doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so very

ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they should

"Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing: "I rejoice that I have so well selected the subjects of my experiment."

With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as Dr.

Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more wofully.

They looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring of Nature's

dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the doctor's

table, without life enough in their souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing young

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might have

been produced by a glass of generous wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine brightening

over all their visages at once. There was a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that

had made them look so corpselike. They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had

really begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving on

their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman again.

"Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We are youngerbut we are still too old!

"Patience, patience!" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching the experiment with philosophic coolness. "You

have been a long time growing old. Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an hour! But the

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half

the old people in the city to the age of their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling on the

brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at a single

gulp. Was it delusion? even while the draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to have wrought a

change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery

locks, they sat around the table, three gentlemen of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond her buxom

"My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face,

while the shadows of age were flitting from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak.

The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's compliments were not always measured by sober truth;

so she started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her

gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved that the water of the Fountain of

Youth possessed some intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a

lightsome dizziness caused by the sudden removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to

run on political topics, but whether relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily be determined,

since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth fullthroated

sentences about patriotism, national glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous stuff or

other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the

secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as if a royal ear were

listening to his wellturned periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song,

and ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the buxom figure of the

Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and

cents, with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East Indies with ice, by harnessing a

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image, and

greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the glass,

to see whether some longremembered wrinkle or crow's foot had indeed vanished. She examined whether

the snow had so entirely melted from her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At last,

"Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant doctor; "see! I have already filled the

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it

effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset that

the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase,

and rested alike on the four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a highbacked,

elaboratelycarved, oaken armchair, with a gray dignity of aspect that might have well befitted that very

Father Time, whose power had never been disputed, save by this fortunate company. Even while quaffing the

third draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost awed by the expression of his mysterious visage.

But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot through their veins. They were now in the

happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remembered only

as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and

without which the world's successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its

enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like newcreated beings in a newcreated universe.

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the stronglymarked characteristics of middle life, and mutually

assimilated them all. They were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant

frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock the infirmity

and decrepitude of which they had so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their oldfashioned

attire, the wideskirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the

blooming girl. One limped across the floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of his

nose, and pretended to pore over the blackletter pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in an

armchair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and

leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherlyif so fresh a damsel could be called a widowtripped up to

"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me!" And then the four young people laughed

"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor quietly. "I am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over

long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner."

They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his passionate grasp another threw his arm about

her waistthe third buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. Blushing,

panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to

disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of youthful

rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the

chamber, and the antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of

the three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled

But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the

girlwidow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange

threatening glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As

they struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The

precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly,

which, grown old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect fluttered lightly through the

"Come, come, gentlemen!come, Madam Wycherly," exclaimed the doctor, "I really must protest against

They stood still and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time were calling them back from their sunny youth,

far down into the chill and darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his carved

armchair, holding the rose of half a century, which he had rescued from among the fragments of the

shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily, because their

"My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to

And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry

and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture which

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

While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor.

His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was creeping

gradually over them all. They gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a

charm, and left a deepening furrow where none had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a

lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting with their old friend,

In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The

delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes! they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that

showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before her face, and wished that the coffin lid

"Yes, friends, ye are old again," said Dr. Heidegger, "and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the

ground. WellI bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my

lips in itno, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught me!"

But the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make a

pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth.

One afternoon, last summer, while walking along Washington Street, my eye was attracted by a signboard

protruding over a narrow archway, nearly opposite the Old South Church. The sign represented the front of a

stately edifice, which was designated as the "OLD PROVINCE HOUSE, kept by Thomas Waite." I was glad

to be thus reminded of a purpose, long entertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion of the old royal

governors of Massachusetts; and entering the arched passage, which penetrated through the middle of a brick

row of shops, a few steps transported me from the busy heart of modern Boston into a small and secluded

courtyard. One side of this space was occupied by the square front of the Province House, three stories high,

and surmounted by a cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was discernible, with his bow bent and his

arrow on the string, as if aiming at the weathercock on the spire of the Old South. The figure has kept this

attitude for seventy years or more, ever since good Deacon Drowne, a cunning carver of wood, first stationed

The Province House is constructed of brick, which seems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of

lightcolored paint. A flight of red freestone steps, fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron,

ascends from the courtyard to the spacious porch, over which is a balcony, with an iron balustrade of similar

pattern and workmanship to that beneath. These letters and figures16 P.S. 79are wrought into the iron

work of the balcony, and probably express the date of the edifice, with the initials of its founder's name. A

wide door with double leaves admitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of which is the entrance to the

It was in this apartment, I presume, that the ancient governors held their levees, with viceregal pomp,

surrounded by the military men, the councillors, the judges, and other officers of the crown, while all the

loyalty of the province thronged to do them honor. But the room, in its present condition, cannot boast even

of faded magnificence. The panelled wainscot is covered with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier hue from

the deep shadow into which the Province House is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in from Washington

Street. A ray of sunshine never visits this apartment any more than the glare of the festal torches, which have

been extinguished from the era of the Revolution. The most venerable and ornamental object is a

chimneypiece set round with Dutch tiles of bluefigured China, representing scenes from Scripture; and, for

aught I know, the lady of Pownall or Bernard may have sat beside this fireplace, and told her children the

story of each blue tile. A bar in modern style, well replenished with decanters, bottles, cigar boxes, and

network bags of lemons, and provided with a beer pump, and a soda fount, extends along one side of the

room. At my entrance, an elderly person was smacking his lips with a zest which satisfied me that the cellars

of the Province House still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other vintages than were quaffed by the old

governors. After sipping a glass of port sangaree, prepared by the skilful hands of Mr. Thomas Waite, I

besought that worthy successor and representative of so many historic personages to conduct me over their

He readily complied; but, to confess the truth, I was forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination, in

order to find aught that was interesting in a house which, without its historic associations, would have seemed

merely such a tavern as is usually favored by the custom of decent city boarders, and oldfashioned country

gentlemen. The chambers, which were probably spacious in former times, are now cut up by partitions, and

subdivided into little nooks, each affording scanty room for the narrow bed and chair and dressingtable of a

single lodger. The great staircase, however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, a feature of grandeur

and magnificence. It winds through the midst of the house by flights of broad steps, each flight terminating in

a square landingplace, whence the ascent is continued towards the cupola. A carved balustrade, freshly

painted in the lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders the staircase with its quaintly twisted

and intertwined pillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs the military boots, or perchance the gouty shoes,

of many a governor have trodden, as the wearers mounted to the cupola, which afforded them so wide a view

over their metropolis and the surrounding country. The cupola is an octagon, with several windows, and a

door opening upon the roof. From this station, as I pleased myself with imagining, Gage may have beheld his

disastrous victory on Bunker Hill (unless one of the trimountains intervened), and Howe have marked the

approaches of Washington's besieging army; although the buildings since erected in the vicinity have shut out

almost every object, save the steeple of the Old South, which seems almost within arm's length. Descending

from the cupola, I paused in the garret to observe the ponderous whiteoak framework, so much more

massive than the frames of modern houses, and thereby resembling an antique skeleton. The brick walls, the

materials of which were imported from Holland, and the timbers of the mansion, are still as sound as ever;

but the floors and other interior parts being greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the whole, and build a

new house within the ancient frame and brick work. Among other inconveniences of the present edifice, mine

host mentioned that any jar or motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of one

We stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony, where, in old times, it was doubtless the

custom of the king's representative to Show himself to a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossedup

hats with stately bendings of his dignified person. In those days the front of the Province House looked upon

the street; and the whole site now occupied by the brick range of stores, as well as the present courtyard,

was laid out in grass plats, overshadowed by trees and bordered by a wroughtiron fence. Now, the old

aristocratic edifice hides its timeworn visage behind an upstart modern building; at one of the back windows

I observed some pretty tailoresses, sewing and chatting and laughing, with now and then a careless glance

towards the balcony. Descending thence, we again entered the barroom, where the elderly gentleman above

mentioned, the smack of whose lips had spoken so favorably for Mr. Waite's good liquor, was still lounging

in his chair. He seemed to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house, who might be supposed

to have his regular score at the bar, his summer seat at the open window, and his prescriptive corner at the

winter's fireside. Being of a sociable aspect, I ventured to address him with a remark calculated to draw forth

his historical reminiscences, if any such were in his mind; and it gratified me to discover, that, between

memory and tradition, the old gentleman was really possessed of some very pleasant gossip about the

Province House. The portion of his talk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the following legend.

He professed to have received it at one or two removes from an eyewitness; but this derivation, together

with the lapse of time, must have afforded opportunities for many variations of the narrative; so that

despairing of literal and absolute truth, I have not scrupled to make such further changes as seemed

At one of the entertainments given at the Province House, during the latter part of the siege of Boston, there

passed a scene which has never yet been satisfactorily explained. The officers of the British army, and the

loyal gentry of the province, most of whom were collected within the beleaguered town, had been invited to a

masked ball; for it was the policy of Sir William Howe to hide the distress and danger of the period, and the

desperate aspect of the siege, under an ostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this evening, if the oldest

members of the provincial court circle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous affair that had

occurred in the annals of the government. The brilliantlylighted apartments were thronged with figures that

seemed to have stepped from the dark canvas of historic portraits, or to have flitted forth from the magic

pages of romance, or at least to have flown hither from one of the London theatres, without a change of

garments. Steeled knights of the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen Elizabeth, and highruffled ladies of

her court, were mingled with characters of comedy, such as a partycolored Merry Andrew, jingling his cap

and bells; a Falstaff, almost as provocative of laughter as his prototype; and a Don Quixote, with a bean pole

But the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals, which

seemed to have been purchased at a military rag fair, or pilfered from some receptacle of the castoff clothes

of both the French and British armies. Portions of their attire had probably been worn at the siege of

Louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut might have been rent and tattered by sword, ball, or bayonet, as

long ago as Wolfe's victory. One of these worthiesa tall, lank figure, brandishing a rusty sword of immense

longitudepurported to be no less a personage than General George Washington; and the other principal

officers of the American army, such as Gates, Lee, Putnam, Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were represented by

similar scarecrows. An interview in the mock heroic style, between the rebel warriors and the British

commanderinchief, was received with immense applause, which came loudest of all from the loyalists of

the colony. There was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eyeing these antics sternly and scornfully,

It was an old man, formerly of high station and great repute in the province, and who had been a very famous

soldier in his day. Some surprise had been expressed that a person of Colonel Joliffe's known Whig

principles, though now too old to take an active part in the contest, should have remained in Boston during

the siege, and especially that he should consent to show himself in the mansion of Sir William Howe. But

thither he had come, with a fair granddaughter under his arm; and there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery,

stood this stern old figure, the best sustained character in the masquerade, because so well representing the

antique spirit of his native land. The other guests affirmed that Colonel Joliffe's black puritanical scowl threw

a shadow round about him; although in spite of his sombre influence their gayety continued to blaze higher,

like(an ominous comparison)the flickering brilliancy of a lamp which has but a little while to burn.

Eleven strokes, full half an hour ago, had pealed from the clock of the Old South, when a rumor was

circulated among the company that some new spectacle or pageant was about to be exhibited, which should

"What new jest has your Excellency in hand?" asked the Rev. Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian scruples had

not kept him from the entertainment. "Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than beseems my cloth at

your Homeric confabulation with yonder ragamuffin General of the rebels. One other such fit of merriment,

"Not so, good Doctor Byles," answered Sir William Howe; "if mirth were a crime, you had never gained your

doctorate in divinity. As to this new foolery, I know no more about it than yourself; perhaps not so much.

Honestly now, Doctor, have you not stirred up the sober brains of some of your countrymen to enact a scene

"Perhaps," slyly remarked the granddaughter of Colonel Joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by many

taunts against New England,"perhaps we are to have a mask of allegorical figures. Victory, with trophies

from Lexington and Bunker HillPlenty, with her overflowing horn, to typify the present abundance in this

Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would have answered with one of his darkest frowns had they

been uttered by lips that wore a beard. He was spared the necessity of a retort, by a singular interruption. A

sound of music was heard without the house, as if proceeding from a full band of military instruments

stationed in the street, playing not such a festal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slow funeral march.

The drums appeared to be muffled, and the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath, which at once hushed the

merriment of the auditors, filling all with wonder, and some with apprehension. The idea occurred to many

that either the funeral procession of some great personage had halted in front of the Province House, or that a

corpse, in a velvetcovered and gorgeouslydecorated coffin, was about to be borne from the portal. After

listening a moment, Sir William Howe called, in a stern voice, to the leader of the musicians, who had

hitherto enlivened the entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. The man was drummajor to one of

"Dighton," demanded the general, "what means this foolery? Bid your band silence that dead marchor, by

my word, they shall have sufficient cause for their lugubrious strains! Silence it, sirrah!"

"Please your honor," answered the drummajor, whose rubicund visage had lost all its color, "the fault is

none of mine. I and my band are all here together, and I question whether there be a man of us that could play

that march without book. I never heard it but once before, and that was at the funeral of his late Majesty,

"Well, well!" said Sir William Howe, recovering his composure"it is the prelude to some masquerading

A figure now presented itself, but among the many fantastic masks that were dispersed through the

apartments none could tell precisely from whence it came. It was a man in an oldfashioned dress of black

serge and having the aspect of a steward or principal domestic in the household of a nobleman or great

English landholder. This figure advanced to the outer door of the mansion, and throwing both its leaves wide

open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back towards the grand staircase as if expecting some person to

descend. At the same time the music in the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. The eyes of Sir

William Howe and his guests being directed to the staircase, there appeared, on the uppermost landingplace

that was discernible from the bottom, several personages descending towards the door. The foremost was a

man of stern visage, wearing a steeplecrowned hat and a skullcap beneath it; a dark cloak, and huge

wrinkled boots that came halfway up his legs. Under his arm was a rolledup banner, which seemed to be

the banner of England, but strangely rent and torn; he had a sword in his right hand, and grasped a Bible in

his left. The next figure was of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a broad ruff, over which descended

a beard, a gown of wrought velvet, and a doublet and hose of black satin. He carried a roll of manuscript in

his hand. Close behind these two came a young man of very striking countenance and demeanor, with deep

thought and contemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiiasm in his eye. His garb, like that of

his predecessors, was of an antique fashion, and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. In the same group

with these were three or four others, all men of dignity and evident command, and bearing themselves like

personages who were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. It was the idea of the beholders that these

figures went to join the mysterious funeral that had halted in front of the Province House; yet that supposition

seemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph with which they waved their hands, as they crossed the

"In the devil's name what is this?" muttered Sir William Howe to a gentleman beside him; "a procession of

"These," said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for the first time that evening,"these, if I interpret

them aright, are the Puritan governorsthe rulers of the old original Democracy of Massachusetts. Endicott,

with the banner from which he had torn the symbol of subjection, and Winthrop, and Sir Henry Vane, and

"Because, in after years," answered her grandfather, "he laid down the wisest head in England upon the block

"Will not your Excellency order out the guard?" whispered Lord Percy, who, with other British officers, had

"Tush! we have nothing to fear," carelessly replied Sir William Howe. "There can be no worse treason in the

matter than a jest, and that somewhat of the dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best policy would

Another group of characters had now partly descended the staircase. The first was a venerable and

whitebearded patriarch, who cautiously felt his way downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him,

and stretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man's shoulder, came a tall, soldierlike figure,

equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a bright breastplate, and a long sword, which rattled against the stairs.

Next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his gait had the

swinging motion of a seaman's walk, and chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly grew wrathful,

and was heard to mutter an oath. He was followed by a noblelooking personage in a curled wig, such as are

represented in the portraits of Queen Anne's time and earlier; and the breast of his coat was decorated with an

embroidered star. While advancing to the door, he bowed to the right hand and to the left, in a very gracious

and insinuating style; but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early Puritan governors, he seemed to wring

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

"If it please your Excellency they lived somewhat before my day," answered the doctor; "but doubtless our

"Their living faces I never looked upon," said Colonel Joliffe, gravely; "although I have spoken face to face

with many rulers of this land, and shall greet yet another with an old man's blessing ere I die. But we talk of

these figures. I take the venerable patriarch to be Bradstreet, the last of the Puritans, who was governor at

ninety, or thereabouts. The next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New England schoolboy will tell

you; and therefore the people cast him down from his high seat into a dungeon. Then comes Sir William

Phipps, shepherd, cooper, seacaptain, and governormay many of his countrymen rise as high from as low

an origin! Lastly, you saw the gracious Earl of Bellamont, who ruled us under King William."

"Now, were I a rebel," said Miss Joliffe, half aloud, "I might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors

had been summoned to form the funeral procession of royal authority in New England."

Several other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase. The one in advance had a thoughtful,

anxious, and somewhat crafty expression of face, and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently

the result both of an ambitious spirit and of long continuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable of

cringing to a greater than himself. A few steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered uniform,

cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn by the Duke of Marlborough. His nose had a rubicund tinge,

which, together with the twinkle of his eye, might have marked him as a lover of the wine cup and good

fellowship; notwithstanding which tokens he appeared ill at ease, and often glanced around him as if

apprehensive of some secret mischief. Next came a portly gentleman, wearing a coat of shaggy cloth, lined

with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness, and humor in his face, and a folio volume under his arm; but his

aspect was that of a man vexed and tormented beyond all patience, and harassed almost to death. He went

hastily down, and was followed by a dignified person, dressed in a purple velvet suit with very rich

embroidery; his demeanor would have possessed much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of the gout

compelled him to hobble from stair to stair, with contortions of face and body. When Dr. Byles beheld this

figure on the staircase, he shivered as with an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly, until the gouty

gentleman had reached the threshold, made a gesture of anguish and despair, and vanished into the outer

"Governor Belcher!my old patron!in his very shape and dress!" gasped Doctor Byles. "This is an awful

"A tedious foolery, rather," said Sir William Howe, with an air of indifference. "But who were the three that

"Governor Dudley, a cunning politicianyet his craft once brought him to a prison," replied Colonel Joliffe.

"Governor Shute, formerly a Colonel under Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of the

province; and learned Governor Burnet, whom the legislature tormented into a mortal fever."

"Methinks they were miserable men, these royal governors of Massachusetts," observed Miss Joliffe.

It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated the staircase now burned dim and duskily: so that

several figures, which passed hastily down the stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared rather like

shadows than persons of fleshly substance. Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors of the

contiguous apartments, watching the progress of this singular pageant, with various emotions of anger,

contempt, or halfacknowledged fear, but still with an anxious curiosity. The shapes which now seemed

hastening to join the mysterious procession were recognized rather by striking peculiarities of dress, or broad

characteristics of manner, than by any perceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes. Their faces,

indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow. But Doctor Byles, and other gentlemen who had long been

familiar with the successive rulers of the province, were heard to whisper the names of Shirley, of Pownall, of

Sir Francis Bernard, and of the wellremembered Hutchinson; thereby confessing that the actors, whoever

they might be, in this spectral march of governors, had succeeded in putting on some distant portraiture of the

real personages. As they vanished from the door, still did these shadows toss their arms into the gloom of

night, with a dread expression of woe. Following the mimic representative of Hutchinson came a military

figure, holding before his face the cocked hat which he had taken from his powdered head; but his epaulettes

and other insignia of rank were those of a general officer, and something in his mien reminded the beholders

of one who had recently been master of the Province House, and chief of all the land.

"The shape of Gage, as true as in a lookingglass," exclaimed Lord Percy, turning pale.

"No, surely," cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically; "it could not be Gage, or Sir William would have

greeted his old comrade in arms! Perhaps he will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged."

"Of that be assured, young lady," answered Sir William Howe, fixing his eyes, with a very marked

expression, upon the immovable visage of her grandfather. "I have long enough delayed to pay the

ceremonies of a host to these departing guests. The next that takes his leave shall receive due courtesy."

A wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. It seemed as if the procession, which had been

gradually filling up its ranks, were now about to move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets, and

roll of the muffled drums, were a call to some loiterer to make haste. Many eyes, by an irresistible impulse,

were turned upon Sir William Howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music summoned to the funeral or

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

A figure had come into view as if descending the stairs; although so dusky was the region whence it emerged,

some of the spectators fancied that they had seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid the gloom.

Downward the figure came, with a stately and martial tread, and reaching the lowest stair was observed to be

a tall man, booted and wrapped in a military cloak, which was drawn up around the face so as to meet the

flapped brim of a laced hat. The features, therefore, were completely hidden. But the British officers deemed

that they had seen that military cloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroidery on the collar, as well

as the gilded scabbard of a sword which protruded from the folds of the cloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam

of light. Apart from these trifling particulars, there were characteristics of gait and bearing which impelled

the wondering guests to glance from the shrouded figure to Sir William Howe, as if to satisfy themselves that

With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw the General draw his sword and advance to meet the

The figure, without blenching a hair's breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn

pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a

glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness of his countenance gave place

to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure and let fall his

sword upon the floor. The martial shape again drew the cloak about his, features and passed on; but reaching

the threshold, with his back towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot and shake his clinched

hands in the air. It was afterwards affirmed that Sir William Howe had repeated that selfsame gesture of rage

and sorrow, when, for the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed through the portal of the

The music was dying away along the street, and its dismal strains were mingled with the knell of midnight

from the steeple of the Old South, and with the roar of artillery, which announced that the beleaguering army

of Washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer height than before. As the deep boom of the cannon smote

upon his ear, Colonel Joliffe raised himself to the full height of his aged form, and smiled sternly on the

"Would your Excellency inquire further into the mystery of the pageant?" said he.

"Take care of your gray head!" cried Sir William Howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip. "It has stood

"You must make haste to chop it off, then," calmly replied the Colonel; "for a few hours longer, and not all

the power of Sir William Howe, nor of his master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. The empire of

Britain in this ancient province is at its last gasp tonight;almost while I speak it is a dead corpse;and

With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and drawing his granddaughter's arm within his own,

retired from the last festival that a British ruler ever held in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It was

supposed that the Colonel and the young lady possessed some secret intelligence in regard to the mysterious

pageant of that night. However this might be, such knowledge has never become general. The actors in the

scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than even that wild Indian band who scattered the cargoes of the

tea ships on the waves, and gained a place in history, yet left no names. But superstition, among other legends

of this mansion, repeats the wondrous tale, that on the anniversary night of Britain's discomfiture the ghosts

of the ancient governors of Massachusetts still glide through the portal of the Province House. And, last of

all, comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clinched hands into the air, and stamping his

ironshod boots upon the broad freestone steps, with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the sound

When the truthtelling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked round

the room, striving, with the best energy of my imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic grandeur

over the realities of the scene. But my nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar smoke, clouds of which the narrator

had emitted by way of visible emblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. Moreover, my

gorgeous fantasies were wofully disturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey punch, which

Mr. Thomas Waite was mingling for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque appearance of the panelled

walls that the slate of the Brookline stage was suspended against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of

some fardescended governor. A stagedriver sat at one of the windows, reading a penny paper of the day

the Boston Timesand presenting a figure which could nowise be brought into any picture of "Times in

Boston" seventy or a hundred years ago. On the window seat lay a bundle, neatly done up in brown paper, the

direction of which I had the idle curiosity to read. "MISS SUSAN HUGGINS, at the PROVINCE HOUSE."

A pretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work, when we attempt to throw the spell of

hoar antiquity over localities with which the living world, and the day that is passing over us, have aught to

do. Yet, as I glanced at the stately staircase down which the procession of the old governors had descended,

and as I emerged through the venerable portal whence their figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to be

conscious of a thrill of awe. Then, diving through the narrow archway, a few strides transported me into the

The old legendary guest of the Province House abode in my remembrance from midsummer till January. One

idle evening last winter, confident that he would be found in the snuggest corner of the barroom, I resolved

to pay him another visit, hoping to deserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion some else

unheardof fact of history. The night was chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a gale of wind,

which whistled along Washington Street, causing the gaslights to flare and flicker within the lamps. As I

hurried onward, my fancy was busy with a comparison between the present aspect of the street and that which

it probably wore when the British governors inhabited the mansion whither I was now going. Brick edifices

in those times were few, till a succession of destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the wooden

dwellings and warehouses from the most populous quarters of the town. The buildings stood insulated and

independent, not, as now, merging their separate existences into connected ranges, with a front of tiresome

identity,but each possessing features of its own, as if the owner's individual taste had shaped it,and the

whole presenting a picturesque irregularity, the absence of which is hardly compensated by any beauties of

our modern architecture. Such a scene, dimly vanishing from the eye by the ray of here and there a tallow

candle, glimmering through the small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre contrast to the street

as I beheld it, with the gaslights blazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops, and throwing a

But the black, lowering sky, as I turned my eyes upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage as when it

frowned upon the anterevolutionary New Englanders. The wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar

to their ears. The Old South Church, too, still pointed its antique spire into the darkness, and was lost between

earth and heaven; and as I passed, its clock, which had warned so many generations how transitory was their

lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself. "Only seven o'clock," thought I. "My

Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the courtyard, the confined precincts of which were made visible

by a lantern over the portal of the Province House. On entering the barroom, I found, as I expected, the old

tradition monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite, compelling clouds of smoke from a corpulent

cigar. He recognized me with evident pleasure; for my rare properties as a patient listener invariably make me

a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies of narrative propensities. Drawing a chair to the fire, I desired

mine host to favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey punch, which was speedily prepared, steaming hot, with

a slice of lemon at the bottom, a darkred stratum of port wine upon the surface, and a sprinkling of nutmeg

strewn over all. As we touched our glasses together, my legendary friend made himself known to me as Mr.

Bela Tiffany; and I rejoiced at the oddity of the name, because it gave his image and character a sort of

individuality in my conception. The old gentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon his memory, so that it

overflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes of famous dead people, and traits of ancient manners, some of

which were childish as a nurse's lullaby, while others might have been worth the notice of the grave historian.

Nothing impressed me more than a story of a black mysterious picture, which used to hang in one of the

chambers of the Province House, directly above the room where we were now sitting. The following is as

correct a version of the fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from any other source, although,

In one of the apartments of the Province House there was long preserved an ancient picture, the frame of

which was as black as ebony, and the canvas itself so dark with age, damp, and smoke, that not a touch of the

painter's art could be discerned. Time had thrown an impenetrable veil over it, and left to tradition and fable

and conjecture to say what had once been there portrayed. During the rule of many successive governors, it

had hung, by prescriptive and undisputed right, over the mantelpiece of the same chamber; and it still kept

its place when LieutenantGovernor Hutchinson assumed the administration of the province, on the departure

The LieutenantGovernor sat, one afternoon, resting his head against the carved back of his stately armchair,

and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness of the picture. It was scarcely a time for such inactive

musing, when affairs of the deepest moment required the ruler's decision, for within that very hour

Hutchinson had received intelligence of the arrival of a British fleet, bringing three regiments from Halifax to

overawe the insubordination of the people. These troops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of

Castle William, and the town itself. Yet, instead of affixing his signature to an official order, there sat the

LieutenantGovernor, so carefully scrutinizing the black waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the

notice of two young persons who attended him. One, wearing a military dress of buff, was his kinsman,

Francis Lincoln, the Provincial Captain of Castle William; the other, who sat on a low stool beside his chair,

She was clad entirely in white, a pale, ethereal creature, who, though a native of New England, had been

educated abroad, and seemed not merely a stranger from another clime, but almost a being from another

world. For several years, until left an orphan, she had dwelt with her father in sunny Italy, and there had

acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and painting which she found few opportunities of gratifying in

the undecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. It was said that the early productions of her own pencil

exhibited no inferior genius, though, perhaps, the rude atmosphere of New England had cramped her hand,

and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. But observing her uncle's steadfast gaze, which appeared to

search through the mist of years to discover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited.

"Is it known, my dear uncle," inquired she, "what this old picture once represented? Possibly, could it be

made visible, it might prove a masterpiece of some great artistelse, why has it so long held such a

As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom (for he was as attentive to all the humors and caprices of Alice as if

she had been his own bestbeloved child), did not immediately reply, the young Captain of Castle William

"This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin," said he, "has been an heirloom in the Province House from

time immemorial. As to the painter, I can tell you nothing; but, if half the stories told of it be true, not one of

the great Italian masters has ever produced so marvellous a piece of work as that before you."

Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables and fantasies which, as it was impossible to

refute them by ocular demonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief, in reference to this old

picture. One of the wildest, and at the same time the best accredited, accounts, stated it to be an original and

authentic portrait of the Evil One, taken at a witch meeting near Salem; and that its strong and terrible

resemblance had been confirmed by several of the confessing wizards and witches, at their trial, in open

court. It was likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon abode behind the blackness of the picture, and

had shown himself, at seasons of public calamity, to more than one of the royal governors. Shirley, for

instance, had beheld this ominous apparition, on the eve of General Abercrombie's shameful and bloody

defeat under the walls of Ticonderoga. Many of the servants of the Province House had caught glimpses of a

visage frowning down upon them, at morning or evening twilight,or in the depths of night, while raking up

the fire that glimmered on the hearth beneath; although, if any were bold enough to hold a torch before the

picture, it would appear as black and undistinguishable as ever. The oldest inhabitant of Boston recollected

that his father, in whose days the portrait had not wholly faded out of sight, had once looked upon it, but

would never suffer himself to be questioned as to the face which was there represented. In connection with

such stories, it was remarkable that over the top of the frame there were some ragged remnants of black silk,

indicating that a veil had formerly hung down before the picture, until the duskiness of time had so

effectually concealed it. But, after all, it was the most singular part of the affair that so many of the pompous

governors of Massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to remain in the state chamber of the Province

"Some of these fables are really awful," observed Alice Vane, who had occasionally shuddered, as well as

smiled, while her cousin spoke. "It would be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of the

canvas, since the original picture can hardly be so formidable as those which fancy paints instead of it."

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

The LieutenantGovernor had roused himself from his abstracted mood, and listened with a smile to the

conversation of his young relatives. Yet his voice had something peculiar in its tones when he undertook the

"I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which you are so fond," remarked he; "but my

antiquarian researches have long since made me acquainted with the subject of this pictureif picture it can

be calledwhich is no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face of the long buried man whom it once

represented. It was the portrait of Edward Randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous in the history

"Of that Edward Randolph," exclaimed Captain Lincoln, "who obtained the repeal of the first provincial

charter, under which our forefathers had enjoyed almost democratic privileges! He that was styled the

archenemy of New England, and whose memory is still held in detestation as the destroyer of our liberties!"

"It was the same Randolph," answered Hutchinson, moving uneasily in his chair. "It was his lot to taste the

"Our annals tell us," continued the Captain of Castle William, "that the curse of the people followed this

Randolph where he went, and wrought evil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its effect was seen

likewise in the manner of his death. They say, too, that the inward misery of that curse worked itself outward,

and was visible on the wretched man's countenance, making it too horrible to be looked upon. If so, and if

this picture truly represented his aspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered over it."

"These traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I have, how little of historic truth lies at the bottom,"

said the LieutenantGovernor. "As regards the life and character of Edward Randolph, too implicit credence

has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, whoI must say it, though some of his blood runs in my veinshas

filled our early history with old women's tales, as fanciful and extravagant as those of Greece or Rome."

"And yet," whispered Alice Vane, "may not such fables have a moral? And, methinks, if the visage of this

portrait be so dreadful, it is not without a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the Province House.

When the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were well that they should be reminded of the awful weight

The LieutenantGovernor started, and gazed for a moment at his niece, as if her girlish fantasies had struck

upon some feeling in his own breast, which all his policy or principles could not entirely subdue. He knew,

indeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign education, retained the native sympathies of a New England girl.

"Peace, silly child," cried he, at last, more harshly than he had ever before addressed the gentle Alice. "The

rebuke of a king is more to be dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude. Captain Lincoln, it is

decided. The fortress of Castle William must be occupied by the royal troops. The two remaining regiments

shall be billeted in the town, or encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years of tumult, and almost

rebellion, that his majesty's government should have a wall of strength about it."

"Trust, sirtrust yet awhile to the loyalty of the people," said Captain Lincoln; "nor teach them that they can

ever be on other terms with British soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought side by side

through the French War. Do not convert the streets of your native town into a camp. Think twice before you

give up old Castle William, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of trueborn New

"Young man, it is decided," repeated Hutchinson, rising from his chair. "A British officer will be in

attendance this evening, to receive the necessary instructions for the disposal of the troops. Your presence

With these words the LieutenantGovernor hastily left the room, while Alice and her cousin more slowly

followed, whispering together, and once pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. The Captain of

Castle William fancied that the girl's air and mien were such as might have belonged to one of those spirits of

fablefairies, or creatures of a more antique mythologywho sometimes mingled their agency with mortal

affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe. As he held the door for her to pass, Alice

In the evening, LieutenantGovernor Hutchinson sat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene had

occurred, surrounded by several persons whose various interests had summoned them together. There were

the selectmen of Boston, plain, patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent representatives of the old

puritanical founders, whose sombre strength had stamped so deep an impress upon the New England

character. Contrasting with these were one or two members of Council, richly dressed in the white wigs, the

embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of

courtierlike ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major of the British army, awaiting the

LieutenantGovernor's orders for the landing of the troops, which still remained on board the transports. The

Captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson's chair with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the

British officer, by whom he was soon to be superseded in his command. On a table, in the centre of the

chamber, stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of half a dozen waxlights upon a

Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window curtains, which fell from the ceiling to the

floor, was seen the white drapery of a lady's robe. It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have been

there at such a time; but there was something so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, so apart

from ordinary rules, that her presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the chairman of the

Selectmen was addressing to the LieutenantGovernor a long and solemn protest against the reception of the

"And if your Honor," concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy old gentleman, "shall see fit to persist in

bringing these mercenary sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the

responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be an

eternal stain upon your Honor's memory. You, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our forefathers.

The more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself should deserve honorable mention, as a true patriot and

"I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well in the annals of my country," replied

Hutchinson, controlling his impatience into courtesy, "nor know I any better method of attaining that end than

by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief, which, with your pardon, seems to have infected

elder men than myself. Would you have me wait till the mob shall sack the Province House, as they did my

private mansion? Trust me, sir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee for protection to the king's

"Yes," said the British major, who was impatiently expecting the LieutenantGovernor's orders. "The

demagogues of this Province have raised the devil and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him, in God's

"If you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws!" answered the Captain of Castle William, stirred by the

"Craving your pardon, young sir," said the venerable Selectman, "let not an evil spirit enter into your words.

We will strive against the oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done. Like them,

moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise Providence may send us,always, after our own best

"And there peep forth the devil's claws!" muttered Hutchinson, who well understood the nature of Puritan

submission. "This matter shall be expedited forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every corner, and a

court of guard before the town house, a loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. What to me is the

outcry of a mob, in this remote province of the realm? The king is my master, and England is my country!

He snatched a pen, and was about to affix his signature to the paper that lay on the table, when the Captain of

Castle William placed his hand upon his shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to the ceremonious

respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity, awakened general surprise, and in none more than

in the LieutenantGovernor himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his young relative was pointing

his finger to the opposite wall. Hutchinson's eye followed the signal; and he saw, what had hitherto been

unobserved, that a black silk curtain was suspended before the mysterious picture, so as completely to

conceal it. His thoughts immediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon; and, in his surprise,

confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had an agency in this phenomenon, he

No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from her station, and pressing one hand across her eyes,

with the other snatched away the sable curtain that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of surprise burst

"By Heaven!" said he, in a low, inward murmur, speaking rather to himself than to those around him, "if the

spirit of Edward Randolph were to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear more of the

"For some wise end," said the aged Selectman, solemnly, "hath Providence scattered away the mist of years

that had so long hid this dreadful effigy. Until this hour no living man hath seen what we behold!"

Within the antique frame, which so recently had inclosed a sable waste of canvas, now appeared a visible

picture, still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a halflength

figure of a gentleman in a rich but very oldfashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a

beard, and wearing a hat, the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud the eyes had a

peculiar glare, which was almost lifelike. The whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background, that

it had the effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and awestricken spectators. The

expression of the face, if any words can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous

guilt, and exposed to the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a vast surrounding multitude. There

was the struggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. The torture

of the soul had come forth upon the countenance. It seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of

immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it

gloomed forth again, and threw its evil omen over the present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be credited,

was the portrait of Edward Randolph, as he appeared when a people's curse had wrought its influence upon

" 'T would drive me madthat awful face!" said Hutchinson, who seemed fascinated by the contemplation

"Be warned, then!" whispered Alice. "He trampled on a people's rights. Behold his punishmentand avoid a

The LieutenantGovernor actually trembled for an instant; but, exerting his energywhich was not,

however, his most characteristic feature he strove to shake off the spell of Randolph's countenance.

"Girl!" cried he, laughing bitterly as he turned to Alice, "have you brought hither your painter's artyour

Italian spirit of intrigueyour tricks of stage effectand think to influence the councils of rulers and the

"Stay yet a while," said the Selectman, as Hutchinson again snatched the pen; "for if ever mortal man

"Away!" answered Hutchinson fiercely. "Though yonder senseless picture cried 'Forbear!'it should not

Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face (which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror of its

miserable and wicked look), he scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of desperation,

the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted away his

"May Heaven forgive the deed," said the soft, sad accents of Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit

When morning came there was a stifled whisper through the household, and spreading thence about the town,

that the dark, mysterious picture had started from the wall, and spoken face to face with LieutenantGovernor

Hutchinson. If such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind, for within the

antique frame nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud, which had covered the canvas since

the memory of man. If the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spiritlike, at the daydawn, and

hidden itself behind a century's obscurity. The truth probably was, that Alice Vane's secret for restoring the

hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary renovation. But those who, in that brief interval, had

beheld the awful visage of Edward Randolph, desired no second glance, and ever afterwards trembled at the

recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. And as for Hutchinson, when,

far over the ocean, his dying hour drew on, he gasped for breath, and complained that he was choking with

the blood of the Boston Massacre; and Francis Lincoln, the former Captain of Castle William, who was

standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of Edward Randolph. Did his broken

At the conclusion of this miraculous legend, I inquired of mine host whether the picture still remained in the

chamber over our heads; but Mr. Tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was supposed

to be hidden in some outoftheway corner of the New England Museum. Perchance some curious

antiquary may light upon it there, and, with the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture cleaner, may supply a

not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down. During the progress of the story a storm

had been gathering abroad, and raging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the Province House, that

it seemed as if all the old governors and great men were running riot above stairs while Mr. Bela Tiffany

babbled of them below. In the course of generations, when many people have lived and died in an ancient

house, the whistling of the wind through its crannies, and the creaking of its beams and rafters, become

strangely like the tones of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy footsteps treading the deserted

chambers. It is as if the echoes of half a century were revived. Such were the ghostly sounds that roared and

murmured in our ears when I took leave of the circle round the fireside of the Province House, and plunging

Mine excellent friend, the landlord of the Province House, was pleased, the other evening, to invite Mr.

Tiffany and myself to an oyster supper. This slight mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed,

was far less than the ingenious taleteller, and I, the humble notetaker of his narratives, had fairly earned,

by the public notice which our joint lucubrations had attracted to his establishment. Many a cigar had been

smoked within his premisesmany a glass of wine, or more potent aqua vitae, had been quaffedmany a

dinner had been eaten by curious strangers, who, save for the fortunate conjunction of Mr. Tiffany and me,

would never have ventured through that darksome avenue which gives access to the historic precincts of the

Province House. In short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances of Mr. Thomas Waite, we had

brought his forgotten mansion almost as effectually into public view as if we had thrown down the vulgar

range of shoe shops and dry goods stores, which hides its aristocratic front from Washington Street. It may be

unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the increased custom of the house, lest Mr. Waite should find it

Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. Tiffany nor myself felt any scruple in doing full justice to

the good things that were set before us. If the feast were less magnificent than those same panelled walls had

witnessed in a bygone century,if mine host presided with somewhat less of state than might have befitted

a successor of the royal Governors,if the guests made a less imposing show than the bewigged and

powdered and embroidered dignitaries, who erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table, and now sleep, within

their armorial tombs on Copp's Hill, or round King's Chapel,yet never, I may boldly say, did a more

comfortable little party assemble in the Province House, from Queen Anne's days to the Revolution. The

occasion was rendered more interesting by the presence of a venerable personage, whose own actual

reminiscences went back to the epoch of Gage and Howe, and even supplied him with a doubtful anecdote or

two of Hutchinson. He was one of that small, and now all but extinguished, class, whose attachment to

royalty, and to the colonial institutions and customs that were connected with it, had never yielded to the

democratic heresies of after times. The young queen of Britain has not a more loyal subject in her

realmperhaps not one who would kneel before her throne with such reverential loveas this old

grandsire, whose head has whitened beneath the mild sway of the Republic, which still, in his mellower

moments, he terms a usurpation. Yet prejudices so obstinate have not made him an ungentle or impracticable

companion. If the truth must be told, the life of the aged loyalist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled

character,he has had so little choice of friends and been so often destitute of any,that I doubt whether he

would refuse a cup of kindness with either Oliver Cromwell or John Hancock,to say nothing of any

democrat now upon the stage. In another paper of this series I may perhaps give the reader a closer glimpse of

Our host, in due season, uncorked a bottle of Madeira, of such exquisite perfume and admirable flavor that he

surely must have discovered it in an ancient bin, down deep beneath the deepest cellar, where some jolly old

butler stored away the Governor's choicest wine, and forgot to reveal the secret on his deathbed. Peace to his

rednosed ghost, and a libation to his memory! This precious liquor was imbibed by Mr. Tiffany with

peculiar zest; and after sipping the third glass, it was his pleasure to give us one of the oddest legends which

he had yet raked from the storehouse where he keeps such matters. With some suitable adornments from my

Not long after Colonel Shute had assumed the government of Massachusetts Bay, now nearly a hundred and

twenty years ago, a young lady of rank and fortune arrived from England, to claim his protection as her

guardian. He was her distant relative, but the nearest who had survived the gradual extinction of her family;

so that no more eligible shelter could be found for the rich and highborn Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe than

within the Province House of a transatlantic colony. The consort of Governor Shute, moreover, had been as a

mother to her childhood, and was now anxious to receive her, in the hope that a beautiful young woman

would be exposed to infinitely less peril from the primitive society of New England than amid the artifices

and corruptions of a court. If either the Governor or his lady had especially consulted their own comfort, they

would probably have sought to devolve the responsibility on other hands; since, with some noble and

splendid traits of character, Lady Eleanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, a haughty

consciousness of her hereditary and personal advantages, which made her almost incapable of control.

Judging from many traditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was hardly less than a monomania; or, if the

acts which it inspired were those of a sane person, it seemed due from Providence that pride so sinful should

be followed by as severe a retribution. That tinge of the marvellous, which is thrown over so many of these

halfforgotten legends, has probably imparted an additional wildness to the strange story of Lady Eleanore

The ship in which she came passenger had arrived at Newport, whence Lady Eleanore was conveyed to

Boston in the Governor's coach, attended by a small escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous

equipage with its four black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through Cornhill, surrounded by the

prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers, with swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their holsters.

Through the large glass windows of the coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the figure of Lady

Eleanore, strangely combining an almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a maiden in her

teens. A singular tale had gone abroad among the ladies of the province, that their fair rival was indebted for

much of the irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain article of dressan embroidered

mantlewhich had been wrought by the most skilful artist in London, and possessed even magical properties

of adornment. On the present occasion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress, being clad in a

riding habit of velvet, which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful on any other form.

The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the

contorted iron balustrade that fenced the Province House from the public street. It was an awkward

coincidence that the bell of the Old South was just then tolling for a funeral; so that, instead of a gladsome

peal with which it was customary to announce the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady Eleanore

Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calamity had come embodied in her beautiful person.

"A very great disrespect!" exclaimed Captain Langford, an English officer, who had recently brought

dispatches to Governor Shute. "The funeral should have been deferred, lest Lady Eleanore's spirits be

"With your pardon, sir," replied Doctor Clarke, a physician, and a famous champion of the popular party,

"whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead beggar must have precedence of a living queen. King Death

These remarks were interchanged while the speakers waited a passage through the crowd, which had gathered

on each side of the gateway, leaving an open avenue to the portal of the Province House. A black slave in

livery now leaped from behind the coach, and threw open the door; while at the same moment Governor

Shute descended the flight of steps from his mansion, to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting. But the Governor's

stately approach was anticipated in a manner that excited general astonishment. A pale young man, with his

black hair all in disorder, rushed from the throng, and prostrated himself beside the coach, thus offering his

person as a footstool for Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe to tread upon. She held back an instant, yet with an

expression as if doubting whether the young man were worthy to bear the weight of her footstep, rather than

"Up, sir," said the Governor, sternly, at the same time lifting his cane over the intruder. "What means the

"Nay," answered Lady Eleanore playfully, but with more scorn than pity in her tone, "your Excellency shall

not strike him. When men seek only to be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so easily

Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, she placed her foot upon the cowering form, and extended

her hand to meet that of the Governor. There was a brief interval, during which Lady Eleanore retained this

attitude; and never, surely, was there an apter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary pride trampling on human

sympathies and the kindred of nature, than these two figures presented at that moment. Yet the spectators

were so smitten with her beauty, and so essential did pride seem to the existence of such a creature, that they

"Who is this insolent young fellow?" inquired Captain Langford, who still remained beside Doctor Clarke. "If

he be in his senses, his impertinence demands the bastinado. If mad, Lady Eleanore should be secured from

"His name is Jervase Helwyse," answered the Doctor; "a youth of no birth or fortune, or other advantages,

save the mind and soul that nature gave him; and being secretary to our colonial agent in London, it was his

misfortune to meet this Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. He loved herand her scorn has driven him mad."

"It may be so," said Doctor Clarke, frowning as he spoke. "But I tell you, sir, I could wellnigh doubt the

justice of the Heaven above us if no signal humiliation overtake this lady, who now treads so haughtily into

yonder mansion. She seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our common nature, which envelops all

human souls. See, if that nature do not assert its claim over her in some mode that shall bring her level with

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

Not many days afterwards the Governor gave a ball in honor of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. The principal

gentry of the colony received invitations, which were distributed to their residences, far and near, by

messengers on horseback, bearing missives sealed with all the formality of official dispatches. In obedience

to the summons, there was a general gathering of rank, wealth, and beauty; and the wide door of the Province

House had seldom given admittance to more numerous and honorable guests than on the evening of Lady

Eleanore's ball. Without much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might even be termed splendid; for,

according to the fashion of the times, the ladies shone in rich silks and satins, outspread over wideprojecting

hoops; and the gentlemen glittered in gold embroidery, laid unsparingly upon the purple, or scarlet, or

skyblue velvet, which was the material of their coats and waistcoats. The latter article of dress was of great

importance, since it enveloped the wearer's body nearly to the knees, and was perhaps bedizened with the

amount of his whole year's income, in golden flowers and foliage. The altered taste of the present daya

taste symbolic of a deep change in the whole system of societywould look upon almost any of those

gorgeous figures as ridiculous; although that evening the guests sought their reflections in the pierglasses,

and rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid the glittering crowd. What a pity that one of the stately mirrors

has not preserved a picture of the scene, which, by the very traits that were so transitory, might have taught us

Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could convey to us some faint idea of a garment, already noticed

in this legend,the Lady Eleanore's embroidered mantle,which the gossips whispered was invested with

magic properties, so as to lend a new and untried grace to her figure each time that she put it on! Idle fancy as

it is, this mysterious mantle has thrown an awe around my image of her, partly from its fabled virtues, and

partly because it was the handiwork of a dying woman, and, perchance, owed the fantastic grace of its

After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of guests,

insulating herself within a small and distinguished circle, to whom she accorded a more cordial favor than to

the general throng. The waxen torches threw their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing out its brilliant

points in strong relief; but she gazed carelessly, and with now and then an expression of weariness or scorn,

tempered with such feminine grace that her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deformity of which it was

the utterance. She beheld the spectacle not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be pleased with the

provincial mockery of a court festival, but with the deeper scorn of one whose spirit held itself too high to

participate in the enjoyment of other human souls. Whether or no the recollections of those who saw her that

evening were influenced by the strange events with which she was subsequently connected, so it was that her

figure ever after recurred to them as marked by something wild and unnatural,although, at the time, the

general whisper was of her exceeding beauty, and of the indescribable charm which her mantle threw around

her. Some close observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate paleness of countenance, with

corresponding flow and revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painful and helpless betrayal of lassitude, as

if she were on the point of sinking to the ground. Then, with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her

energies and threw some bright and playful yet halfwicked sarcasm into the conversation. There was so

strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments that it astonished every rightminded listener; till

looking in her face, a lurking and incomprehensible glance and smile perplexed them with doubts both as to

her seriousness and sanity. Gradually, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe's circle grew smaller, till only four

gentlemen remained in it. These were Captain Langford, the English officer before mentioned; a Virginian

planter, who had come to Massachusetts on some political errand; a young Episcopal clergyman, the

grandson of a British earl; and, lastly, the private secretary of Governor Shute, whose obsequiousness had

At different periods of the evening the liveried servants of the Province House passed among the guests,

bearing huge trays of refreshments and French and Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, who refused to

wet her beautiful lips even with a bubble of Champagne, had sunk back into a large damask chair, apparently

overwearied either with the excitement of the scene or its tedium, and while, for an instant, she was

unconscious of voices, laughter and music, a young man stole forward, and knelt down at her feet. He bore a

salver in his hand, on which was a chased silver goblet, filled to the brim with wine, which he offered as

reverentially as to a crowned queen, or rather with the awful devotion of a priest doing sacrifice to his idol.

Conscious that some one touched her robe, Lady Eleanore started, and unclosed her eyes upon the pale, wild

"Why do you haunt me thus?" said she, in a languid tone, but with a kindlier feeling than she ordinarily

"Heaven knows if that be so," replied the young man solemnly. "But, Lady Eleanore, in requital of that harm,

if such there be, and for your own earthly and heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip of this holy wine,

and then to pass the goblet round among the guests. And this shall be a symbol that you have not sought to

withdraw yourself from the chain of human sympathieswhich whoso would shake off must keep company

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

This question drew the notice of the guests to the silver cup, which was recognized as appertaining to the

communion plate of the Old South Church; and, for aught that could be known, it was brimming over with

"Turn him out of the house!" cried Captain Langford, seizing Jervase Helwyse so roughly by the shoulder

that the sacramental cup was overturned, and its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore's mantle. "Whether

knave, fool, or Bedlamite, it is intolerable that the fellow should go at large."

"Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm," said Lady Eleanore with a faint and weary smile. "Take him

out of my sight, if such be your pleasure; for I can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at him; whereas,

in all decency and conscience, it would become me to weep for the mischief I have wrought!"

But while the bystanders were attempting to lead away the unfortunate young man, he broke from them, and

with a wild, impassioned earnestness, offered a new and equally strange petition to Lady Eleanore. It was no

other than that she should throw off the mantle, which, while he pressed the silver cup of wine upon her, she

had drawn more closely around her form, so as almost to shroud herself within it.

"Cast it from you!" exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, clasping his hands in an agony of entreaty. "It may not yet be

But Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the rich folds of the embroidered mantle over her head, in

such a fashion as to give a completely new aspect to her beautiful face, whichhalf hidden, half

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

"Alas, lady!" he replied, in a tone no longer wild, but sad as a funeral bell. "We must meet shortly, when your

face may wear another aspectand that shall be the image that must abide within me."

He made no more resistance to the violent efforts of the gentlemen and servants, who almost dragged him out

of the apartment, and dismissed him roughly from the iron gate of the Province House. Captain Langford,

who had been very active in this affair, was returning to the presence of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, when he

encountered the physician, Doctor Clarke, with whom he had held some casual talk on the day of her arrival.

The Doctor stood apart, separated from Lady Eleanore by the width of the room, but eying her with such keen

sagacity that Captain Langford involuntarily gave him credit for the discovery of some deep secret.

"You appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms of this queenly maiden," said he, hoping thus to draw

"God forbid!" answered Doctor Clarke, with a grave smile; "and if you be wise you will put up the same

prayer for yourself. Woe to those who shall be smitten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore! But yonder stands the

He accordingly advanced to Governor Shute, and addressed him in so low a tone that none of the bystanders

could catch a word of what he said, although the sudden change of his Excellency's hitherto cheerful visage

betokened that the communication could be of no agreeable import. A very few moments afterwards it was

announced to the guests that an unforeseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a premature close to the

The hall at the Province House supplied a topic of conversation for the colonial metropolis for some days

after its occurrence, and might still longer have been the general theme, only that a subject of allengrossing

interest thrust it, for a time, from the public recollection. This was the appearance of a dreadful epidemic,

which, in that age and long before and afterwards, was wont to slay its hundreds and thousands on both sides

of the Atlantic. On the occasion of which we speak, it was distinguished by a peculiar virulence, insomuch

that it has left its tracesits pitmarks, to use an appropriate figureon the history of the country, the

affairs of which were thrown into confusion by its ravages. At first, unlike its ordinary course, the disease

seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of society, selecting its victims from among the proud, the

wellborn, and the wealthy, entering unabashed into stately chambers, and lying down with the slumberers in

silken beds. Some of the most distinguished guests of the Province House even those whom the haughty Lady

Eleanore Rochcliffe had deemed not unworthy of her favorwere stricken by this fatal scourge. It was

noticed, with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling, that the four gentlementhe Virginian, the British officer,

the young clergyman, and the Governor's secretarywho had been her most devoted attendants on the

evening of the ball, were the foremost of whom the plague stroke fell. But the disease, pursuing its onward

progress, soon ceased to be exclusively a prerogative of aristocracy. Its red brand was no longer conferred

like a noble's star, or an order of knighthood. It threaded its way through the narrow and crooked streets, and

entered the low, mean, darksome dwellings, and laid its hand of death upon the artisans and laboring classes

of the town. It compelled rich and poor to feel themselves brethren then; and stalking to and fro across the

Three Hills, with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, there was that mighty conquerorthat

We cannot estimate the affright which this plague inspired of yore, by contemplating it as the fangless

monster of the present day. We must remember, rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic footsteps of

the Asiatic cholera, striding from shore to shore of the Atlantic, and marching like destiny upon cities far

remote which flight had already half depopulated. There is no other fear so horrible and unhumanizing as that

which makes man dread to breathe heaven's vital air lest it be poison, or to grasp the hand of a brother or

friend lest the gripe of the pestilence should clutch him. Such was the dismay that now followed in the track

of the disease, or ran before it throughout the town. Graves were hastily dug, and the pestilential relics as

hastily covered, because the dead were enemies of the living, and strove to draw them headlong, as it were,

into their own dismal pit. The public councils were suspended, as if mortal wisdom might relinquish its

devices, now that an unearthly usurper had found his way into the ruler's mansion. Had an enemy's fleet been

hovering on the coast, or his armies trampling on our soil, the people would probably have committed their

defence to that same direful conqueror who had wrought their own calamity, and would permit no

interference with his sway. This conquerer had a symbol of his triumphs. It was a bloodred flag, that

fluttered in the tainted air, over the door of every dwelling into which the SmallPox had entered.

Such a banner was long since waving over the portal of the Province House; for thence, as was proved by

tracking its footsteps back, had all this dreadful mischief issued. It had been traced back to a lady's luxurious

chamberto the proudest of the proudto her that was so delicate, and hardly owned herself of earthly

mouldto the haughty one, who took her stand above human sympathiesto Lady Eleanore! There

remained no room for doubt that the contagion had lurked in that gorgeous mantle, which threw so strange a

grace around her at the festival. Its fantastic splendor had been conceived in the delirious brain of a woman

on her deathbed, and was the last toil of her stiffening fingers, which had interwoven fate and misery with

its golden threads. This dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far and wide. The people raved against

the Lady Eleanore, and cried out that her pride and scorn had evoked a fiend, and that, between them both,

this monstrous evil had been born. At times, their rage and despair took the semblance of grinning mirth; and

whenever the red flag of the pestilence was hoisted over another and yet another door, they clapped their

hands and shouted through the streets, in bitter mockery: "Behold a new triumph for the Lady Eleanore!"

One day, in the midst of these dismal times, a wild figure approached the portal of the Province House, and

folding his arms, stood contemplating the scarlet banner which a passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to fling

abroad the contagion that it typified. At length, climbing one of the pillars by means of the iron balustrade, he

took down the flag and entered the mansion, waving it above his head. At the foot of the staircase he met the

Governor, booted and spurred, with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the point of setting forth upon

"Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?" exclaimed Shute, extending his cane to guard himself from

"Death will not touch me, the bannerbearer of the pestilence!" cried Jervase Helwyse, shaking the red flag

aloft. "Death, and the Pestilence, who wears the aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk through the streets

"Why do I waste words on the fellow?" muttered the Governor, drawing his cloak across his mouth. "What

matters his miserable life, when none of us are sure of twelve hours' breath? On, fool, to your own

He made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immediately ascended the staircase, but, on the first landing place,

was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon his shoulder. Looking fiercely up, with a madman's impulse to

struggle with and rend asunder his opponent, he found himself powerless beneath a calm, stern eye, which

possessed the mysterious property of quelling frenzy at its height. The person whom he had now encountered

was the physician, Doctor Clarke, the duties of whose sad profession had led him to the Province House,

"All have fled from her," said the physician. "Why do you seek her now? I tell you, youth, her nurse fell

deathstricken on the threshold of that fatal chamber. Know ye not, that never came such a curse to our

shores as this lovely Lady Eleanore?that her breath has filled the air with poison?that she has shaken

"Let me look upon her!" rejoined the mad youth, more wildly. "Let me behold her, in her awful beauty, clad

in the regal garments of the pestilence! She and Death sit on a throne together. Let me kneel down before

"Poor youth!" said Doctor Clarke; and, moved by a deep sense of human weakness, a smile of caustic humor

curled his lip even then. "Wilt thou still worship the destroyer and surround her image with fantasies the more

magnificent, the more evil she has wrought? Thus man doth ever to his tyrants. Approach, then! Madness, as

I have noted, has that good efficacy, that it will guard you from contagionand perchance its own cure may

Ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open a door and signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should enter.

The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cherished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in state, unharmed

herself by the pestilential influence, which, as by enchantment, she scattered round about her. He dreamed, no

doubt, that her beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. With such anticipations, he

stole reverentially to the door at which the physician stood, but paused upon the threshold, gazing fearfully

"Lady Eleanore!Princess!Queen of Death!" cried Jervase Helwyse, advancing three steps into the

chamber. "She is not here! There on yonder table, I behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she wore

upon her bosom. There"and he shuddered"there hangs her mantle, on which a dead woman embroidered

Something stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied bed; and a low moan was uttered, which, listening

intently, Jervase Helwyse began to distinguish as a woman's voice, complaining dolefully of thirst. He

"What thing art thou?" said the brainstricken youth, drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its curtains.

"Whose voice hast thou stolen for thy murmurs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore could be

conscious of mortal infirmity? Fie! Heap of diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my lady's chamber?"

"O Jervase Helwyse," said the voiceand as it spoke the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted

face"look not now on the woman you once loved! The curse of Heaven hath stricken me, because I would

not call man my brother, nor woman sister. I wrapped myself in PRIDE as in a MANTLE, and scorned the

sympathies of nature; and therefore has nature made this wretched body the medium of a dreadful sympathy.

You are avengedthey are all avengedNature is avengedfor I am Eleanore Rochcliffe!"

The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for a

blighted and ruined life, and love that had been paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase

Helwyse. He shook his finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed were

"Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!" he cried. "All have been her victims! Who so worthy to be the final

Impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intellect, he snatched the fatal mantle and rushed from the

chamber and the house. That night a procession passed, by torchlight, through the streets, bearing in the midst

the figure of a woman, enveloped with a richly embroidered mantle; while in advance stalked Jervase

Helwyse, waving the red flag of the pestilence. Arriving opposite the Province House, the mob burned the

effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away the ashes. It was said that, from that very hour, the pestilence

abated, as if its sway had some mysterious connection, from the first plague stroke to the last, with Lady

Eleanore's Mantle. A remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy lady's fate. There is a belief, however,

that in a certain chamber of this mansion a female form may sometimes be duskily discerned, shrinking into

the darkest corner and muffling her face within an embroidered mantle. Supposing the legend true, can this be

Mine host and the old loyalist and I bestowed no little warmth of applause upon this narrative, in which we

had all been deeply interested; for the reader can scarcely conceive how unspeakably the effect of such a tale

is heightened when, as in the present case, we may repose perfect confidence in the veracity of him who tells

it. For my own part, knowing how scrupulous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the foundation of his facts, I could not

have believed him one whit the more faithfully had he professed himself an eyewitness of the doings and

sufferings of poor Lady Eleanore. Some sceptics, it is true, might demand documentary evidence, or even

require him to produce the embroidered mantle, forgetting thatHeaven be praisedit was consumed to

ashes. But now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the good cheer, began to talk, in his turn, about

the traditions of the Province House, and hinted that he, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences

to our legendary stock. Mr. Tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought him to favor us

with a specimen; my own entreaties, of course, were urged to the same effect; and our venerable guest, well

pleased to find willing auditors, awaited only the return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who had been summoned forth

to provide accommodations for several new arrivals. Perchance the publicbut be this as its own caprice and

ours shall settle the mattermay read the result in another Tale of the Province House.

Our host having resumed the chair, he, as well as Mr. Tiffany and myself; expressed much eagerness to be

made acquainted with the story to which the loyalist had alluded. That venerable man first of all saw fit to

moisten his throat with another glass of wine, and then, turning his face towards our coal fire, looked

steadfastly for a few moments into the depths of its cheerful glow. Finally, he poured forth a great fluency of

speech. The generous liquid that he had imbibed, while it warmed his agechilled blood, likewise took off the

chill from his heart and mind, and gave him an energy to think and feel, which we could hardly have

expected to find beneath the snows of fourscore winters. His feelings, indeed, appeared to me more excitable

than those of a younger man; or at least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself by more visible effects

than if his judgment and will had possessed the potency of meridian life. At the pathetic passages of his

narrative he readily melted into tears. When a breath of indignation swept across his spirit the blood flushed

his withered visage even to the roots of his white hair; and he shook his clinched fist at the trio of peaceful

auditors, seeming to fancy enemies in those who felt very kindly towards the desolate old soul. But ever and

anon, sometimes in the midst of his most earnest talk, this ancient person's intellect would wander vaguely,

losing its hold of the matter in hand, and groping for it amid misty shadows. Then would he cackle forth a

feeble laugh, and express a doubt whether his witsfor by that phrase it pleased our ancient friend to signify

Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist's story required more revision to render it fit for the public eye

than those of the series which have preceded it; nor should it be concealed that the sentiment and tone of the

affair may have undergone some slight, or perchance more than slight, metamorphosis, in its transmission to

the reader through the medium of a thoroughgoing democrat. The tale itself is a mere sketch, with no

involution of plot, nor any great interest of events, yet possessing, if I have rehearsed it aright, that pensive

influence over the mind which the shadow of the old Province House flings upon the loiterer in its

The hour had comethe hour of defeat and humiliationwhen Sir William Howe was to pass over the

threshold of the Province House, and embark, with no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised

himself, on board the British fleet. He bade his servants and military attendants go before him, and lingered a

moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to quell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as with a

death throb. Preferable, then, would he have deemed his fate, had a warrior's death left him a claim to the

narrow territory of a grave within the soil which the King had given him to defend. With an ominous

perception that, as his departing footsteps echoed adown the staircase, the sway of Britain was passing

forever from New England, he smote his clinched hand on his brow, and cursed the destiny that had flung the

"Would to God," cried he, hardly repressing his tears of rage, "that the rebels were even now at the doorstep!

A bloodstain upon the floor should then bear testimony that the last British ruler was faithful to his trust."

"Heaven's cause and the King's are one," it said. "Go forth, Sir William Howe, and trust in Heaven to bring

Subduing, at once, the passion to which he had yielded only in the faith that it was unwitnessed, Sir William

Howe became conscious that an aged woman, leaning on a goldheaded staff, was standing betwixt him and

the door. It was old Esther Dudley, who had dwelt almost immemorial years in this mansion, until her

presence seemed as inseparable from it as the recollections of its history. She was the daughter of an ancient

and once eminent family, which had fallen into poverty and decay, and left its last descendant no resource

save the bounty of the King, nor any shelter except within the walls of the Province House. An office in the

household, with merely nominal duties, had been assigned to her as a pretext for the payment of a small

pension, the greater part of which she expended in adorning herself with an antique magnificence of attire.

The claims of Esther Dudley's gentle blood were acknowledged by all the successive Governors; and they

treated her with the punctilious courtesy which it was her foible to demand, not always with success, from a

neglectful world. The only actual share which she assumed in the business of the mansion was to glide

through its passages and public chambers, late at night, to see that the servants had dropped no fire from their

flaring torches, nor left embers crackling and blazing on the hearths. Perhaps it was this invariable custom of

walking her rounds in the hush of midnight that caused the superstition of the times to invest the old woman

with attributes of awe and mystery; fabling that she had entered the portal of the Province House, none knew

whence, in the train of the first Royal Governor, and that it was her fate to dwell there till the last should have

"Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here?" asked he, with some severity of tone. "It is my pleasure to be

"Not so, if it please your Excellency," answered the timestricken woman. "This roof has sheltered me long. I

will not pass from it until they bear me to the tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is there for old

"Now Heaven forgive me!" said Sir William Howe to himself. "I was about to leave this wretched old

creature to starve or beg. Take this, good Mistress Dudley," he added, putting a purse into her hands. "King

George's head on these golden guineas is sterling yet, and will continue so, I warrant you, even should the

rebels crown John Hancock their king. That purse will buy a better shelter than the Province House can now

"While the burden of life remains upon me, I will have no other shelter than this roof," persisted Esther

Dudley, striking her staff upon the floor with a gesture that expressed immovable resolve. "And when your

"My poor old friend!" answered the British General,and all his manly and martial pride could no longer

restrain a gush of bitter tears. "This is an evil hour for you and me. The Province which the King intrusted to

my charge is lost. I go hence in misfortuneperchance in disgraceto return no more. And you, whose

present being is incorporated with the pastwho have seen Governor after Governor, in stately pageantry,

ascend these stepswhose whole life has been an observance of majestic ceremonies, and a worship of the

Kinghow will you endure the change? Come with us! Bid farewell to a land that has shaken off its

"Never, never!" said the pertinacious old dame. "Here will I abide; and King George shall still have one true

"Beshrew the old fool!" muttered Sir William Howe, growing impatient of her obstinacy, and ashamed of the

emotion into which he had been betrayed. "She is the very moral of oldfashioned prejudice, and could exist

nowhere but in this musty edifice. Well, then, Mistress Dudley, since you will needs tarry, I give the Province

House in charge to you. Take this key, and keep it safe until myself, or some other Royal Governor, shall

Smiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the heavy key of the Province House, and delivering it into the

old lady's hands, drew his cloak around him for departure. As the General glanced back at Esther Dudley's

antique figure, he deemed her well fitted for such a charge, as being so perfect a representative of the decayed

pastof an age gone by, with its manners, opinions, faith and feelings, all fallen into oblivion or scornof

what had once been a reality, but was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. Then Sir William Howe

strode forth, smiting his clinched hands together, in the fierce anguish of his spirit; and old Esther Dudley

was left to keep watch in the lonely Province House, dwelling there with memory; and if Hope ever seemed

The total change of affairs that ensued on the departure of the British troops did not drive the venerable lady

from her stronghold. There was not, for many years afterwards, a Governor of Massachusetts; and the

magistrates, who had charge of such matters, saw no objection to Esther Dudley's residence in the Province

House, especially as they must otherwise have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, which with her

was a labor of love. And so they left her the undisturbed mistress of the old historic edifice. Many and strange

were the fables which the gossips whispered about her, in all the chimney corners of the town. Among the

timeworn articles of furniture that had been left in the mansion there was a tall, antique mirror, which was

well worthy of a tale by itself, and perhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. The gold of its

heavilywrought frame was tarnished, and its surface so blurred, that the old woman's figure, whenever she

paused before it, looked indistinct and ghostlike. But it was the general belief that Esther could cause the

Governors of the overthrown dynasty, with the beautiful ladies who had once adorned their festivals, the

Indian chiefs who had come up to the Province House to hold council or swear allegiance, the grim

Provincial warriors, the severe clergymenin short, all the pageantry of gone daysall the figures that ever

swept across the broad plate of glass in former timesshe could cause the whole to reappear, and people the

inner world of the mirror with shadows of old life. Such legends as these, together with the singularity of her

isolated existence, her age, and the infirmity that each added winter flung upon her, made Mistress Dudley

the object both of fear and pity; and it was partly the result of either sentiment that, amid all the angry license

of the times, neither wrong nor insult ever fell upon her unprotected head. Indeed, there was so much

haughtiness in her demeanor towards intruders, among whom she reckoned all persons acting under the new

authorities, that it was really an affair of no small nerve to look her in the face. And to do the people justice,

stern republicans as they had now become, they were well content that the old gentlewoman, in her hoop

petticoat and faded embroidery, should still haunt the palace of ruined pride and overthrown power, the

symbol of a departed system, embodying a history in her person. So Esther Dudley dwelt year after year in

the Province House, still reverencing all that others had flung aside, still faithful to her King, who, so long as

the venerable dame yet held her post, might be said to retain one true subject in New England, and one spot

And did she dwell there in utter loneliness? Rumor said, not so. Whenever her chill and withered heart

desired warmth, she was wont to summon a black slave of Governor Shirley's from the blurred mirror, and

send him in search of guests who had long ago been familiar in those deserted chambers. Forth went the sable

messenger, with the starlight or the moonshine gleaming through him, and did his errand in the burial ground,

knocking at the iron doors of tombs, or upon the marble slabs that covered them, and whispering to those

within: "My mistress, old Esther Dudley, bids you to the Province House at midnight." And punctually as the

clock of the Old South told twelve came the shadows of the Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the Dudleys, all the

grandees of a bygone generation, gliding beneath the portal into the wellknown mansion, where Esther

mingled with them as if she likewise were a shade. Without vouching for the truth of such traditions, it is

certain that Mistress Dudley sometimes assembled a few of the stanch, though crestfallen, old Tories, who

had lingered in the rebel town during those days of wrath and tribulation. Out of a cobwebbed bottle,

containing liquor that a royal Governor might have smacked his lips over, they quaffed healths to the King,

and babbled treason to the Republic, feeling as if the protecting shadow of the throne were still flung around

them. But, draining the last drops of their liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and answered not again if

Yet Esther Dudley's most frequent and favored guests were the children of the town. Towards them she was

never stern. A kindly and loving nature, hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand rocky

prejudices, lavished itself upon these little ones. By bribes of gingerbread of her own making, stamped with a

royal crown, she tempted their sunny sportiveness beneath the gloomy portal of the Province House, and

would often beguile them to spend a whole playday there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop

petticoat, greedily attentive to her stories of a dead world. And when these little boys and girls stole forth

again from the dark, mysterious mansion, they went bewildered, full of old feelings that graver people had

long ago forgotten, rubbing their eyes at the world around them as if they had gone astray into ancient times,

and become children of the past. At home, when their parents asked where they had loitered such a weary

while, and with whom they had been at play, the children would talk of all the departed worthies of the

Province, as far back as Governor Belcher and the haughty dame of Sir William Phipps. It would seem as

though they had been sitting on the knees of these famous personages, whom the grave had hidden for half a

century, and had toyed with the embroidery of their rich waistcoats, or roguishly pulled the long curls of their

flowing wigs. "But Governor Belcher has been dead this many a year," would the mother say to her little boy.

"And did you really see him at the Province House?" "Oh yes, dear mother! yes!" the halfdreaming child

would answer. "But when old Esther had done speaking about him he faded away out of his chair." Thus,

without affrighting her little guests, she led them by the hand into the chambers of her own desolate heart,

Living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never regulating her mind by a proper reference to

present things, Esther Dudley appears to have grown partially crazed. It was found that she had no right sense

of the progress and true state of the Revolutionary War, but held a constant faith that the armies of Britain

were victorious on every field, and destined to be ultimately triumphant. Whenever the town rejoiced for a

battle won by Washington, or Gates, or Morgan or Greene, the news, in passing through the door of the

Province House, as through the ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale of the

prowess of Howe, Clinton, or Cornwallis. Sooner or later it was her invincible belief the colonies would be

prostrate at the footstool of the King. Sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such was already the

case. On one occasion, she startled the townspeople by a brilliant illumination of the Province House, with

candles at every pane of glass, and a transparency of the King's initials and a crown of light in the great

balcony window. The figure of the aged woman in the most gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and brocades

was seen passing from casement to casement, until she paused before the balcony, and flourished a huge key

above her head. Her wrinkled visage actually gleamed with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal

"What means this blaze of light? What does old Esther's joy portend?" whispered a spectator. "It is frightful

to see her gliding about the chambers, and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company."

"Pshaw! It is no such mystery," observed an old man, after some brief exercise of memory. "Mistress Dudley

Then the people laughed aloud, and would have thrown mud against the blazing transparency of the King's

crown and initials, only that they pitied the poor old dame, who was so dismally triumphant amid the wreck

Oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary staircase that wound upward to the cupola, and thence strain

her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward, watching for a British fleet, or for the march of a grand

procession, with the King's banner floating over it. The passengers in the street below would discern her

anxious visage, and send up a shout, "When the golden Indian on the Province House shall shoot his arrow,

and when the cock on the Old South spire shall crow, then look for a Royal Governor again!"for this had

grown a byword through the town. And at last, after long, long years, old Esther Dudley knew, or perchance

she only dreamed, that a Royal Governor was on the eve of returning to the Province House, to receive the

heavy key which Sir William Howe had committed to her charge. Now it was the fact that intelligence

bearing some faint analogy to Esther's version of it was current among the townspeople. She set the mansion

in the best order that her means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and tarnished gold, stood long before

the blurred mirror to admire her own magnificence. As she gazed, the gray and withered lady moved her

ashen lips, murmuring half aloud, talking to shapes that she saw within the mirror, to shadows of her own

fantasies, to the household friends of memory, and bidding them rejoice with her and come forth to meet the

Governor. And while absorbed in this communion, Mistress Dudley heard the tramp of many footsteps in the

street, and, looking out at the window, beheld what she construed as the Royal Governor's arrival.

"O happy day! O blessed, blessed hour!" she exclaimed. "Let me but bid him welcome within the portal, and

Then with tottering feet, which age and tremulous joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand

staircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went, so that the sound was as if a train of spectral courtiers

were thronging from the dim mirror. And Esther Dudley fancied that as soon as the wide door should be

flung open, all the pomp and splendor of bygone times would pace majestically into the Province House,

and the gilded tapestry of the past would be brightened by the sunshine of the present. She turned the

keywithdrew it from the lockunclosed the doorand stepped across the threshold. Advancing up the

courtyard appeared a person of most dignified mien, with tokens, as Esther interpreted them, of gentle

blood, high rank, and longaccustomed authority, even in his walk and every gesture. He was richly dressed,

but wore a gouty shoe which, however, did not lessen the stateliness of his gait. Around and behind him were

people in plain civic dresses, and two or three warworn veterans, evidently officers of rank, arrayed in a

uniform of blue and buff. But Esther Dudley, firm in the belief that had fastened its roots about her heart,

beheld only the principal personage, and never doubted that this was the longlookedfor Governor, to

whom she was to surrender up her charge. As he approached, she involuntary sank down on her knees and

"Receive my trust! take it quickly!" cried she, "for methinks Death is striving to snatch away my triumph. But

"That, Madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up at such a moment," replied the unknown guest of the

Province House, and courteously removing his hat, he offered his arm to raise the aged woman. "Yet, in

reverence for your gray hairs and longkept faith, Heaven forbid that any here should say you nay. Over the

Esther Dudley started to her feet, and hastily clutching back the key gazed with fearful earnestness at the

stranger; and dimly and doubtfully, as if suddenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes half

recognized his face. Years ago she had known him among the gentry of the province. But the ban of the King

had fallen upon him! How, then, came the doomed victim here? Proscribed, excluded from mercy, the

monarch's most dreaded and hated foe, this New England merchant had stood triumphantly against a

kingdom's strength; and his foot now trod upon humbled Royalty, as he ascended the steps of the Province

"Wretch, wretch that I am!" muttered the old woman, with such a heartbroken expression that the tears

gushed from the stranger's eyes "Have I bidden a traitor welcome? Come, Death! come quickly!"

"Alas, venerable lady!" said Governor Hancock, tending her his support with all the reverence that a courtier

"Your life has been prolonged until the world has changed around you. You have treasured up all that time

has rendered worthlessthe principles, feelings, manners, modes of being and acting, which another

generation has flung asideand you are a symbol of the past. And I, and these around mewe represent a

new race of menliving no longer in the past, scarcely in the presentbut projecting our lives forward into

the future. Ceasing to model ourselves on ancestral superstitions, it is our faith and principle to press onward,

onward! Yet," continued he, turning to his attendants, "let us reverence, for the last time, the stately and

While the Republican Governor spoke, he had continued to support the helpless form of Esther Dudley; her

weight grew heavier against his arm; but at last, with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman sank

down beside one of the pillars of the portal. The key of the Province House fell from her grasp, and clanked

"She hath done her office!" said Hancock solemnly. "We will follow her reverently to the tomb of her

ancestors; and then, my fellowcitizens, onwardonward! We are no longer children of the Past!"

As the old loyalist concluded his narrative, the enthusiasm which had been fitfully flashing within his sunken

eyes, and quivering across his wrinkled visage, faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul were

extinguished. Just then, too, a lamp upon the mantelpiece threw out a dying gleam, which vanished as

speedily as it shot upward, compelling our eyes to grope for one another's features by the dim glow of the

hearth. With such a lingering fire, methought, with such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient system

vanished from the Province House, when the spirit of old Esther Dudley took its flight. And now, again, the

clock of the Old South threw its voice of ages on the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the Past, crying out

far and wide through the multitudinous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky chamber, with its

reverberating depth of tone. In that same mansionin that very chamberwhat a volume of history had

been told off into hours, by the same voice that was now trembling in the air. Many a Governor had heard

those midnight accents, and longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber. And as for mine host and Mr.

Bela Tiffany and the old loyalist and me, we had babbled about dreams of the past, until we almost fancied

that the clock was still striking in a bygone century. Neither of us would have wondered, had a

hooppetticoated phantom of Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her rounds in the hush of

midnight, as of yore, and motioned us to quench the fading embers of the fire, and leave the historic precincts

to herself and her kindred shades. But as no such vision was vouchsafed, I retired unbidden, and would advise

Mr. Tiffany to lay hold of another auditor, being resolved not to show my face in the Province House for a

One September night a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled it high with the driftwood of

mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing

down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces

of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the image of

Happiness at seventeen; and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of

Happiness grown old. They had found the "herb, heart'sease," in the bleakest spot of all New England. This

family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and

pitilessly cold in the winter,giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley

of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain towered above their heads, so

steep, that the stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through

the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottagerattling the door, with a sound of wailing and

lamentation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing

unusual in the tones. But the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some

traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which heralded his approach, and wailed as

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse with the world. The romantic pass of

the Notch is a great artery, through which the lifeblood of internal commerce is continually throbbing

between Maine, on one side, and the Green Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The

stagecoach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The wayfarer, with no companion but his staff,

paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him ere he could

pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach the first house in the valley. And here the teamster, on his

way to Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual

bedtime, and steal a kiss from the mountain maid at parting. It was one of those primitive taverns where the

traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness beyond all price. When the

footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up,

grandmother, children and all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was

The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency,

of one who travels a wild and bleak road, at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the

kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who

wiped a chair with her apron, to the little child that held out its arms to him. One glance and smile placed the

"Ah, this fire is the right thing!" cried he; "especially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite

benumbed; for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible blast in my face

"Then you are going towards Vermont?" said the master of the house, as he helped to take a light knapsack

"Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford's tonight;

but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, when I saw this good fire, and all your

cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit

The frankhearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire when something like a heavy footstep was

heard without, rushing down the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a

leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath, because they knew

"The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear we should forget him," said the landlord, recovering

himself. "He sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down; but we are old neighbors, and agree

together pretty well upon the whole. Besides we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be coming in

Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear's meat; and, by his natural felicity of

manner, to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family, so that they talked as freely

together as if he belonged to their mountain brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirithaughty and

reserved among the rich and great; but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be like a

brother or a son at the poor man's fireside. In the household of the Notch he found warmth and simplicity of

feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England, and a poetry of native growth, which they had gathered

when they little thought of it from the mountain peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic

and dangerous abode. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path; for,

with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his

companions. The family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity among

themselves, and separation from the world at large, which, in every domestic circle, should still keep a holy

place where no stranger may intrude. But this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and

educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him

with the same free confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie

The secret of the young man's character was a high and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live an

undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope; and

hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on

all his pathway,though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity should gaze back into the

gloom of what was now the present, they would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner

glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to recognize

"As yet," cried the strangerhis cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm"as yet, I have done

nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth tomorrow, none would know so much of me as you: that a

nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening,

and passed through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, 'Who was he?

Whither did the wanderer go?' But I cannot die till I have achieved my destiny. Then, let Death come! I shall

There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gushing forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the

family to understand this young man's sentiments, though so foreign from their own. With quick sensibility of

"You laugh at me," said he, taking the eldest daughter's hand, and laughing himself. "You think my ambition

as nonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington, only that people might

spy at me from the country round about. And, truly, that would be a noble pedestal for a man's statue!"

"It is better to sit here by this fire," answered the girl, blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though

"I suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing, "there is something natural in what the young man says; and

if my mind had been turned that way, I might have felt just the same. It is strange, wife, how his talk has set

"Perhaps they may," observed the wife. "Is the man thinking what he will do when he is a widower?"

"No, no!" cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. "When I think of your death, Esther, I think

of mine, too. But I was wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, or Littleton, or some other

township round the White Mountains; but not where they could tumble on our heads. I should want to stand

well with my neighbors and be called Squire, and sent to General Court for a term or two; for a plain, honest

man may do as much good there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an old

woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me.

A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble onewith just my name and age, and a verse of a

hymn, and something to let people know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian."

"There now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is our nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar

"We're in a strange way, tonight," said the wife, with tears in her eyes. "They say it's a sign of something,

They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bed in another room, but with an open door

between, so that they could be heard talking busily among themselves. One and all seemed to have caught the

infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each other in wild wishes, and childish projects of what

they would do when they came to be men and women. At length a little boy, instead of addressing his

"I'll tell you what I wish, mother," cried he. "I want you and father and grandma'm, and all of us, and the

stranger too, to start right away, and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume!"

Nobody could help laughing at the child's notion of leaving a warm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful

fire, to visit the basin of the Flume,a brook, which tumbles over the precipice, deep within the Notch. The

boy had hardly spoken when a wagon rattled along the road, and stopped a moment before the door. It

appeared to contain two or three men, who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song, which

resounded, in broken notes, between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to continue their journey

But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and was unwilling to show himself too

solicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door; and the

lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged into the Notch, still singing and laughing, though their music

"There, mother!" cried the boy, again. "They'd have given us a ride to the Flume."

Again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for a night ramble. But it happened that a light cloud

passed over the daughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It

forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to repress it. Then starting and blushing, she looked quickly round

the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. The stranger asked what she had been thinking of.

"Nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile. "Only I felt lonesome just then."

"Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people's hearts," said he, half seriously. "Shall I tell

the secrets of yours? For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth, and complains of

"They would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could be put into words," replied the mountain nymph,

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in their hearts, so pure that it might blossom in

Paradise, since it could not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his; and the proud,

contemplative, yet kindly soul is oftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, and

he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden's nature, the wind

through the Notch took a deeper and drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral

strain of the spirits of the blast, who in old Indian times had their dwelling among these mountains, and made

their heights and recesses a sacred region. There was a wail along the road, as if a funeral were passing. To

chase away the gloom, the family threw pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves crackled and the flame

arose, discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly,

and caressed them all. There were the little faces of the children, peeping from their bed apart and here the

father's frame of strength, the mother's subdued and careful mien, the highbrowed youth, the budding girl,

and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. The aged woman looked up from her task, and,

"Old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones. You've been wishing and planning; and

letting your heads run on one thing and another, till you've set my mind a wandering too. Now what should

an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before she comes to her grave? Children, it will

Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle closer round the fire, informed them that

she had provided her graveclothes some years before,a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and

everything of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition had

strangely recurred to her. It used to be said, in her younger days, that if anything were amiss with a corpse, if

only the ruff were not smooth, or the cap did not set right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath the clods

would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare thought made her nervous.

"Now,"continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own folly,"I

want one of you, my childrenwhen your mother is dressed and in the coffinI want one of you to hold a

lookingglass over my face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all's right?"

"Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments," murmured the stranger youth. "I wonder how

mariners feel when the ship is sinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in

For a moment, the old woman's ghastly conception so engrossed the minds of her hearers that a sound abroad

in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated group were

conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if

this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild glance, and remained an

instant, pale, affrighted, without utterance, or power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously

The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterable horror of the catastrophe. The victims

rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spotwhere, in contemplation of

such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. Alas! they had quitted their security, and fled right into

the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain, in a cataract of ruin. Just before it

reached the house, the stream broke into two branchesshivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the

whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated everything in its dreadful course. Long ere the thunder of

the great Slide had ceased to roar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the victims

The next morning, the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage chimney up the mountain side. Within,

the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but

gone forth to view the devastation of the Slide, and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for their

miraculous escape. All had left separate tokens, by which those who had known the family were made to

shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The story has been told far and wide, and will forever be

There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage on

this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. Others denied that there were sufficient

grounds for such a conjecture. Woe for the highsouled youth, with his dream of Earthly Immortality! His

name and person utterly unknown; his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be solved, his

death and his existence equally a doubt! Whose was the agony of that death moment?

"And so, Peter, you won't even consider of the business?" said Mr. John Brown, buttoning his surtout over

the snug rotundity of his person, and drawing on his gloves. "You positively refuse to let me have this crazy

"Neither at that, nor treble the sum," responded the gaunt, grizzled, and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. "The

fact is, Mr. Brown, you must find another site for your brick block, and be content to leave my estate with the

present owner. Next summer, I intend to put a splendid new mansion over the cellar of the old house."

"Pho, Peter!" cried Mr. Brown, as he opened the kitchen door; "content yourself with building castles in the

air, where houselots are cheaper than on earth, to say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar. Such

foundations are solid enough for your edifices, while this underneath us is just the thing for mine; and so we

"Precisely what I said before, Mr. Brown," answered Peter Goldthwaite. "And as for castles in the air, mine

may not be as magnificent as that sort of architecture, but perhaps as substantial, Mr. Brown, as the very

respectable brick block with dry goods stores, tailors' shops, and banking rooms on the lower floor, and

"And the cost, Peter, eh?" said Mr. Brown, as he withdrew, in something of a pet. "That, I suppose, will be

John Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly known to the commercial world between twenty and

thirty years before, under the firm of Goldthwaite & Brown; which copartnership, however, was speedily

dissolved by the natural incongruity of its constituent parts. Since that event, John Brown, with exactly the

qualities of a thousand other John Browns, and by just such plodding methods as they used, had prospered

wonderfully, and become one of the wealthiest John Browns on earth. Peter Goldthwaite, on the contrary,

after innumerable schemes, which ought to have collected all the coin and paper currency of the country into

his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever wore a patch upon his elbow. The contrast between him and his

former partner may be briefly marked; for Brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had it; while Peter

made luck the main condition of his projects, and always missed it. While the means held out, his

speculations had been magnificent, but were chiefly confined, of late years, to such small business as

adventures in the lottery. Once he had gone on a goldgathering expedition somewhere to the South, and

ingeniously contrived to empty his pockets more thoroughly than ever; while others, doubtless, were filling

theirs with native bullion by the handful. More recently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or two of

dollars in purchasing Mexican scrip, and thereby became the proprietor of a province; which, however, so far

as Peter could find out, was situated where he might have had an empire for the same money,in the clouds.

From a search after this valuable real estate Peter returned so gaunt and threadbare that, on reaching New

England, the scarecrows in the cornfields beckoned to him, as he passed by. "They did but flutter in the

wind," quoth Peter Goldthwaite. No, Peter, they beckoned, for the scarecrows knew their brother!

At the period of our story his whole visible income would not have paid the tax of the old mansion in which

we find him. It was one of those rusty, mossgrown, manypeaked wooden houses, which are scattered about

the streets of our elder towns, with a beetlebrowed second story projecting over the foundation, as if it

frowned at the novelty around it. This old paternal edifice, needy as he was, and though, being centrally

situated on the principal street of the town, it would have brought him a handsome sum, the sagacious Peter

had his own reasons for never parting with, either by auction or private sale. There seemed, indeed, to be a

fatality that connected him with his birthplace; for, often as he had stood on the verge of ruin, and standing

there even now, he had not yet taken the step beyond it which would have compelled him to surrender the

Here then in his kitchen, the only room where a spark of fire took off the chill of a November evening, poor

Peter Goldthwaite had just been visited by his rich old partner. At the close of their interview, Peter, with

rather a mortified look, glanced downwards at his dress, parts of which appeared as ancient as the days of

Goldthwaite & Brown. His upper garment was a mixed surtout, wofully faded, and patched with newer stuff

on each elbow; beneath this he wore a threadbare black coat, some of the silk buttons of which had been

replaced with others of a different pattern; and lastly, though he lacked not a pair of gray pantaloons, they

were very shabby ones, and had been partially turned brown by the frequent toasting of Peter's shins before a

scanty fire. Peter's person was in keeping with his goodly apparel. Grayheaded, holloweyed,

palecheeked, and leanbodied, he was the perfect picture of a man who had fed on windy schemes and

empty hopes, till he could neither live on such unwholesome trash, nor stomach more substantial food. But,

withal, this Peter Goldthwaite, crackbrained simpleton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut a very brilliant

figure in the world, had he employed his imagination in the airy business of poetry, instead of making it a

demon of mischief in mercantile pursuits. After all, he was no bad fellow, but as harmless as a child, and as

honest and honorable, and as much of the gentleman which nature meant him for, as an irregular life and

As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth, looking round at the disconsolate old kitchen, his eyes

began to kindle with the illumination of an enthusiasm that never long deserted him. He raised his hand,

clinched it, and smote it energetically against the smoky panel over the fireplace.

"The time is come!" said he. "With such a treasure at command, it were folly to be a poor man any longer.

Tomorrow morning I will begin with the garret, nor desist till I have torn the house down!"

Deep in the chimneycorner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat a little old woman, mending one of the two

pairs of stockings wherewith Peter Goldthwaite kept his toes from being frostbitten. As the feet were ragged

past all darning, she had cut pieces out of a castoff flannel petticoat, to make new soles. Tabitha Porter was

an old maid, upwards of sixty years of age, fiftyfive of which she had sat in that same chimneycorner, such

being the length of time since Peter's grandfather had taken her from the almshouse. She had no friend but

Peter, nor Peter any friend but Tabitha; so long as Peter might have a shelter for his own head, Tabitha would

know where to shelter hers; or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring

him to her native home, the almshouse. Should it ever be necessary, she loved him well enough to feed him

with her last morsel, and clothe him with her under petticoat. But Tabitha was a queer old woman, and,

though never infected with Peter's flightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and follies that she

viewed them all as matters of course. Hearing him threaten to tear the house down, she looked quietly up

"The sooner we have it all down the better," said Peter Goldthwaite. "I am tired to death of living in this cold,

dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old house. I shall feel like a younger man when we get into

my splendid brick mansion, as, please Heaven, we shall by this time next autumn. You shall have a room on

the sunny side, old Tabby, finished and furnished as best may suit your own notions."

"I should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen," answered Tabitha. "It will never be like home to

me till the chimneycorner gets as black with smoke as this; and that won't be these hundred years. How

"What is that to the purpose?" exclaimed Peter, loftily. "Did not my greatgranduncle, Peter Goldthwaite,

who died seventy years ago, and whose namesake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?"

Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference to an immense hoard of the precious metals, which was said

to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or under the floors, or in some concealed closet, or other

outoftheway nook of the house. This wealth, according to tradition, had been accumulated by a former

Peter Goldthwaite, whose character seems to have borne a remarkable similitude to that of the Peter of our

story. Like him he was a wild projector, seeking to heap up gold by the bushel and the cartload, instead of

scraping it together, coin by coin. Like Peter the second, too, his projects had almost invariably failed, and,

but for the magnificent success of the final one, would have left him with hardly a coat and pair of breeches

to his gaunt and grizzled person. Reports were various as to the nature of his fortunate speculation: one

intimating that the ancient Peter had made the gold by alchemy; another, that he had conjured it out of

people's pockets by the black art; and a third, still more unaccountable, that the devil had given him free

access to the old provincial treasury. It was affirmed, however, that some secret impediment had debarred

him from the enjoyment of his riches, and that he had a motive for concealing them from his heir, or at any

rate had died without disclosing the place of deposit. The present Peter's father had faith enough in the story

to cause the cellar to be dug over. Peter himself chose to consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and,

amid his many troubles, had this one consolation that, should all other resources fail, he might build up his

fortunes by tearing his house down. Yet, unless he felt a lurking distrust of the golden tale, it is difficult to

account for his permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since he had never yet seen the moment when his

predecessor's treasure would not have found plenty of room in his own strong box. But now was the crisis.

Should he delay the search a little longer, the house would pass from the lineal heir, and with it the vast heap

of gold, to remain in its burialplace, till the ruin of the aged walls should discover it to strangers of a future

The deeper he looked at the matter the more certain of success grew Peter. His spirits were naturally so

elastic that even now, in the blasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the springtime gayety

of other people. Enlivened by his brightening prospects, he began to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin,

with the queerest antics of his lean limbs, and gesticulations of his starved features. Nay, in the exuberance of

his feelings, he seized both of Tabitha's hands, and danced the old lady across the floor, till the oddity of her

rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the rooms and chambers, as if

Peter Goldthwaite were laughing in every one. Finally he bounded upward almost out of sight, into the smoke

that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor again, endeavored to resume his

"Tomorrow, at sunrise," he repeated, taking his lamp to retire to bed, "I'll see whether this treasure be hid in

"And as we're out of wood, Mr. Peter," said Tabitha, puffing and panting with her late gymnastics, "as fast as

Gorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter Goldthwaite! At one time he was turning a ponderous key in an

iron door not unlike the door of a sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vault heaped up with gold

coin, as plentifully as golden corn in a granary. There were chased goblets, also, and tureens, salvers, dinner

dishes, and dish covers of gold, or silver gilt, besides chains and other jewels, incalculably rich, though

tarnished with the damps of the vault; for, of all the wealth that was irrevocably lost to the man, whether

buried in the earth or sunken in the sea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this one treasureplace. Anon, he

had returned to the old house as poor as ever, and was received at the door by the gaunt and grizzled figure of

a man whom he might have mistaken for himself, only that his garments were of a much elder fashion. But

the house, without losing its former aspect, had been changed into a palace of the precious metals. The floors,

walls, and ceiling were of burnished silver; the doors, the window frames, the cornices, the balustrades and

the steps of the staircase, of pure gold; and silver, with gold bottoms, were the chairs, and gold, standing on

silver legs, the high chests of drawers, and silver the bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold, and sheets of

silver tissue. The house had evidently been transmuted by a single touch; for it retained all the marks that

Peter remembered, but in gold or silver instead of wood; and the initials of his name, which, when a boy, he

had cut in the wooden doorpost, remained as deep in the pillar of gold. A happy man would have been Peter

Goldthwaite except for a certain ocular deception, which, whenever he glanced backwards, caused the house

Up, betimes, rose Peter, seized an axe, hammer, and saw, which he had placed by his bedside, and hied him

to the garret. It was but scantily lighted up, as yet, by the frosty fragments of a sunbeam, which began to

glimmer through the almost opaque bull'seyes of the window. A moralizer might find abundant themes for

his speculative and impracticable wisdom in a garret. There is the limbo of departed fashions, aged trifles. Of

a day, and whatever was valuable only to one generation of men, and which passed to the garret when that

generation passed to the grave, not for safe keeping, but to be out of the way. Peter saw piles of yellow and

musty accountbooks, in parchment covers, wherein creditors, long dead and buried, had written the names

of dead and buried debtors in ink now so faded that their mossgrown tombstones were more legible. He

found old motheaten garments all in rags and tatters, or Peter would have put them on. Here was a naked

and rusty sword, not a sword of service, but a gentleman's small French rapier, which had never left its

scabbard till it lost it. Here were canes of twenty different sorts, but no goldheaded ones, and shoebuckles

of various pattern and material, but not silver nor set with precious stones. Here was a large box full of shoes,

with high heels and peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a multitude of phials, halffilled with old

apothecaries' stuff, which, when the other half had done its business on Peter's ancestors, had been brought

hither from the death chamber. Herenot to give a longer inventory of articles that will never be put up at

auctionwas the fragment of a fulllength lookingglass, which, by the dust and dimness of its surface,

made the picture of these old things look older than the reality. When Peter not knowing that there was a

mirror there, caught the faint traces of his own figure, he partly imagined that the former Peter Goldthwaite

had come back, either to assist or impede his search for the hidden wealth. And at that moment a strange

notion glimmered through his brain that he was the identical Peter who had concealed the gold, and ought to

"Well, Mr. Peter!" cried Tabitha, on the garret stairs. "Have you torn the house down enough to heat the

With the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, and laid about him so vigorously that the dust flew, the

boards crashed, and, in a twinkling, the old woman had an apron full of broken rubbish.

The good work being thus commenced, Peter beat down all before him, smiting and hewing at the joists and

timbers, unclinching spikenails, ripping and tearing away boards, with a tremendous racket, from morning

till night. He took care, however, to leave the outside shell of the house untouched, so that the neighbors

Never, in any of his vagaries, though each had made him happy while it lasted, had Peter been happier than

now. Perhaps, after all, there was something in Peter Goldthwaite's turn of mind, which brought him an

inward recompense for all the external evil that it caused. If he were poor, illclad, even hungry, and

exposed, as it were, to be utterly annihilated by a precipice of impending ruin, yet only his body remained in

these miserable circumstances, while his aspiring soul enjoyed the sunshine of a bright futurity. It was his

nature to be always young, and the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. Gray hairs were nothing, no,

nor wrinkles, nor infirmity; he might look old, indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably connected with a gaunt

old figure, much the worse for wear; but the true, the essential Peter was a young man of high hopes, just

entering on the world. At the kindling of each new fire, his burntout youth rose afresh from the old embers

and ashes. It rose exulting now. Having lived thus longnot too long, but just to the right agea susceptible

bachelor, with warm and tender dreams, he resolved, so soon as the hidden gold should flash to light, to go

awooing, and win the love of the fairest maid in town. What heart could resist him? Happy Peter

Every eveningas Peter had long absented himself from his former loungingplaces, at insurance offices,

newsrooms, and bookstores, and as the honor of his company was seldom requested in private circleshe

and Tabitha used to sit down sociably by the kitchen hearth. This was always heaped plentifully with the

rubbish of his day's labor. As the foundation of the fire, there would be a goodlysized backlog of red oak,

which, after being sheltered from rain or damp above a century, still hissed with the heat, and distilled

streams of water from each end, as if the tree had been cut down within a week or two. Next these were large

sticks, sound, black, and heavy, which had lost the principle of decay, and were indestructible except by fire,

wherein they glowed like redhot bars of iron. On this solid basis, Tabitha would rear a lighter structure,

composed of the splinters of door panels, ornamented mouldings, and such quick combustibles, which caught

like straw, and threw a brilliant blaze high up the spacious flue, making its sooty sides visible almost to the

chimneytop. Meantime, the gleam of the old kitchen would be chased out of the cobwebbed corners and

away from the dusky crossbeams overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while Peter smiled like a

gladsome man, and Tabitha seemed a picture of comfortable age. All this, of course, was but an emblem of

the bright fortune which the destruction of the house would shed upon its occupants.

While the dry pine was flaming and crackling, like an irregular discharge of fairy musketry, Peter sat looking

and listening, in a pleasant state of excitement. But, when the brief blaze and uproar were succeeded by the

darkred glow, the substantial heat, and the deep singing sound, which were to last throughout the evening,

his humor became talkative. One night, the hundredth time, he teased Tabitha to tell him something new

"You have been sitting in that chimneycorner fiftyfive years, old Tabby, and must have heard many a

tradition about him," said Peter. "Did not you tell me that, when you first came to the house, there was an old

woman sitting where you sit now, who had been housekeeper to the famous Peter Goldthwaite?"

"So there was, Mr. Peter," answered Tabitha, "and she was near about a hundred years old. She used to say

that she and old Peter Goldthwaite had often spent a sociable evening by the kitchen firepretty much as

"The old fellow must have resembled me in more points than one," said Peter, complacently, "or he never

would have grown so rich. But, methinks, he might have invested the money better than he didno

interest!nothing but good security!and the house to be torn down to come at it! What made him hide it

"Because he could not spend it," said Tabitha; "for as often as he went to unlock the chest, the Old Scratch

came behind and caught his arm. The money, they say, was paid Peter out of his purse; and he wanted Peter

"Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner," remarked Peter. "But this is all nonsense, Tabby! I don't

"Well, it may not be just the truth," said Tabitha; "for some folks say that Peter did make over the house to

the Old Scratch, and that's the reason it has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. And as soon as

Peter had given him the deed, the chest flew open, and Peter caught up a handful of the gold. But, lo and

"Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby!" cried Peter in great wrath. "They were as good golden guineas as

ever bore the effigies of the king of England. It seems as if I could recollect the whole circumstance, and how

I, or old Peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his hand, and drew it out all of a blaze with gold. Old

But it was not an old woman's legend that would discourage Peter Goldthwaite. All night long he slept among

pleasant dreams, and awoke at daylight with a joyous throb of the heart, which few are fortunate enough to

feel beyond their boyhood. Day after day he labored hard without wasting a moment, except at meal times,

when Tabitha summoned him to the pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance as she had picked up, or

Providence had sent them. Being a truly pious man, Peter never failed to ask a blessing; if the food were none

of the best, then so much the more earnestly, as it was more needed;nor to return thanks, if the dinner had

been scanty, yet for the good appetite, which was better than a sick stomach at a feast. Then did he hurry back

to his toil, and, in a moment, was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the old walls, though sufficiently

perceptible to the ear by the clatter which he raised in the midst of it. How enviable is the consciousness of

being usefully employed! Nothing troubled Peter; or nothing but those phantoms of the mind which seem like

vague recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. He often paused, with his axe uplifted in the

air, and said to himself,"Peter Goldthwaite, did you never strike this blow before?" or, "Peter, what need of

tearing the whole house down? Think a little while, and you will remember where the gold is hidden." Days

and weeks passed on, however, without any remarkable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a lean, gray rat

peeped forth at the lean, gray man, wondering what devil had got into the old house, which had always been

so peaceable till now. And, occasionally, Peter sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse, who had

brought five or six pretty, little, soft and delicate young ones into the world just in time to see them crushed

By this time, Peter, being as determined as Fate and as diligent as Time, had made an end with the uppermost

regions, and got down to the second story, where he was busy in one of the front chambers. It had formerly

been the state bedchamber, and was honored by tradition as the sleeping apartment of Governor Dudley, and

many other eminent guests. The furniture was gone. There were remnants of faded and tattered

paperhangings, but larger spaces of bare wall ornamented with charcoal sketches, chiefly of people's heads

in profile. These being specimens of Peter's youthful genius, it went more to his heart to obliterate them than

if they had been pictures on a church wall by Michael Angelo. One sketch, however, and that the best one,

affected him differently. It represented a ragged man, partly supporting himself on a spade, and bending his

lean body over a hole in the earth, with one hand extended to grasp something that he had found. But close

behind him, with a fiendish laugh on his features, appeared a figure with horns, a tufted tail, and a cloven

Uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such a blow on the head as not only demolished him, but the

treasureseeker also, and caused the whole scene to vanish like magic. Moreover, his axe broke quite through

"Mercy on us, Mr. Peter, are you quarrelling with the Old Scratch?" said Tabitha, who was seeking some fuel

Without answering the old woman, Peter broke down a further space of the wall, and laid open a small closet

or cupboard, on one side of the fireplace, about breast high from the ground. It contained nothing but a brass

lamp, covered with verdigris, and a dusty piece of parchment. While Peter inspected the latter, Tabitha seized

"There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha," said Peter. "It is not Aladdin's lamp, though I take it to be a token of

Tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her nose, which was saddled with a pair of ironbound

spectacles. But no sooner had she began to puzzle over it than she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding both

"You can't make a fool of the old woman!" cried she. "This is your own handwriting, Mr. Peter! the same as

"There is certainly a considerable resemblance," said Peter, again examining the parchment. "But you know

yourself, Tabby, that this closet must have been plastered up before you came to the house, or I came into the

world. No, this is old Peter Goldthwaite's writing; these columns of pounds, shillings, and pence are his

figures, denoting the amount of the treasure; and this at the bottom is, doubtless, a reference to the place of

concealment. But the ink has either faded or peeled off, so that it is absolutely illegible. What a pity!"

For the present, Peter felt more inclined to ponder on this discovery than to resume his labors. After Tabitha

had gone down stairs, he stood poring over the parchment, at one of the front windows, which was so

obscured with dust that the sun could barely throw an uncertain shadow of the casement across the floor.

Peter forced it open, and looked out upon the great street of the town, while the sun looked in at his old

house. The air, though mild, and even warm, thrilled Peter as with a dash of water.

It was the first day of the January thaw. The snow lay deep upon the housetops, but was rapidly dissolving

into millions of waterdrops, which sparkled downwards through the sunshine, with the noise of a summer

shower beneath the eaves. Along the street, the trodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement of white

marble, and had not yet grown moist in the springlike temperature. But when Peter thrust forth his head, he

saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, were already thawed out by this warm day, after two or three weeks

of winter weather. It gladdened him a gladness with a sigh breathing through itto see the stream of

ladies, gliding along the slippery sidewalks, with their red cheeks set off by quilted hoods, boas, and sable

capes, like roses amidst a new kind of foliage. The sleighbells jingled to and fro continually: sometimes

announcing the arrival of a sleigh from Vermont, laden with the frozen bodies of porkers, or sheep, and

perhaps a deer or two; sometimes of a regular marketman, with chickens, geese, and turkeys, comprising the

whole colony of a barn yard; and sometimes of a farmer and his dame, who had come to town partly for the

ride, partly to go ashopping, and partly for the sale of some eggs and butter. This couple rode in an

oldfashioned square sleigh, which had served them twenty winters, and stood twenty summers in the sun

beside their door. Now, a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in an elegant car, shaped somewhat like a

cockleshell. Now, a stagesleigh, with its cloth curtains thrust aside to admit the sun, dashed rapidly down

the street, whirling in and out among the vehicles that obstructed its passage. Now came, round a corner, the

similitude of Noah's ark on runners, being an immense open sleigh with seats for fifty people, and drawn by a

dozen horses. This spacious receptacle was populous with merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls and

boys, and merry old folks, all alive with fun, and grinning to the full width of their mouths. They kept up a

buzz of babbling voices and low laughter, and sometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout, which the

spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang of roguish boys let drive their snowballs right among the

pleasure party. The sleigh passed on, and, when concealed by a bend of the street, was still audible by a

Never had Peter beheld a livelier scene than was constituted by all these accessories: the bright sun, the

flashing waterdrops, the gleaming snow, the cheerful multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles, and the jingle

jangle of merry bells which made the heart dance to their music. Nothing dismal was to be seen, except that

peaked piece of antiquity, Peter Goldthwaite's house, which might well look sad externally, since such a

terrible consumption was preying on its insides. And Peter's gaunt figure, half visible in the projecting second

"Peter! How goes it, friend Peter?" cried a voice across the street, as Peter was drawing in his head. "Look out

Peter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John Brown, on the opposite sidewalk, portly and comfortable,

with his furred cloak thrown open, disclosing a handsome surtout beneath. His voice had directed the

attention of the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite's window, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared at it.

"I say, Peter," cried Mr. Brown again, "what the devil are you about there, that I hear such a racket whenever

I pass by? You are repairing the old house, I suppose,making a new one of it, eh?"

"Too late for that, I am afraid, Mr. Brown," replied Peter. "If I make it new, it will be new inside and out,

"Not yet!" answered Peter, hastily shutting the window; for, ever since he had been in search of the treasure,

As he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, yet proud of the secret wealth within his grasp, a haughty

smile shone out on Peter's visage, with precisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid chamber. He

endeavored to assume such a mien as his ancestor had probably worn, when he gloried in the building of a

strong house for a home to many generations of his posterity. But the chamber was very dark to his

snowdazzled eyes, and very dismal too, in contrast with the living scene that he had just looked upon. His

brief glimpse into the street had given him a forcible impression of the manner in which the world kept itself

cheerful and prosperous, by social pleasures and an intercourse of business, while he, in seclusion, was

pursuing an object that might possibly be a phantasm, by a method which most people would call madness. It

is one great advantage of a gregarious mode of life that each person rectifies his mind by other minds, and

squares his conduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in eccentricity. Peter Goldthwaite had

exposed himself to this influence by merely looking out of the window. For a while, he doubted whether

there were any hidden chest of gold, and, in that case, whether he was so exceedingly wise to tear the house

But this was momentary. Peter, the Destroyer, resumed the task which fate had assigned him, nor faltered

again till it was accomplished. In the course of his search, he met with many things that are usually found in

the ruins of an old house, and also with some that are not. What seemed most to the purpose was a rusty key,

which had been thrust into a chink of the wall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, bearing the

initials, P. G. Another singular discovery was that of a bottle of wine, walled up in an old oven. A tradition

ran in the family, that Peter's grandfather, a jovial officer in the old French War, had set aside many dozens of

the precious liquor for the benefit of topers then unborn. Peter needed no cordial to sustain his hopes, and

therefore kept the wine to gladden his success. Many halfpence did he pick up, that had been lost through the

cracks of the floor, and some few Spanish coins, and the half of a broken sixpence, which had doubtless been

a love token. There was likewise a silver coronation medal of George the Third. But old Peter Goldthwaite's

strong box fled from one dark corner to another, or otherwise eluded the second Peter's clutches, till, should

We will not follow him in his triumphant progress, step by step. Suffice it that Peter worked like a

steamengine, and finished, in that one winter, the job which all the former inhabitants of the house, with

time and the elements to aid them, had only half done in a century. Except the kitchen, every room and

chamber was now gutted. The house was nothing but a shell,the apparition of a house,as unreal as the

painted edifices of a theatre. It was like the perfect rind of a great cheese, in which a mouse had dwelt and

What Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burned up; for she wisely considered that, without a house, they

should need no wood to warm it; and therefore economy was nonsense. Thus the whole house might be said

to have dissolved in smoke, and flown up among the clouds, through the great black flue of the kitchen

chimney. It was an admirable parallel to the feat of the man who jumped down his own throat.

On the night between the last day of winter and the first of spring, every chink and cranny had been

ransacked, except within the precincts of the kitchen. This fated evening was an ugly one. A snowstorm had

set in some hours before, and was still driven and tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane, which

fought against the house as if the prince of the air, in person, were putting the final stroke to Peter's labors.

The framework being so much weakened, and the inward props removed, it would have been no marvel if, in

some stronger wrestle of the blast, the rotten walls of the edifice, and all the peaked roofs, had come crushing

down upon the owner's head. He, however, was careless of the peril, but as wild and restless as the night

itself, or as the flame that quivered up the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous wind.

"The wine, Tabitha!" he cried. "My grandfather's rich old wine! We will drink it now!"

Tabitha arose from her smokeblackened bench in the chimneycorner, and placed the bottle before Peter,

close beside the old brass lamp, which had likewise been the prize of his researches. Peter held it before his

eyes, and, looking through the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden glory, which also

enveloped Tabitha and gilded her silver hair, and converted her mean garments into robes of queenly

"Mr. Peter," remarked Tabitha, "must the wine be drunk before the money is found?"

"The money IS found!" exclaimed Peter, with a sort of fierceness. "The chest is within my reach. I will not

sleep, till I have turned this key in the rusty lock. But, first of all, let us drink!"

There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the bottle with old Peter Goldthwaite's rusty

key, and decapitated the sealed cork at a single blow. He then filled two little china teacups, which Tabitha

had brought from the cupboard. So clear and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within the cups, and

rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers, at the bottom of each, more distinctly visible than when there had been

"Drink, Tabitha!" cried Peter. "Blessings on the honest old fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and

How many years, and through what changes of fortune and various calamity, had that bottle hoarded up its

effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two such boon companions! A portion of the happiness of the former

age had been kept for them, and was now set free, in a crowd of rejoicing visions, to sport amid the storm and

desolation of the present time. Until they have finished the bottle, we must turn our eyes elsewhere.

It so chanced that, on this stormy night, Mr. John Brown found himself ill at ease in his wirecushioned

armchair, by the glowing grate of anthracite which heated his handsome parlor. He was naturally a good

sort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the misfortunes of others happened to reach his heart through the

padded vest of his own prosperity. This evening he had thought much about his old partner, Peter

Goldthwaite, his strange vagaries, and continual ill luck, the poverty of his dwelling, at Mr. Brown's last visit,

and Peter's crazed and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the window.

"Poor fellow!" thought Mr. John Brown. "Poor, crackbrained Peter Goldthwaite! For old acquaintance' sake, I

These feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of the inclement weather, he resolved to visit Peter Goldthwaite

immediately. The strength of the impulse was really singular. Every shriek of the blast seemed a summons, or

would have seemed so, had Mr. Brown been accustomed to hear the echoes of his own fancy in the wind.

Much amazed at such active benevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak, muffled his throat and ears in

comforters and handkerchiefs, and, thus fortified, bade defiance to the tempest. But the powers of the air had

rather the best of the battle. Mr. Brown was just weathering the corner, by Peter Goldthwaite's house, when

the hurricane caught him off his feet, tossed him face downward into a snow bank, and proceeded to bury his

protuberant part beneath fresh drifts. There seemed little hope of his reappearance earlier than the next thaw.

At the same moment his hat was snatched away, and whirled aloft into some far distant region, whence no

Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a passage through the snowdrift, and, with his bare head bent

against the storm, floundered onward to Peter's door. There was such a creaking and groaning and rattling,

and such an ominous shaking throughout the crazy edifice, that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to

those within. He therefore entered, without ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen.

His intrusion, even there, was unnoticed. Peter and Tabitha stood with their backs to the door, stooping over a

large chest, which, apparently, they had just dragged from a cavity, or concealed closet, on the left side of the

chimney. By the lamp in the old woman's hand, Mr. Brown saw that the chest was barred and clamped with

iron, strengthened with iron plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit receptacle in which the wealth

of one century might be hoarded up for the wants of another. Peter Goldthwaite was inserting a key into the

"O Tabitha!" cried he, with tremulous rapture, "how shall I endure the effulgence? The gold!the bright,

bright gold! Methinks I can remember my last glance at it, just as the ironplated lid fell down. And ever

since, being seventy years, it has been blazing in secret, and gathering its splendor against this glorious

"Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter!" said Tabitha, with somewhat less patience than usual. "But, for mercy's

And, with a strong effort of both hands, Peter did force the rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty lock.

Mr. Brown, in the mean time, had drawn near, and thrust his eager visage between those of the other two, at

the instant that Peter threw up the lid. No sudden blaze illuminated the kitchen.

"What's here?" exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her spectacles, and holding the lamp over the open chest. "Old

Oh, what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had Peter Goldthwaite raised, to scare himself out of his scanty

wits withal! Here was the semblance of an incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town, and build

every street anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane man would have given a solid sixpence for. What then,

in sober earnest, were the delusive treasures of the chest? Why, here were old provincial bills of credit, and

treasury notes, and bills of land, banks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first issue, above a century

and a half ago, down nearly to the Revolution. Bills of a thousand pounds were intermixed with parchment

"And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite's treasure!" said John Brown. "Your namesake, Peter, was

something like yourself; and, when the provincial currency had depreciated fifty or seventyfive per cent., he

bought it up in expectation of a rise. I have heard my grandfather say that old Peter gave his father a

mortgage of this very house and land, to raise cash for his silly project. But the currency kept sinking, till

nobody would take it as a gift; and there was old Peter Goldthwaite, like Peter the second, with thousands in

his strong box and hardly a coat to his back. He went mad upon the strength of it. But, never mind, Peter! It is

"The house will be down about our ears!" cried Tabitha, as the wind shook it with increasing violence.

"Let it fall!" said Peter, folding his arms, as he seated himself upon the chest.

"No, no, my old friend Peter," said John Brown. "I have house room for you and Tabby, and a safe vault for

the chest of treasure. Tomorrow we will try to come to an agreement about the sale of this old house. Real

"And I," observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviving spirits, "have a plan for laying out the cash to great

"Why, as to that," muttered John Brown to himself, "we must apply to the next court for a guardian to take

care of the solid cash; and if Peter insists upon speculating, he may do it, to his heart's content, with old

One day, in the sick chamber of Father Ephraim, who had been forty years the presiding elder over the

Shaker settlement at Goshen, there was an assemblage of several of the chief men of the sect. Individuals had

come from the rich establishment at Lebanon, from Canterbury, Harvard, and Alfred, and from all the other

localities where this strange people have fertilized the rugged hills of New England by their systematic

industry. An elder was likewise there, who had made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a village of the

faithful in Kentucky, to visit his spiritual kindred, the children of the sainted mother Ann. He had partaken of

the homely abundance of their tables, had quaffed the farfamed Shaker cider, and had joined in the sacred

dance, every step of which is believed to alienate the enthusiast from earth, and bear him onward to heavenly

purity and bliss. His brethren of the north had now courteously invited him to be present on an occasion,

when the concurrence of every eminent member of their community was peculiarly desirable.

The venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy chair, not only hoary headed and infirm with age, but worn

down by a lingering disease, which, it was evident, would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to other

"My brethren," said Father Ephraim to the surrounding elders, feebly exerting himself to utter these few

words, "here are the son and daughter to whom I would commit the trust of which Providence is about to

lighten my weary shoulders. Read their faces, I pray you, and say whether the inward movement of the spirit

Accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates with a most scrutinizing gaze. The man, whose name

was Adam Colburn, had a face sunburnt with labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful, and traced with

cares enough for a whole lifetime, though he had barely reached middle age. There was something severe in

his aspect, and a rigidity throughout his person, characteristics that caused him generally to be taken for a

schoolmaster, which vocation, in fact, he had formerly exercised for several years. The woman, Martha

Pierson, was somewhat above thirty, thin and pale, as a Shaker sister almost invariably is, and not entirely

free from that corpselike appearance which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated to impart.

"This pair are still in the summer of their years," observed the elder from Harvard, a shrewd old man. "I

would like better to see the hoarfrost of autumn on their heads. Methinks, also, they will

be exposed to peculiar temptations, on account of the carnal desires which have heretofore subsisted between

"Nay, brother," said the elder from Canterbury, "the hoarfrost and the blackfrost hath done its work on

Brother Adam and Sister Martha, even as we sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields, while they are yet

green. And why should we question the wisdom of our venerable Father's purpose although this pair, in their

early youth, have loved one another as the world's people love? Are there not many brethren and sisters

among us, who have lived long together in wedlock, yet, adopting our faith, find their hearts purified from all

Whether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha had rendered it inexpedient that they should now preside

together over a Shaker village, it was certainly most singular that such should be the final result of many

warm and tender hopes. Children of neighboring families, their affection was older even than their

schooldays; it seemed an innate principle, interfused among all their sentiments and feelings, and not so

much a distinct remembrance, as connected with their whole volume of remembrances. But, just as they

reached a proper age for their union, misfortunes had fallen heavily on both, and made it necessary that they

should resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. Even under these circumstances, Martha Pierson would

probably have consented to unite her fate with Adam Colburn's, and, secure of the bliss of mutual love,

would patiently have awaited the less important gifts of fortune. But Adam, being of a calm and cautious

character, was loath to relinquish the advantages which a single man possesses for raising himself in the

world. Year after year, therefore, their marriage had been deferred. Adam Colburn had followed many

vocations, had travelled far, and seen much of the world and of life. Martha had earned her bread sometimes

as a seamstress, sometimes as help to a farmer's wife, sometimes as schoolmistress of the village children,

sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the sick, thus acquiring a varied experience, the ultimate use of which she

little anticipated. But nothing had gone prosperously with either of the lovers; at no subsequent moment

would matrimony have been so prudent a measure as when they had first parted, in the opening bloom of life,

to seek a better fortune. Still they had held fast their mutual faith. Martha might have been the wife of a man

who sat among the senators of his native state, and Adam could have won the hand, as he had unintentionally

won the heart, of a rich and comely widow. But neither of them desired good fortune save to share it with the

At length that calm despair which occurs only in a strong and somewhat stubborn character, and yields to no

second spring of hope, settled down on the spirit of Adam Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha, and

proposed that they should join the Society of Shakers. The converts of this sect are oftener driven within its

hospitable gates by worldly misfortune than drawn thither by fanaticism and are received without inquisition

as to their motives. Martha, faithful still, had placed her hand in that of her lover, and accompanied him to the

Shaker village. Here the natural capacity of each, cultivated and strengthened by the difficulties of their

previous lives, had soon gained them an important rank in the Society, whose members are generally below

the ordinary standard of intelligence. Their faith and feelings had, in some degree, become assimilated to

those of their fellowworshippers. Adam Colburn gradually acquired reputation, not only in the management

of the temporal affairs of the Society, but as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. Martha was not

less distinguished in the duties proper to her sex. Finally, when the infirmities of Father Ephraim had

admonished him to seek a successor in his patriarchal office, he thought of Adam and Martha, and proposed

to renew, in their persons, the primitive form of Shaker government, as established by Mother Ann. They

were to be the Father and Mother of the village. The simple ceremony, which would constitute them such,

"Son Adam, and daughter Martha," said the venerable Father Ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon

them, "if ye can conscientiously undertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of your

"Father," replied Adam, speaking with the calmness of his character, "I came to your village a disappointed

man, weary of the world, worn out with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evil fortune, as I

had no hope of good. Even my wishes of worldly success were almost dead within me. I came hither as a man

might come to a tomb, willing to lie down in its gloom and coldness, for the sake of its peace and quiet.

There was but one earthly affection in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my youth; so that I was

satisfied to bring Martha to be my sister, in our new abode. We are brother and sister; nor would I have it

otherwise. And in this peaceful village I have found all that I hoped for,all that I desire. I will strive, with

my best strength, for the spiritual and temporal good of our community. My conscience is not doubtful in this

"Thou hast spoken well, son Adam," said the Father. "God will bless thee in the office which I am about to

"But our sister!" observed the elder from Harvard, "hath she not likewise a gift to declare her sentiments?"

Martha started, and moved her lips, as if she would have made a formal reply to this appeal. But, had she

attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the longrepressed feelings of childhood, youth, and womanhood,

might have gushed from her heart, in words that it would have been profanation to utter there.

But while speaking these few words, Martha grew so pale that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin than to

stand in the presence of Father Ephraim and the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were something awful

or horrible in her situation and destiny. It required, indeed, a more than feminine strength of nerve, to sustain

the fixed observance of men so exalted and famous throughout the sect as these were. They had overcome

their natural sympathy with human frailties and affections. One, when he joined the Society, had brought with

him his wife and children, but never, from that hour, had spoken a fond word to the former, or taken his

bestloved child upon his knee. Another, whose family refused to follow him, had been enabledsuch was

his gift of holy fortitudeto leave them to the mercy of the world. The youngest of the elders, a man of

about fifty, had been bred from infancy in a Shaker village, and was said never to have clasped a woman's

hand in his own, and to have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fraternal one of the sect. Old Father

Ephraim was the most awful character of all. In his youth he had been a dissolute libertine, but was converted

by Mother Ann herself, and had partaken of the wild fanaticism of the early Shakers. Tradition whispered, at

the firesides of the village, that Mother Ann had been compelled to sear his heart of flesh with a redhot iron

However that might be, poor Martha had a woman's heart, and a tender one, and it quailed within her, as she

looked round at those strange old men, and from them to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But perceiving

"With what strength is left me by my many troubles," said she, "I am ready to undertake this charge, and to

They did so. The elders stood up around, and the Father feebly raised himself to a more erect position, but

"I have bidden you to join your hands," said he, "not in earthly affection, for ye have cast off its chains

forever; but as brother and sister in spiritual love, and helpers of one another in your allotted task. Teach unto

others the faith which ye have received. Open wide your gates,I deliver you the keys thereof,open them

wide to all who will give up the iniquities of the world, and come hither to lead lives of purity and peace.

Receive the weary ones, who have known the vanity of earth,receive the little children, that they may

never learn that miserable lesson. And a blessing be upon your labors; so that the time may hasten on, when

the mission of Mother Ann shall have wrought its full effect,when children shall no more be born and die,

and the last survivor of mortal race, some old and weary man like me, shall see the sun go down, nevermore

The aged Father sank back exhausted, and the surrounding elders deemed, with good reason, that the hour

was come when the new heads of the village must enter on their patriarchal duties. In their attention to Father

Ephraim, their eyes were turned from Martha Pierson, who grew paler and paler, unnoticed even by Adam

Colburn. He, indeed, had withdrawn his hand from hers, and folded his arms with a sense of satisfied

ambition. But paler and paler grew Martha by his side, till, like a corpse in its burial clothes, she sank down

at the feet of her early lover; for, after many trials firmly borne, her heart could endure the weight of its

At noon of on autumnal day, more than two centuries ago, the English colors were displayed by the

standardbearer of the Salem trainband, which had mustered for martial exercise under the orders of John

Endicott. It was a period when the religious exiles were accustomed often to buckle on their armor, and

practise the handling of their weapons of war. Since the first settlement of New England, its prospects had

never been so dismal. The dissensions between Charles the First and his subjects were then, and for several

years afterwards, confined to the floor of Parliament. The measures of the King and ministry were rendered

more tyrannically violent by an opposition, which had not yet acquired sufficient confidence in its own

strength to resist royal injustice with the sword. The bigoted and haughty primate, Laud, Archbishop of

Canterbury, controlled the religious affairs of the realm, and was consequently invested with powers which

might have wrought the utter ruin of the two Puritan colonies, Plymouth and Massachusetts. There is

evidence on record that our forefathers perceived their danger, but were resolved that their infant country

should not fall without a struggle, even beneath the giant strength of the King's right arm.

Such was the aspect of the times when the folds of the English banner, with the Red Cross in its field, were

flung out over a company of Puritans. Their leader, the famous Endicott, was a man of stern and resolute

countenance, the effect of which was heightened by a grizzled beard that swept the upper portion of his

breastplate. This piece of armor was so highly polished that the whole surrounding scene had its image in the

glittering steel. The central object in the mirrored picture was an edifice of humble architecture with neither

steeple nor bell to proclaim itwhat nevertheless it wasthe house of prayer. A token of the perils of the

wilderness was seen in the grim head of a wolf, which had just been slain within the precincts of the town,

and according to the regular mode of claiming the bounty, was nailed on the porch of the meetinghouse. The

blood was still plashing on the doorstep. There happened to be visible, at the same noontide hour, so many

other characteristics of the times and manners of the Puritans, that we must endeavor to represent them in a

sketch, though far less vividly than they were reflected in the polished breastplate of John Endicott.

In close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that important engine of Puritanic authority, the

whippingpostwith the soil around it well trodden by the feet of evil doers, who had there been

disciplined. At one corner of the meetinghouse was the pillory, and at the other the stocks; and, by a

singular good fortune for our sketch, the head of an Episcopalian and suspected Catholic was grotesquely

incased in the former machine while a fellowcriminal, who had boisterously quaffed a health to the king,

was confined by the legs in the latter. Side by side, on the meetinghouse steps, stood a male and a female

figure. The man was a tall, lean, haggard personification of fanaticism, bearing on his breast this label,A

WANTON GOSPELLER,which betokened that he had dared to give interpretations of Holy Writ

unsanctioned by the infallible judgment of the civil and religious rulers. His aspect showed no lack of zeal to

maintain his heterodoxies, even at the stake. The woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate

retribution for having wagged that unruly member against the elders of the church; and her countenance and

gestures gave much cause to apprehend that, the moment the stick should be removed, a repetition of the

The abovementioned individuals had been sentenced to undergo their various modes of ignominy, for the

space of one hour at noonday. But among the crowd were several whose punishment would be lifelong;

some, whose ears had been cropped, like those of puppy dogs; others, whose cheeks had been branded with

the initials of their misdemeanors; one, with his nostrils slit and seared; and another, with a halter about his

neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off, or to conceal beneath his garments. Methinks he must have

been grievously tempted to affix the other end of the rope to some convenient beam or bough. There was

likewise a young woman, with no mean share of beauty, whose doom it was to wear the letter A on the breast

of her gown, in the eyes of all the world and her own children. And even her own children knew what that

initial signified. Sporting with her infamy, the lost and desperate creature had embroidered the fatal token in

scarlet cloth, with golden thread and the nicest art of needlework; so that the capital A might have been

Let not the reader argue, from any of these evidences of iniquity, that the times of the Puritans were more

vicious than our own, when, as we pass along the very street of this sketch, we discern no badge of infamy on

man or woman. It was the policy of our ancestors to search out even the most secret sins, and expose them to

shame, without fear or favor, in the broadest light of the noonday sun. Were such the custom now, perchance

Except the malefactors whom we have described, and the diseased or infirm persons, the whole male

population of the town, between sixteen years and sixty, were seen in the ranks of the trainband. A few

stately savages, in all the pomp and dignity of the primeval Indian, stood gazing at the spectacle. Their

flintheaded arrows were but childish weapons compared with the matchlocks of the Puritans, and would

have rattled harmlessly against the steel caps and hammered iron breastplates which inclosed each soldier in

an individual fortress. The valiant John Endicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy followers, and

"Come, my stout hearts!" quoth he, drawing his sword. "Let us show these poor heathen that we can handle

our weapons like men of might. Well for them, if they put us not to prove it in earnest!"

The ironbreasted company straightened their line, and each man drew the heavy butt of his matchlock close

to his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the captain. But, as Endicott glanced right and left along the front,

he discovered a personage at some little distance with whom it behooved him to hold a parley. It was an

elderly gentleman, wearing a black cloak and band, and a highcrowned hat, beneath which was a velvet

skullcap, the whole being the garb of a Puritan minister. This reverend person bore a staff which seemed to

have been recently cut in the forest, and his shoes were bemired as if he had been travelling on foot through

the swamps of the wilderness. His aspect was perfectly that of a pilgrim, heightened also by an apostolic

dignity. Just as Endicott perceived him he laid aside his staff, and stooped to drink at a bubbling fountain

which gushed into the sunshine about a score of yards from the corner of the meetinghouse. But, ere the

good man drank, he turned his face heavenward in thankfulness, and then, holding back his gray beard with

"What, ho! good Mr. Williams," shouted Endicott. "You are welcome back again to our town of peace. How

"The Governor hath his health, worshipful Sir," answered Roger Williams, now resuming his staff, and

drawing near. "And for the news, here is a letter, which, knowing I was to travel hitherward today, his

Excellency committed to my charge. Belike it contains tidings of much import; for a ship arrived yesterday

Mr. Williams, the minister of Salem and of course known to all the spectators, had now reached the spot

where Endicott was standing under the banner of his company, and put the Governor's epistle into his hand.

The broad seal was impressed with Winthrop's coat of arms. Endicott hastily unclosed the letter and began to

read, while, as his eye passed down the page, a wrathful change came over his manly countenance. The blood

glowed through it, till it seemed to be kindling with an internal heat, nor was it unnatural to suppose that his

breastplate would likewise become redhot with the angry fire of the bosom which it covered. Arriving at the

conclusion, he shook the letter fiercely in his hand, so that it rustled as loud as the flag above his head.

"Black tidings these, Mr. Williams," said he; "blacker never came to New England. Doubtless you know their

"Yea, truly," replied Roger Williams; "for the Governor consulted, respecting this matter, with my brethren in

the ministry at Boston; and my opinion was likewise asked. And his Excellency entreats you by me, that the

news be not suddenly noised abroad, lest the people be stirred up unto some outbreak, and thereby give the

"The Governor is a wise mana wise man, and a meek and moderate," said Endicott, setting his teeth

grimly. "Nevertheless, I must do according to my own best judgment. There is neither man, woman, nor child

in New England, but has a concern as dear as life in these tidings; and if John Endicott's voice be loud

enough, man, woman, and child shall hear them. Soldiers, wheel into a hollow square! Ho, good people! Here

The soldiers closed in around their captain; and he and Roger Williams stood together under the banner of the

Red Cross; while the women and the aged men pressed forward, and the mothers held up their children to

look Endicott in the face. A few taps of the drum gave signal for silence and attention.

"Fellowsoldiersfellowexiles," began Endicott, speaking under strong excitement, yet powerfully

restraining it, "wherefore did ye leave your native country? Wherefore, I say, have we left the green and

fertile fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old gray halls, where we were born and bred, the churchyards

where our forefathers lie buried? Wherefore have we come hither to set up our own tombstones in a

wilderness? A howling wilderness it is! The wolf and the bear meet us within halloo of our dwellings. The

savage lieth in wait for us in the dismal shadow of the woods. The stubborn roots of the trees break our

ploughshares, when we would till the earth. Our children cry for bread, and we must dig in the sands of the

seashore to satisfy them. Wherefore, I say again, have we sought this country of a rugged soil and wintry

sky? Was it not for the enjoyment of our civil rights? Was it not for liberty to worship God according to our

"Call you this liberty of conscience?" interrupted a voice on the steps of the meetinghouse.

It was the Wanton Gospeller. A sad and quiet smile flitted across the mild visage of Roger Williams. But

Endicott, in the excitement of the moment, shook his sword wrathfully at the culpritan ominous gesture

"What hast thou to do with conscience, thou knave?" cried he. "I said liberty to worship God, not license to

profane and ridicule him. Break not in upon my speech, or I will lay thee neck and heels till this time

tomorrow! Hearken to me, friends, nor heed that accursed rhapsodist. As I was saying, we have sacrificed all

things, and have come to a land whereof the old world hath scarcely heard, that we might make a new world

unto ourselves, and painfully seek a path from hence to heaven. But what think ye now? This son of a Scotch

tyrantthis grandson of a Papistical and adulterous Scotch woman, whose death proved that a golden crown

"Nay, brother, nay," interposed Mr. Williams; "thy words are not meet for a secret chamber, far less for a

"Hold thy peace, Roger Williams!" answered Endicott, imperiously. "My spirit is wiser than thine for the

business now in hand. I tell ye, fellowexiles, that Charles of England, and Laud, our bitterest persecutor,

archpriest of Canterbury, are resolute to pursue us even hither. They are taking counsel, saith this letter, to

send over a governorgeneral, in whose breast shall be deposited all the law and equity of the land. They are

minded, also, to establish the idolatrous forms of English Episcopacy; so that, when Laud shall kiss the

Pope's toe, as cardinal of Rome, he may deliver New England, bound hand and foot, into the power of his

A deep groan from the auditors,a sound of wrath, as well as fear and sorrow,responded to this

"Look ye to it, brethren," resumed Endicott, with increasing energy. "If this king and this archprelate have

their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the spire of this tabernacle which we have builded, and a high

altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning round it at noonday. We shall hear the sacring bell, and the

voices of the Romish priests saying the mass. But think ye, Christian men, that these abominations may be

suffered without a sword drawn? without a shot fired? without blood spilt, yea, on the very stairs of the

pulpit? No,be ye strong of hand and stout of heart! Here we stand on our own soil, which we have bought

with our goods, which we have won with our swords, which we have cleared with our axes, which we have

tilled with the sweat of our brows, which we have sanctified with our prayers to the God that brought us

hither! Who shall enslave us here? What have we to do with this mitred prelate,with this crowned king?

Endicott gazed round at the excited countenances of the people, now full of his own spirit, and then turned

The officer obeyed; and, brandishing his sword, Endicott thrust it through the cloth, and, with his left hand,

rent the Red Cross completely out of the banner. He then waved the tattered ensign above his head.

"Sacrilegious wretch!" cried the highchurchman in the pillory, unable longer to restrain himself, "thou hast

"Treason, treason!" roared the royalist in the stocks. "He hath defaced the King's banner!"

"Before God and man, I will avouch the deed," answered Endicott. "Beat a flourish, drummer!shout,

soldiers and people!in honor of the ensign of New England. Neither Pope nor Tyrant hath part in it now!"

With a cry of triumph, the people gave their sanction to one of the boldest exploits which our history records.

And forever honored be the name of Endicott! We look back through the mist of ages, and recognize in the

rending of the Red Cross from New England's banner the first omen of that deliverance which our fathers

consummated after the bones of the stern Puritan had lain more than a century in the dust.

[Review of Nathaniel Hawthorne's] TwiceTold Tales. WE have always regarded the Tale (using this

word in its popular acceptation) as affording the best prose opportunity for display of the highest talent. It has

peculiar advantages which the novel does not admit. It is, of course, a far finer field than the essay. It has

even points of superiority over the poem. An accident has deprived us, this month, of our customary space for

review; and thus nipped in the bud a design long cherished of treating this subject in detail; taking Mr.

Hawthorne's volumes as a text. In May we shall endeavor to carry out our intention. At present we are forced

With rare exception � in the case of Mr. Irving's "Tales of a Traveller" and a few other works of a like

cast � we have had no American tales of high merit. We have had no skilful compositions � nothing which

could bear examination as works of art. Of twattle called talewriting we have had, perhaps, more than

enough. We have had a superabundance of the RosaMatilda effusions � giltedged paper all couleur de

rose: a full allowance of cutandthrust blueblazing melodramaticisms; a nauseating surfeit of low

miniature copying of low life, much in the manner, and with about half the merit, of the Dutch herrings and

Mr. Hawthorne's volumes appear to us misnamed in two respects. In the first place they should not have

been called "TwiceTold Tales" � for this is a title which will not bear repetition If in the first collected

edition they were twicetold, of course now they are thricetold. � May we live to hear them told a hundred

times! In the second place, these compositions are by no means all "Tales." The most of them are essays

properly so called. It would have been wise in their author to have modified his title, so as to have had

But under whatever titular blunders we receive this book it is most cordially welcome. We have seen no

prose composition by any American which can compare with some of these articles in the higher merits, or

indeed in the lower; while there Is not a single piece which would do dishonor to the best of the British

"The Rill from the Town Pump" which, through the ad captandum nature of its title, has attracted more

of public notice than any one other of Mr. Hawthorne's compositions, is perhaps, the least meritorious.

Among his best, we may briefly mention "The Hollow of the Three Hills," "The Minister's Black Veil;"

"Wakefield;" "Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe;" "Fancy's ShowBox;" "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment;

"David Swan;" "The Wedding Knell," and "The White Old Maid." It is remarkable that all these, with one

The style of Mr. Hawthorne is purity itself. His tone is singularly effective � wild, plaintive, thoughtful,

and in full accordance with his themes. We have only to object that there is sufficient diversity in these

themes themselves, or rather in their character. His originality both of incident and of reflection is very

remarkable; and this trait alone would ensure him at least our warmest regard and commendation. We speak

here chiefly of the tales; the essays are not so markedly novel Upon the whole we look upon him as one of

the few men of indisputable genius to whom our country has as yet given birth. As such, it will be our delight

to do him honor, and lest, in these undigested and cursory remarks, without proof and without explanation,

we should appear to do him more honor than Is his due, we postpone all farther comment until a more