THE GRAY CHAMPION. Half-title.
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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
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sullen submission, by that filial love which had invariably
secured their allegiance to the mother country,
whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector,
or popish Monarch. Till these evil times, however,
such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists
had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom,
than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects
of Great Britain.
At length, a rumor reached our shores, that the
Prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise, the
success of which would be the triumph of civil and
religious rights and the salvation of New England. It
was but a doubtful whisper; it might be false, or the
attempt might fail; and, in either case, the man, that
stirred against King James, would lose his head. Still
the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people
smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold
glances at their oppressors; while, far and wide, there
was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest
signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish
despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved
to avert it by an imposing display of strength,
and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher
measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund
Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with
wine, assembled the red-coats of the Governor's Guard,
and made their appearance in the streets of Boston.
The sun was near setting when the march commenced.
The roll of the drum, at that unquiet crisis, seemed
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to go through the streets, less as the martial music of
the soldiers, than as a muster-call to the inhabitants
themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assembled
in King-street, which was destined to be the scene,
nearly a century 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 was the sober garb, the general severity of mien,
the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural
forms of speech, and the confidence in Heaven's blessing
on a righteous cause, which would have marked
a band of the original Puritans, when threatened by
some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet
time for the old spirit to be extinct; since there were
men in the street, that day, who had worshiped 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 Phillip's war, who had burnt 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
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them with such reverence, as if there were sanctity in
their very garments. These holy men exerted their
influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them.
Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, in disturbing
the peace of the town, at a period when the slightest
commotion might throw the country into a ferment,
was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and variously
explained.
`Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,' cried
some, `because he knoweth that his time is short. All
our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison! We
shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King-street!'
Hereupon, the people of each parish gathered closer
round their minister, who looked calmly 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 her own, to take the place of that worthy in the
Primer.
`The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new St.
Bartholomew!' cried others. `We are to be massacred,
man and male child!'
Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although
the wiser class believed the Governor's object somewhat
less atrocious. His predecessor under the old
charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first
settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds
for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros intended,
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at once, to strike terror, by a parade of military force,
and to confound the opposite faction, by possessing
himself of their chief.
`Stand firm for the old charter Governor!' shouted
the crowd, seizing upon the idea. `The good old Governor
Bradstreet!'
While this cry was at the loudest, the people were
surprised by the well known figure of Governor Bradstreet
himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared
on the elevated steps of a door, and, with characteristic
mildness, besought them to submit to the
constituted authorities.
`My children,' concluded this venerable person, `do
nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare
of New England, and expect patiently what the
Lord will do in this matter!'
The event was soon to be decided. All this time,
the roll of the drum had been approaching through
Cornhill, louder and deeper, till, with reverberations
from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial
footsteps, it burst into the street. A double rank of
soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole
breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks,
and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in
the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress
of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over every
thing 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
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Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like.
Those around him were his favorite councillors, and
the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand
rode Edward Randolph, our arch enemy, that `blasted
wretch,' as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the
downfall of our ancient government, and was followed
with a sensible curse, through life and to his grave.
On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and
mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind, with
a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet
the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him,
their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors
of his native land. The captain of a frigate in the
harbor, and two or three civil officers under the Crown,
were also there. But the figure which most attracted
the public eye, and stirred up the deepest feeling, was
the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel, riding
haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments,
the fitting representative of prelacy and persecution,
the union of church and state, and all those
abominations which had driven the Puritans to the
wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in double rank,
brought up the rear.
The whole scene was a picture of the condition of
New England, and its moral, the deformity of any
government that does not grow out of the nature
of things and the character of the people. On one
side the religious multitude, with their sad visages and
dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic
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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.
`Oh! Lord of Hosts,' cried a voice among the crowd,
`provide a Champion for thy people!'
This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a
herald's cry, to introduce a remarkable personage.
The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together
nearly at the extremity of the street, while the
soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its
length. The intervening space was empty—a paved
solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a
twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen the
figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have emerged
from among the people, and was walking by himself
along the centre of the street, to confront the armed
band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark cloak
and a steeple-crowned hat, in the fashion of at least
fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh,
but a staff in his hand, to assist the tremulous gait of
age.
When at some distance from the multitude, the old
man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique
majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard
that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at
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once of encouragement and warning, then turned
again, and resumed his way.
`Who is this gray patriarch?' asked the young men
of their sires.
`Who is this venerable brother?' asked the old men
among themselves.
But none could make reply. The fathers of the
people, those of fourscore years and 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 memories—that hoary sire, the relic of long-departed
times, whose awful benediction had surely
been bestowed on their uncovered heads, in childhood?
`Whence did he come? What is his purpose? Who
can this old man be?' whispered the wondering crowd.
Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand,
was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the
street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and
as the roll of their drum came full upon his ear, the
old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude
of age seemed to fall from his shoulders,
leaving him in gray, but unbroken dignity. Now, he
marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time
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to the military music. Thus the aged form advanced
on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates
on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards
remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the
middle, and held it before him like a leader's truncheon.
`Stand!' cried he.
The eye, the face, and attitude of command; the
solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule
a host in the battle-field or be raised to God in prayer,
were irresistible. At the old man's word and outstretched
arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at once,
and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm
seized upon the multitude. That stately
form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so
dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong
to some old champion of the righteous cause, whom
the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave.
They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked
for the deliverance of New England.
The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving
themselves brought to an unexpected stand,
rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed
their snorting and affrighted horses right against the
hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step,
but glancing his severe eye round the group, which
half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir
Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the
dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the Governor
and Council, with soldiers at their back,
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representing the whole power and authority of the Crown,
had no alternative but obedience.
`What does this old fellow here?' cried Edward
Randolph, fiercely. `On, Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers
forward, and give the dotard the same choice
that you give all his countrymen—to stand aside or be
trampled on!'
`Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grandsire,
' said Bullivant, laughing. `See you not, he is
some old round-headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep
these thirty years, and knows nothing of the change
of times? Doubtless, he thinks to put us down with
a proclamation in Old Noll's name!'
`Are you mad, old man?' demanded Sir Edmund
Andros, in loud and harsh tones. `How dare you stay
the march of King James's Governor?'
`I have staid 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
by-word in this very street, where ye would make it a
word of terror. Back, thou that wast a Governor,
back! With this night thy power is ended—tomorrow,
the prison!—back, lest I foretel the scaffold!'
The people had been drawing nearer and nearer,
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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 over-awed
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 marveled at the venerable
grandeur of his aspect, the old man had faded from
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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 re-appearance, in sunshine
and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor
knew when his funeral passed, nor where his gravestone
was.
And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his
name might be found in the records of that stern Court
of Justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty for
the age, but glorious in all after times, for its humbling
lesson to the monarch and its high example to the
subject. I have heard, that, whenever the descendants
of the Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires,
the old man appears again. When eighty years had
passed, he walked once more in King-street. Five
years later, in the twilight of an April morning, he
stood on the green, beside the meeting house, at Lexington,
where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab
of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of the
Revolution. And when our fathers were toiling at the
breastwork on Bunker's Hill, all through that night
the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it
be, ere he comes again! His hour is one of darkness,
and adversity, and peril. But should domestic tyranny
oppress us, or the invader's step pollute our soil, still
may the Gray Champion come; for he is the type of
New England's hereditary spirit: and his shadowy
march, on the eve of danger, must ever be the pledge,
that New England's sons will vindicate their ancestry.
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SUNDAY AT HOME. Page 023.
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Every Sabbath morning, in the summer time, I
thrust back the curtain, to watch the sunrise stealing
down a steeple, which stands opposite my chamber
window. First, the weathercock begins to flash; then,
a fainter lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it
encroaches on the tower, and causes the index of the
dial to glisten like gold, as it points to the gilded figure
of the hour. Now, the loftiest window gleams,
and now the lower. The carved frame-work of the
portal is marked strongly out. At length, the morning
glory, in its descent from Heaven, comes down the
stone steps, one by one; and there stands the steeple,
glowing with fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight
still hide themselves among the nooks of the
adjacent buildings. Methinks, though the same sun
brightens it, every fair morning, yet the steeple has a
peculiar robe of brightness for the Sabbath.
By dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts
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an attachment for the edifice. We naturally personify
it, and conceive its massive walls, and its dim emptiness,
to be instinct with a calm, and meditative, and
somewhat melancholy spirit. But the steeple stands
foremost, in our thoughts, as well as locally. It impresses
us as a giant, with a mind comprehensive and
discriminating enough to care for the great and small
concerns of all the town. Hourly, while it speaks a
moral to the few that think, it reminds thousands of
busy individuals of their separate and most secret
affairs. It is the steeple, too, that flings abroad the
hurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neither
have gladness and festivity found a better utterance,
than by its tongue; and when the dead are slowly
passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy
voice to bid them welcome. Yet, in spite of this connexion
with human interests, what a moral loneliness,
on week days, broods round about its stately height!
It has no kindred with the houses above which it
towers; it looks down into the narrow thoroughfare,
the lonelier, because the crowd are elbowing their
passage at its base. A glance at the body of the
church deepens this impression. Within, by the light
of distant windows, amid refracted shadows, we discern
the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silent
organ, the voiceless pulpit, and the clock, which tells
to solitude how time is passing. Time—where man
lives not—what is it but eternity? And in the church,
we might suppose, are garnered up, throughout the
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week, all thoughts and feelings that have reference to
eternity, until the holy day comes round again, to let
them forth. Might not, then, its more appropriate site
be in the outskirts of the town, with space for old
trees to wave around it, and throw their solemn shadows
over a quiet green? We will say more of this,
hereafter.
But, on the Sabbath, I watch the earliest sunshine,
and fancy that a holier brightness marks the day,
when there shall be no buzz of voices on the Exchange,
nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd, nor business,
anywhere but at church. Many have fancied
so. For my own part, whether I see it scattered down
among tangled woods, or beaming broad across the
fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing
out the figure of the casement on my chamber
floor, still I recognise the Sabbath sunshine. And
ever let me recognise it! Some illusions, and this
among them, are the shadows of great truths. Doubts
may flit around me, or seem to close their evil wings,
and settle down; but, so long as I imagine that the
earth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its
sanctity, on the Sabbath—while that blessed sunshine
lives within me—never can my soul have lost the instinct
of its faith. If it have gone astray, it will return
again.
I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths, from morning
till night, behind the curtain of my open window.
Are they spent amiss? Every spot, so near the church
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as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple,
should be deemed consecrated ground, to-day. With
stronger truth be it said, that a devout heart may consecrate
a den of thieves, as an evil one may convert a
temple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has not such
holy, nor, I would fain trust, such impious potency.
It must suffice, that, though my form be absent, my
inner man goes constantly to church, while many,
whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats, have
left their souls at home. But I am there, even before
my friend, the sexton. At length, he comes—a man
of kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark gray clothes,
and hair of the same mixture—he comes, and applies
his key to the wide portal. Now, my thoughts may
go in among the dusty pews, or ascend the pulpit
without sacrilege, but soon come forth again, to enjoy
the music of the bell. How glad, yet solemn too!
All the steeples in town are talking together, aloft in
the sunny air, and rejoicing among themselves, while
their spires point heavenward. Meantime, here are
the children assembling to the Sabbath-school, which
is kept somewhere within the church. Often, while
looking at the arched portal, I have been gladdened
by the sight of a score of these little girls and boys, in
pink, blue, yellow, and crimson frocks, bursting suddenly
forth into the sunshine, like a swarm of gay
butterflies that had been shut up in the solemn gloom.
Or I might compare them to cherubs, haunting that
holy place.
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About a quarter of an hour before the second ringing
of the bell, individuals of the congregation begin
to appear. The earliest is invariably an old woman
in black, whose bent frame and rounded shoulders are
evidently laden with some heavy affliction, which she
is eager to rest upon the altar. Would that the Sabbath
came twice as often, for the sake of that sorrowful
old soul! There is an elderly man, also, who
arrives in good season, and leans against the corner
of the tower, just within the line of its shadow, looking
downward with a darksome brow. I sometimes
fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two.
After these, others drop in singly, and by twos and
threes, either disappearing through the door-way, or
taking their stand in its vicinity. At last, and always
with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the
steeple overhead, and throws out an irregular clangor,
jarring the tower to its foundation. As if there were
magic in the sound, the sidewalks of the street, both
up and down along, are immediately thronged with
two long lines of people, all converging hitherward,
and streaming into the church. Perhaps the far-off
roar of a coach draws nearer—a deeper thunder by its
contrast with the surrounding stillness—until it sets
down the wealthy worshipers at the portal, among
their humblest brethren. Beyond that entrance, in
theory at least, there are no distinctions of earthly
rank; nor, indeed, by the goodly apparel which is
flaunting in the sun, would there seem to be such, on
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the hither side. Those pretty girls! Why will they
disturb my pious meditations! Of all days in the
week, they should strive to look least fascinating on
the Sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness,
as if to rival the blessed angels, and keep our
thoughts from heaven. Were I the minister himself,
I must needs look. One girl is white muslin from the
waist upwards, and black silk downwards to her slippers;
a second blushes from top-knot to shoe-tie, one
universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow,
as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. The
greater part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness
of hue. Their veils, especially when the wind
raises them, give a lightness to the general effect, and
make them appear like airy phantoms, as they flit up
the steps, and vanish into the sombre door-way. Nearly
all—though it is very strange that I should know
it—wear white stockings, white as snow, and neat
slippers, laced crosswise with black ribbon, pretty
high above the ankles. A white stocking is infinitely
more effective than a black one.
Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in
severe simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote
his office. His aspect claims my reverence, but cannot
win my love. Were I to picture Saint Peter,
keeping fast the gate of Heaven, and frowning, more
stern than pitiful, on the wretched applicants, that
face should be my study. By middle age, or sooner,
the creed has generally wrought upon the heart, or
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been attempered by it. As the minister passes into
the church, the bell holds its iron tongue, and all the
low murmur of the congregation dies away. The
gray sexton looks up and down the street, and then at
my window curtain, where, through the small peep-hole,
I half fancy that he has caught my eye. Now,
every loiterer has gone in, and the street lies asleep in
the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over
me, and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected
privileges and duties. Oh, I ought to have gone to
church! The bustle of the rising congregation reaches
my ears. They are standing up to pray. Could I
bring my heart into unison with those who are praying
in yonder church, and lift it heavenward, with a
fervor of supplication, but no distinct request, would
not that be the safest kind of prayer? `Lord, look
down upon me in mercy!' With that sentiment gushing
from my soul, might I not leave all the rest to
Him?
Hark! the hymn. This, at least, is a portion of
the service which I can enjoy better than if I sat within
the walls, where the full choir, and the massive
melody of the organ, would fall with a weight upon
me. At this distance, it thrills through my frame,
and plays upon my heart-strings, with a pleasure both
of the sense and spirit. Heaven be praised, I know
nothing of music, as a science; and the most elaborate
harmonies, if they please me, please as simply as
a nurse's lullaby. The strain has ceased, but prolongs
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itself in my mind, with fanciful echoes, till I start
from my reverie, and find that the sermon has commenced.
It is my misfortune seldom to fructify, in a
regular way, by any but printed sermons. The first
strong idea, which the preacher utters, gives birth to
a train of thought, and leads me onward, step by step,
quite out of hearing of the good man's voice, unless
he be indeed a son of thunder. At my open window,
catching now and then a sentence of the `parson's
saw,' I am as well situated as at the foot of the pulpit
stairs. The broken and scattered fragments of this
one discourse will be the texts of many sermons,
preached by those colleague pastors—colleagues, but
often disputants—my Mind and Heart. The former
pretends to be a scholar, and perplexes me with doctrinal
points; the latter takes me on the score of feeling;
and both, like several other preachers, spend
their strength to very little purpose. I, their sole
auditor, cannot always understand them.
Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold
me still behind my curtain, just before the close of
the afternoon service. The hour-hand on the dial has
passed beyond four o'clock. The declining sun is
hidden behind the steeple, and throws its shadow
straight across the street, so that my chamber is darkened,
as with a cloud. Around the church door, all
is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity, beyond the
threshold. A commotion is heard. The seats are
slammed down, and the pew doors thrown back—a
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multitude of feet are trampling along the unseen
aisles—and the congregation bursts suddenly through
the portal. Foremost, scampers a rabble of boys, behind
whom moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown
men, and lastly, a crowd of females, with young children,
and a few scattered husbands. This instantaneous
outbreak of life into loneliness is one of the pleasantest
scenes of the day. Some of the good people are rubbing
their eyes, thereby intimating that they have
been wrapt, as it were, in a sort of holy trance, by
the fervor of their devotion. There is a young man,
a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to
flourish a white handkerchief, and brush the seat of a
tight pair of black silk pantaloons, which shine as if
varnished. They must have been made of the stuff
called `everlasting,' or perhaps of the same piece as
Christian's garments, in the Pilgrim's Progress, for he
put them on two summers ago, and has not yet worn
the gloss off. I have taken a great liking to those
black silk pantaloons. But, now, with nods and
greetings among friends, each matron takes her husband's
arm, and paces gravely homeward, while the
girls also flutter away, after arranging sunset walks
with their favored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the
eve of love. At length, the whole congregation is
dispersed. No; here, with faces as glossy as black
satin, come two sable ladies and a sable gentleman,
and close in their rear, the minister, who softens his
severe visage, and bestows a kind word on each. Poor
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
souls! To them, the most captivating picture of bliss
in Heaven, is—`There we shall be white!'
All is solitude again. But, hark!—a broken warbling
of voices, and now, attuning its grandeur to their
sweetness, a stately peal of the organ. Who are the
choristers? Let me dream, that the angels, who
came down from Heaven, this blessed morn, to blend
themselves with the worship of the truly good, are
playing and singing their farewell to the earth. On
the wings of that rich melody, they were borne upward.
This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. A
few of the singing men and singing women had lingered
behind their fellows, and raised their voices fitfully,
and blew a careless note upon the organ. Yet, it
lifted my soul higher than all their former strains.
They are gone—the sons and daughters of music—
and the gray sexton is just closing the portal. For
six days more, there will be no face of man in the
pews, and aisles, and galleries, nor a voice in the
pulpit, nor music in the choir. Was it worth while
to rear this massive edifice, to be a desert in the heart
of the town, and populous only for a few hours of each
seventh day? Oh! but the church is a symbol of
religion. May its site, which was consecrated on the
day when the first tree was felled, be kept holy for ever,
a spot of solitude and peace, amid the trouble and
vanity of our week-day world! There is a moral, and
a religion too, even in the silent walls. And, may the
steeple still point heavenward, and be decked with the
hallowed sunshine of the Sabbath morn!
-- 035 --
THE WEDDING KNELL. Page 035.
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-- 037 -- p120-040
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
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 girl-hood.
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 lovelies 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
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
its tower, one would be willing to connect some
legendary interest.
The marriage might be considered as the result of
an early engagement, though there had been two intermediate
weddings on the lady's part, and forty years
of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty-five,
Mr. Ellenwood was a shy, but not quite a secluded
man; selfish, like all men who brood over their own
hearts, yet manifesting, on rare occasions, a vein of
generous sentiment; a scholar, throughout life, though
always an indolent one, because his studies had no
definite object, either of public advantage or personal
ambition; a gentleman, high-bred and fastidiously
delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable relaxation,
in his behalf, of the common rules of society.
In truth, there were so many anomalies in his character,
and, though shrinking with diseased sensibility
from public notice, it had been his fatality so often to
become the topic of the day, by some wild eccentricity
of conduct, that people searched his lineage for 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 was the consequence, and
not the cause, of an aimless and abortive life.
The widow was as complete a contrast to her third
bridegroom, in every thing but age, as can well be
conceived. Compelled to relinquish her first
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
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
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
world, with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood,
was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney's return to her
native city. Superficial observers, and deeper ones,
seemed to concur, in supposing that the lady must
have borne no inactive part, in arranging the affair;
there were considerations of expediency, which she
would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. Ellenwood;
and there was just the specious phantom of
sentiment and romance, in this late union of two early
lovers, which sometimes makes a fool of a woman,
who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of
life. All the wonder was, how the gentleman, with
his lack of worldly wisdom, and agonizing consciousness
of ridicule, could have been induced to take a
measure, at once so prudent and so laughable. But
while people talked, the wedding day arrived. The
ceremony was to be solemnized according to the
Episcopalian forms, and in open church, with a degree
of publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied
the front seats of the galleries, and the pews near
the altar and along the broad aisle. It had been
arranged, or possibly it was the custom of the day,
that the parties should proceed separately to church.
By some accident, the bridegroom was a little less
punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants;
with whose arrival, after this tedious, but necessary
preface, the action of our tale may be said to commence.
The clumsy wheels of several old fashioned coaches
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
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 gaiety. As they streamed up
the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to
brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as
if they mistook the church for a ball-room, and were
ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant
was the spectacle, that few took notice of a singular
phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the
moment when the bride's foot touched the threshold,
the bell swung heavily in the tower above her, and
sent forth its deepest knell. The vibrations died
away and returned, with prolonged solemnity, as she
entered the body of the church.
`Good heavens! what an omen,' whispered a young
lady to her lover.
`On my honor,' replied the gentleman, `I believe
the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord.
What has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest
Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring
out its merriest peal. It has only a funeral knell for
her.'
The bride, and most of her company, had been too
much occupied with the bustle of entrance, to hear
the first boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect
on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar.
They therefore continued to advance, with
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
undiminished gaiety. The gorgeous dresses of the time, the
crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop-petticoats,
the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery,
the buckles, canes and swords, all displayed to the
best advantage on persons suited to such finery, made
the group appear more like a bright colored picture,
than any thing real. But by what perversity of taste,
had the artist represented his principal figure as so
wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her
out in the brightest splendor of attire, as if the loveliest
maiden had suddenly withered into age, and become
a moral to the beautiful around her! On they
went, however, and had glittered along about a third
of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to
fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and
obscuring the bright pageant, till it shone forth again
as from a mist.
This time the party wavered, stopt, 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;
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet
in dismay, she took the lead, and paced calmly up the
aisle. The bell continued to swing, strike, and vibrate,
with the same doleful regularity, as when a
corpse is on its way to the tomb.
`My young friends here have their nerves a little
shaken,' said the widow, with a smile, to the clergyman
at the altar. `But so many weddings have been
ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet
turned out unhappily, that I shall hope for better fortune
under such different auspices.'
`Madam,' answered the rector, in great perplexity,
`this strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage
sermon of the famous Bishop Taylor, wherein he
mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future woe,
that, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, he
seems to hang the bridal chamber in black, and cut
the wedding garment out of a coffin pall. And it has
been the custom of divers nations to infuse something
of sadness into their marriage ceremonies; so to keep
death in mind, while contracting that engagement
which is life's chiefest business. Thus we may draw
a sad but profitable moral from this funeral knell.'
But, though the clergyman might have given his
moral even a keener point, he did not fail to despatch
an attendant to inquire into the mystery, and stop
those sounds, so dismally appropriate to such a marriage.
A brief space elapsed, during which the silence
was broken only by whispers, and a few suppressed
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
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 time-worn marble that she had dedicated
to her first husband; then her eyelids dropt over
their faded orbs, and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly
to another grave. Two buried men, with a voice
at her ear and a cry afar off, were calling her to lie
down beside them. Perhaps, with momentary truth
of feeling, she thought how much happier had been
her fate, if, after years of bliss, the bell were now tolling
for her funeral, and she were followed to the grave
by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her
husband. But why had she returned to him, when
their cold hearts shrank from each other's embrace?
Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully, that the
sunshine seemed to fade in the air. A whisper, communicated
from those who stood nearest the windows,
now spread through the church; a hearse, with a train
of several coaches, was creeping along the street, conveying
some dead man to the church-yard, while the
bride awaited a living one at the altar. Immediately
after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends
were heard at the door. The widow looked down
the aisle, and clenched the arm of one of her bridemaids
in her bony hand, with such unconscious violence,
that the fair girl trembled.
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
`You frighten me, my dear madam!' cried she.
`For heaven's sake, what is the matter?'
`Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said the widow; then,
whispering close to her ear,—`There is a foolish fancy,
that I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my bridegroom
to come into the church, with my two first husbands
for groomsmen!'
`Look, look!' screamed the bridemaid. `What is
here? The funeral!'
As she spoke, a dark procession paced into the
church. First came an old man and woman, like
chief mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot
in the deepest black, all but their pale features and
hoary hair; he leaning on a staff, and supporting her
decrepit form with his nerveless arm. Behind, appeared
another, and another pair, as aged, as black, and
mournful as the first. As they drew near, the widow
recognised in every face some trait of former friends,
long forgotten, but now returning, as if from their old
graves, to warn her to prepare a shroud; or, with purpose
almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles
and infirmity, and claim her as their companion by
the tokens of her own decay. Many a merry night
had she danced with them, in youth. And now, in
joyless age, she felt that some withered partner should
request her hand, and all unite, in a dance of death,
to the music of the funeral bell.
While these aged mourners were passing up the
aisle, it was observed, that, from pew to pew, the
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
spectators shuddered with irrepressible awe, as some
object, hitherto concealed by the intervening figures,
came full in sight. Many turned away their faces;
others kept a fixed and rigid stare; and a young girl
giggled hysterically, and fainted with the laughter on
her lips. When the spectral procession approached
the altar, each couple separated, and slowly diverged,
till, in the centre, appeared a form, that had been
worthily ushered in with all this gloomy pomp, the
death-knell, and the funeral It was the bridegroom
in his shroud!
No garb but that of the grave could have befitted
such a death-like aspect; the eyes, indeed, had the
wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed in
the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin.
The corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow
in accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the
bell, which fell heavily on the air while he spoke.
`Come, my bride!' said those pale lips, `The hearse
is ready. The sexton stands waiting for us at the
door of the tomb. Let us be married; and then to
our coffins!'
How shall the widow's horror be represented! It
gave her the ghastliness of a dead man's bride. Her
youthful friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourners,
the shrouded bridegroom, and herself; the whole
scene expressed, by the strongest imagery, the vain
struggle of the gilded vanities of this world, when opposed
to age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. The awestruck
silence was first broken by the clergyman.
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
`Mr Ellenwood,' said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat
of authority, `you are not well. Your mind has
been agitated by the unusual circumstances in which
you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred. As
an old friend, let me entreat you to return home.'
`Home! yes; but not without my bride,' answered
he, in the same hollow accents. `You deem this
mockery; perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my
aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery—
had I forced my withered lips to smile at my dead
heart—that might have been mockery, or madness.
But now, let young and old declare, which of us has
come hither without a wedding garment, the bridegroom,
or the bride!'
He stept forward at a ghostly pace, and stood beside
the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of his
shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had
arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None, that
beheld them, could deny the terrible strength of the
moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to
draw.
`Cruel! cruel!' groaned the heart-stricken bride.
`Cruel?' repeated he; then losing his death-like
composure in a wild bitterness,—`Heaven judge, which
of us has been cruel to the other! In youth, you deprived
me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you
took away all the substance of my life, and made it a
dream, without reality enough even to grieve at—with
only a pervading gloom, through which I walked
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
wearily, and cared not whither. But after forty years,
when I have built my tomb, and would not give up
the thought of resting there—no, not for such a life
as we once pictured—you call me to the altar. At
your summons I am here. But other husbands have
enjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of heart,
and all that could be termed your life. What is there
for me but your decay and death? And therefore I
have bidden these funeral friends, and bespoken the
sexton's deepest knell, and am come, in my shroud, to
wed you, as with a burial service, that we may join
our hands at the door of the sepulchre, and enter it
together.'
It was not frenzy; it was not merely the drunkenness
of strong emotion, in a heart unused to it, that
now wrought upon the bride. The stern lesson of the
day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. She
seized the bridegroom's hand.
`Yes!' cried she. `Let us wed, even at the door
of the sepulchre! My life is gone in vanity and
emptiness. But at its close, there is one true feeling.
It has made me what I was in youth; it makes me
worthy of you. Time is no more for both of us. Let
us wed for eternity!'
With a long and deep regard, the bridegroom looked
into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his
own. How strange that gush of human feeling from
the frozen bosom of a corpse! He wiped away the
tear, even with his shroud.
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
`Beloved of my youth,' said he, `I have been wild.
The despair of my whole lifetime had returned at
once, and maddened me. Forgive; and be forgiven.
Yes; it is evening with us now; and we have realized
none of our morning dreams of happiness. But let us
join our hands before the altar, as lovers, whom adverse
circumstances have separated through life, yet who
meet again as they are leaving it, and find their earthly
affection changed into something holy as religion.
And what is Time, to the married of Eternity?'
Amid the tears of many, and a swell of exalted
sentiment, in those who felt aright, was solemnized
the union of two immortal souls. The train of withered
mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the
pale features of the aged bride, and the death-bell tolling
through the whole, till its deep voice overpowered
the marriage words, all marked the funeral of earthly
hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as
if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive scene,
poured forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal
knell, then rising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked
down upon its woe. And when the awful rite was
finished, and with cold hand in cold hand, the Married
of Eternity withdrew, the organ's peal of solemn
triumph drowned the Wedding Knell.
-- --
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-- 051 --
THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. Page 051.
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-- 053 -- p120-056
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting-house,
pulling lustily at the bell-rope. The old people
of the village came stooping along the street. Children,
with bright faces, tript merrily beside their parents,
or mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of
their sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked side-long
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
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
the Reverend Mr. Hooper's door. The first glimpse
of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to
cease its summons.
`But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his
face?' cried the sexton in astonishment.
All within hearing immediately turned about, and
beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly
his meditative way towards the meeting-house. With
one accord they started, expressing more wonder than
if some strange minister were coming to dust the
cushions of Mr. Hooper's pulpit.
`Are you sure it is our parson?' inquired Goodman
Gray of the sexton.
`Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper,' replied the
sexton. `He was to have exchanged pulpits with
Parson Shute of Westbury; but Parson Shute sent to
excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral
sermon.'
The cause of so much amazement may appear
sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly person
of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed
with due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had
starched his band, and brushed the weekly dust from
his Sunday's garb. There was but one thing remarkable
in his appearance. Swathed about his forehead,
and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken
by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a
nearer view, it seemed to consist of two folds of crape,
which entirely concealed his features, except the mouth
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight,
farther than to give a darkened aspect to all living and
inanimate things. With this gloomy shade before him,
good Mr. Hooper walked onward, at a slow and quiet
pace, stooping somewhat and looking on the ground,
as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding
kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on
the meeting-house steps. But so wonder-struck were
they, that his greeting hardly met with a return.
`I can't really feel as if good Mr. Hooper's face was
behind that piece of crape,' said the sexton.
`I don't like it,' muttered an old woman, as she
hobbled into the meeting-house. `He has changed
himself into something awful, only by hiding his face.'
`Our parson has gone mad!' cried Goodman Gray,
following him across the threshold.
A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had
preceded Mr. Hooper into the meeting-house, and set
all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from
twisting their heads 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
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a white-haired
great-grandsire, who occupied an arm-chair in
the centre of the aisle. It was strange to observe,
how slowly this venerable man became conscious of
something singular in the appearance of his pastor.
He seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing wonder,
till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs, and
showed himself in the pulpit, face to face with his congregation,
except for the black veil. That mysterious
emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook with
his measured breath as he gave out the psalm; it threw
its obscurity between him and the holy page, as he
read the Scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay
heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did he seek to
hide it from the dread Being whom he was addressing?
Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape,
that more than one woman of delicate nerves was forced
to leave the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the palefaced
congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the
minister, as his black veil to them.
Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher,
but not an energetic one: he strove to win his people
heavenward, by mild persuasive influences, rather than
to drive them thither, by the thunders of the Word.
The sermon which he now delivered, was marked by
the same characteristics of style and manner, as the
general series of his pulpit oratory. But there was
something, either in the sentiment of the discourse
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, which
made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had
ever heard from their pastor's lips. It was tinged,
rather more darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom
of Mr. Hooper's temperament. The subject had reference
to secret sin, and those sad mysteries which
we hide from our nearest and dearest, and would fain
conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting
that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power
was breathed into his words. Each member of the
congregation, the most innocent girl, and the man of
hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon
them, behind his awful veil, and discovered their hoarded
iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their
clasped hands on their bosoms. There was nothing
terrible in what Mr. Hooper said; at least, no violence;
and yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice,
the hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand
in hand with awe. So sensible were the audience of
some unwonted attribute in their minister, that they
longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil,
almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered,
though the form, gesture, and voice were
those of Mr. Hooper.
At the close of the services, the people hurried out
with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their
pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits,
the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some
gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
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
as he disappeared.
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
`How strange,' said a lady, `that a simple black
veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet,
should become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper's
face!'
`Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper's
intellects,' observed her husband, the physician of the
village. `But the strangest part of the affair is the
effect of this vagary, even on a sober-minded man like
myself. The black veil, though it covers only our
pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person,
and makes him ghost-like from head to foot. Do
you not feel it so?'
`Truly do I,' replied the lady; `and I would not be
alone with him for the world. I wonder he is not
afraid to be alone with himself!'
`Men sometimes are so,' said her husband.
The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances.
At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the
funeral of a young lady. The relatives and friends
were assembled in the house, and the more distant
acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the
good qualities of the deceased, when their talk was
interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still
covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate
emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room
where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin,
to take a last farewell of his deceased parishioner.
As he stooped, the veil hung straight down from his
forehead, so that, if her eye-lids had not been closed
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
for ever, the dead maiden might have seen his face.
Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so
hastily caught back the black veil? A person, who
watched the interview between the dead and living,
scrupled not to affirm, that, at the instant when the
clergyman's features were disclosed, the corpse had
slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap,
though the countenance retained the composure of
death. A superstitious old woman was the only witness
of this prodigy. From the coffin, Mr. Hooper
passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence
to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral
prayer. It was a tender and heart-dissolving prayer,
full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes, that
the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of
the dead, seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest
accents of the minister. The people trembled,
though they but darkly understood him, when he prayed
that they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might
be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been,
for the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from
their faces. The bearers went heavily forth, and the
mourners followed, saddening all the street, with the
dead before them, and Mr. Hooper in his black veil
behind.
`Why do you look back?' said one in the procession
to his partner.
`I had a fancy,' replied she, `that the minister and
the maiden's spirit were walking hand in hand.'
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
`And so had I, at the same moment,' said the
other.
That night, the handsomest couple in Milford village
were to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned a
melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness
for such occasions, which often excited a sympathetic
smile, where livelier merriment would have been
thrown away. There was no quality of his disposition
which made him more beloved than this. The company
at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience
trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered
over him throughout the day, would now be dispelled.
But such was not the result. When Mr. Hooper came,
the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same
horrible black veil, which had added deeper gloom to
the funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to the
wedding. Such was its immediate effect on the guests,
that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath
the black crape, and dimmed the light of the candles.
The bridal pair stood up before the minister. But the
bride's cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of
the bridegroom, and her death-like paleness caused a
whisper, that the maiden who had been buried a few
hours before, was come from her grave to be married.
If ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that
famous one, where they tolled the wedding-knell.
After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper raised
a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the
new-married couple, in a strain of mild pleasantry that
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
ought to have brightened the features of the guests,
like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant,
catching a glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass,
the black veil involved his own spirit in the
horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His
frame shuddered—his lips grew white—he spilt the
untasted wine upon the carpet—and rushed forth into
the darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her Black
Veil.
The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of
little else than Parson Hooper's black veil. That,
and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic
for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the
street, and good women gossiping at their open windows.
It was the first item of news that the tavern-keeper
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 well nigh lost his wits by his own
waggery.
It was remarkable, that, of all the busy-bodies and
impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to
put the plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he
did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared the
slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked
advisers, nor shown himself averse to be guided by
their judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so painful
a degree of self-distrust, that even the mildest
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action
as a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this
amiable weakness, no individual among his parishioners
chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly
remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, neither
plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which
caused each to shift the responsibility upon another,
till at length it was found expedient to send a deputation
of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper
about the mystery, before it should grow into a scandal.
Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties.
The minister received them with friendly courtesy,
but became silent, after they were seated, leaving to
his visiters the whole burthen 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
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require
a general synod.
But there was one person in the village, unappalled
by the awe with which the black veil had impressed
all 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 stirring with his breath.
`No,' said she aloud, and smiling, `there is nothing
terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides a
face which I am always glad to look upon. Come,
good sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud.
First lay aside your black veil: then tell me why you
put it on.'
Mr. Hooper's smile glimmered faintly.
`There is an hour to come,' said he, `when all of us
shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved
friend, if I wear this piece of crape till then.'
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
`Your words are a mystery too,' returned the young
lady. `Take away the veil from them, at least.'
`Elizabeth, I will,' said he, `so far as my vow may
suffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol,
and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and
darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes,
and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends.
No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal
shade must separate me from the world: even you,
Elizabeth, can never come behind it!'
`What grievous affliction hath befallen you,' she
earnestly inquired, `that you should thus darken your
eyes for ever?'
`If it be a sign of mourning,' replied Mr. Hooper,
`I, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark
enough to be typified by a black veil.'
`But what if the world will not believe that it is the
type of an innocent sorrow?' urged Elizabeth. `Beloved
and respected as you are, there may be whispers,
that you hide your face under the consciousness of
secret sin. For the sake of your holy office, do away
this scandal!'
The color rose into her cheeks, as she intimated
the nature of the rumors that were already abroad in
the village. But Mr. Hooper's mildness did not forsake
him. He even smiled again—that same sad smile,
which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light,
proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil.
`If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough,'
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
he merely replied; `and if I cover it for secret sin,
what mortal might not do the same?'
And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy,
did he resist all her entreaties. At length Elizabeth
sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in
thought, considering, probably, what new methods
might be tried, to withdraw her lover from so dark a
fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps
a symptom of mental disease. Though of a firmer
character than his own, the tears rolled down her
cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new feeling
took the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly
on the black veil, when, like a sudden twilight in
the air, its terrors fell around her. She arose, and
stood trembling before him.
`And do you feel it then at last?' said he mournfully.
She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her
hand, and turned to leave the room. He rushed forward
and caught her arm.
`Have patience with me, Elizabeth!' cried he passionately.
`Do not desert me, though this veil must
be between us here on earth Be mine, and hereafter
there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness
between our souls! It is but a mortal veil—it is not
for eternity! Oh! you know not how lonely I am, and
how frightened, to be alone behind my black veil. Do
not leave me in this miserable obscurity for ever!'
`Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face,'
said she.
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
`Never! It cannot be!' replied Mr. Hooper.
`Then, farewell!' said Elizabeth.
She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly
departed, pausing at the door, to give one long, shuddering
gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the
mystery of the black veil. But, even amid his grief,
Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem
had separated him from happiness, though the
horrors which it shadowed forth, must be drawn darkly
between the fondest of lovers.
From that time no attempts were made to remove
Mr. Hooper's black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to discover
the secret which it was supposed to hide. By
persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice,
it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such
as often mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise
rational, and tinges them all with its own semblance
of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr.
Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not
walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious
was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to
avoid him, and that others would make it a point of
hardihood to throw themselves in his way. The impertinence
of the latter class compelled him to give
up his customary walk, at sunset, to the burial ground;
for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there
would always be faces behind the grave-stones, peeping
at his black veil. A fable went the rounds, that
the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
grieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to
observe how the children fled from his approach,
breaking up their merriest sports, while his melancholy
figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused
him to feel, more strongly than aught else, that a
preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads
of the black crape. In truth, his own antipathy to
the veil was known to be so great, that he never willingly
passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at
a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should
be affrighted by himself. This was what gave plausibility
to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper's conscience
tortured him for some great crime, too horrible to be
entirely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely intimated.
Thus, from beneath the black veil, there
rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin
or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that
love or sympathy could never reach him. It was said,
that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With
self-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked continually
in its shadow, groping darkly within his own
soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the
whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed,
respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the
veil. But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled, at the
pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by.
Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the
one desirable effect, of making its wearer a very
efficient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
emblem—for there was no other apparent cause—he became
a man of awful power, over souls that were in
agony for sin. His converts always regarded him with
a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but
figuratively, that, before he brought them to celestial
light, they had been with him behind the black veil.
Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all
dark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr.
Hooper, and would not yield their breath till he appeared;
though ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation,
they shuddered at the veiled face so near
their own. Such were the terrors of the black veil,
even when death had bared his visage! Strangers
came long distances to attend service at his church,
with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because
it was forbidden them to behold his face. But
many were made to quake ere they departed! Once,
during Governor Belcher's administration, Mr. Hooper
was appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered
with his black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate,
the council, and the representatives, and wrought
so deep an impression, that the legislative measures of
that year, were characterized by all the gloom and
piety of our earliest ancestral sway.
In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable
in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal
suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved, and
dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in
their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
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
church-yard; 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 connexions 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 bed-side 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
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
between him and the world: it had separated him
from cheerful brotherhood and woman's love, and kept
him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart; and
still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of
his darksome chamber, and shade him from the sunshine
of eternity.
For some time previous, his mind had been confused,
wavering doubtfully between the past and the
present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals,
into the indistinctness of the world to come. There
had been feverish turns, which tossed him from side
to side, and wore away what little strength he had.
But in his most convulsive struggles, and in the wildest
vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought retained
its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude
lest the black veil should slip aside. Even if his
bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was a
faithful woman at his pillow, who, with averted eyes,
would have covered that aged face, which she had last
beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the
death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of
mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible
pulse, and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except
when a long, deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to
prelude the flight of his spirit.
The minister of Westbury approached the bedside.
`Venerable Father Hooper,' said he, `the moment
of your release is at hand. Are you ready for the
lifting of the veil, that shuts in time from eternity?'
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble
motion of his head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that
his meaning might be doubtful, he exerted himself to
speak.
`Yea,' said he, in faint accents, `my soul hath a
patient weariness until that veil be lifted.'
`And is it fitting,' resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark,
`that a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless
example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal
judgment may pronounce; is it fitting that a father in
the church should leave a shadow on his memory, that
may seem to blacken a life so pure? I pray you, my
venerable brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to
be gladdened by your triumphant aspect, as you go to
your reward. Before the veil of eternity be lifted, let
me cast aside this black veil from your face!'
And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent
forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. But,
exerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders
stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched both his
hands from beneath the bed-clothes, and pressed them
strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if
the minister of Westbury would contend with a dying
man.
`Never!' cried the veiled clergyman. `On earth,
never!'
`Dark old man!' exclaimed the affrighted minister,
`with what horrible crime upon your soul are you now
passing to the judgment?'
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
Father Hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his
throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward
with his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back
till he should speak. He even raised himself in bed;
and there he sat, shivering with the arms of death
around him, while the black veil hung down, awful,
at that last moment, in the gathered terrors of a lifetime.
And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there,
now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger
on Father Hooper's lips.
`Why do you tremble at me alone?' cried he, turning
his veiled face round the circle of pale spectators.
`Tremble also at each other! Have men avoided
me, and women shown no pity, and children screamed
and fled, only for my black veil? What, but the
mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this
piece of crape so awful? When the friend shows his
inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best-beloved;
when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of
his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his
sin; then deem me a monster, for the symbol beneath
which I have lived, and die! I look around me, and,
lo! on every visage a Black Veil!'
While his auditors shrank from one another, in
mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his
pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on
the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and
a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The
grass of many years has sprung up and withered on
-- 074 --
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that grave, the burial-stone is moss-grown, and good
Mr. Hooper's face is dust; but awful is still the
thought, that it mouldered beneath the Black Veil!
-- 075 --
THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. Half-Title Page.
-- 076 --
[figure description] Blank Leaf.[end figure description]
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
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
May-Pole was the banner-staff of that gay colony!
They who reared it, should their banner be triumphant,
were to pour sun-shine 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
-- 078 -- p120-081
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
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 of Merry Mount.
Never had the May-Pole been so gaily decked as at
sunset on midsummer eve. This venerated emblem
was a pine tree, which had preserved the slender grace
of youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the
old wood monarchs. From its top streamed a silken
banner, colored like the rainbow. Down nearly to
the ground, the pole was dressed with birchen boughs,
and others of the liveliest green, and some with silvery
leaves, fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic
knots of twenty different colors, but no sad ones.
Garden flowers, and blossoms of the wilderness, laughed
gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and dewy,
that they must have grown by magic on that happy
pine tree. Where this green and flowery splendor
terminated, the shaft of the May-Pole 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.
Oh, people of the Golden Age, the chief of your husbandry,
was to raise flowers!
But what was the wild throng that stood hand in
-- 079 --
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hand about the May-Pole? It could not be, that the
Fauns and Nymphs, when driven from their classic
groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge,
as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the
West. These were Gothic monsters, though perhaps
of Grecian ancestry. On the shoulders of a comely
youth, uprose the head and branching antlers of a
stag; a second, human in all other points, had the
grim visage of a wolf; a third, still with the trunk and
limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and horns of
a venerable he-goat. There was the likeness of a
bear erect, brute in all but his hind legs, which were
adorned with pink silk stockings. And here again,
almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the dark
forest, lending each of his 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 Salvage Man, well known in heraldry,
hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green leaves.
By his side, a nobler figure, but still a counterfeit,
appeared an Indian hunter, with feathery crest and
wampum belt. Many of this strange company wore
fools-caps, and had little bells appended to their garments,
tinkling with a silvery sound, responsive to the
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. Some youths
and maidens were of soberer garb, yet well maintained
their places in the irregular throng, by the expression
of wild revelry upon their features. Such were the
colonists of Merry Mount, as they stood in the broad
smile of sunset, round their venerated May-Pole.
Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy
forest, heard their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted
glance, he might have fancied them the crew of
Comus, some already transformed to brutes, some
midway between man and beast, and the others rioting
in the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change.
But a band of Puritans, who watched the scene, invisible
themselves, compared the masques to those devils
and ruined souls, with whom their superstition peopled
the black wilderness.
Within the ring of monsters, appeared the two airiest
forms, that had ever trodden on any more solid
footing than a purple and golden cloud. One was a
youth, in glistening apparel, with a scarf of the rainbow
pattern crosswise on his breast. His right hand
held a gilded staff, the ensign of high dignity among
the revellers, and his left grasped the slender fingers
of a fair maiden, not less gaily 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 May-Pole that its
boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure of an
-- 081 --
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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 May-Pole,' cried the flower-decked
priest, `merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed to
your mirth. But be this your merriest hour, my hearts!
Lo, here stand the Lord and Lady of the May, whom I,
a clerk of Oxford, and high-priest of Merry Mount, am
presently to join in holy matrimony. Up with your
nimble spirits, ye morrice-dancers, green men, and gleemaidens,
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 May-Pole, 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 May-Pole, had been twined for them, and would
be thrown over both their heads, in symbol of their
-- 082 --
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flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore,
a riotous uproar burst from the rout of monstrous
figures.
`Begin you the stave, reverend Sir,' cried they all;
`and never did the woods ring to such a merry peal, as
we of the May-Pole shall send up!'
Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern, and viol,
touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play from a
neighboring thicket, in such a mirthful cadence, that the
boughs of the May-Pole quivered to the sound. But
the May Lord, he of the gilded staff, chancing to look
into his Lady's eyes, was wonderstruck at the almost
pensive glance that met his own.
`Edith, sweet Lady of the May,' whispered he, reproachfully,
`is yon wreath of roses a garland to hang
above our graves, that you look so sad? Oh, Edith, this
is our golden time! Tarnish it not by any pensive
shadow of the mind; for it may be, that nothing of
futurity will be brighter than the mere remembrance
of what is now passing.'
`That was the very thought that saddened me! How
came it in your mind too?' said Edith, in a still lower
tone than he; for it was high treason to be sad at Merry
Mount. `Therefore do I sigh amid this festive music.
And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream,
and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are
visionary, and their mirth unreal, and that we are no
true Lord and Lady of the May. What is the mystery
in my heart?'
-- 083 --
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Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came
a little shower of withering rose leaves from the May-Pole.
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 May-Pole, till the
last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit, and the
shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the dance.
Meanwhile, we may discover who these gay people
were.
Two hundred years ago, and more, the old world and
its inhabitants became mutually weary of each other.
Men voyaged by thousands to the West; some to barter
glass 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
-- 084 --
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speak, after losing the heart's fresh gaiety, imagined a
wild philosophy of pleasure, and came hither to act
out their latest day-dream. They gathered followers
from all that giddy tribe, whose whole life is like
the festal days of soberer men. In their train were
minstrels, not unknown in London streets; wandering
players, whose theatres had been the halls of noblemen;
mummers, rope-dancers, and mountebanks, who
would long be missed at wakes, church-ales, and
fairs; in a word, mirth-markers 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 life-time, they would not venture
among the sober truths of life, not even to be truly
blest.
All the hereditary pastimes of Old England were
transplanted hither. The King of Christmas was duly
crowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore potent sway.
On the eve of Saint John, they felled whole acres of
-- 085 --
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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 May-Pole. 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 wild-wood 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 May-Pole, and paid it a tribute of its
own richest splendor. Its votaries danced round it,
once, at least, in every month; sometimes they called
it their religion, or their altar; but always, it was the
banner-staff of Merry Mount.
Unfortunately, there were men in the new world, of
a sterner faith than these May-Pole worshipers. 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
-- 086 --
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straggling savage. When they met in conclave, it was
never to keep up the old English mirth, but to hear
sermons three hours long, or to proclaim bounties on
the heads of wolves and the scalps of Indians. Their
festivals were fast-days, and their chief pastime the
singing of psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden, who
did but dream of a dance! The selectman nodded to
the constable; and there sat the light-heeled reprobate
in the stocks; or if he danced, it was round the
whipping-post, which might be termed the Puritan
May-Pole.
A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the
difficult woods, each with a horse-load of iron armor
to burthen his footsteps, would sometimes draw near
the sunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were the
silken colonists, sporting round their May-Pole; 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 scape-goat,
whom the blinded sinners pursued by the tinkling of
the bells at his garments. Once, it is said, they were
seen following a flower-decked corpse, with merriment
and festive music, to his grave. But did the dead
man laugh? In their quietest times, they sang ballads
and told tales, for the edification of their pious visiters;
or perplexed them with juggling tricks; or grinned at
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
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 any thing could be, among
such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the May-Pole.
The future complexion of New England was
involved in this important quarrel. Should the grisly
saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners,
then would their spirits darken all the clime, and make
it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon
and psalm, for ever. But should the banner-staff of
Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon
the hills, and flowers would beautify the forest, and
late posterity do homage to the May-Pole!
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
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at the May-Pole, a solitary sun-beam is fading from
the summit, and leaves only a faint golden tinge,
blended with the hues of the rainbow banner. Even
that dim light is now withdrawn, relinquishing the
whole domain of Merry Mount to the evening gloom,
which has rushed so instantaneously from the black
surrounding woods. But some of these black shadows
have rushed forth in human shape.
Yes: with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had
passed from Merry Mount. The ring of gay masquers
was disordered and broken; the stag lowered his antlers
in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb;
the bells of the morrice-dancers tinkled with tremulous
affright. The Puritans had played a characteristic
part in the May-Pole mummeries. Their darksome
figures were intermixed with the wild shapes of their
foes, and made the scene a picture of the moment,
when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered
fantasies of a dream. The leader of the hostile party
stood in the centre of the circle, while the rout of
monsters cowered around him, like evil spirits in the
presence of a dread magician. No fantastic foolery
could look him in the face. So stern was the energy
of his aspect, that the whole man, visage, frame, and
soul, seemed wrought of iron, gifted with life and
thought, yet all of one substance with his head-piece
and breast-plate. It was the Puritan of Puritans; it
was Endicott himself!
`Stand off, priest of Baal!' said he, with a grim
-- 089 --
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frown, and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice.
`I know thee, Blackstone!* Thou art the man, who
couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted
church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity, and
to give example of it in thy life. But now shall it be
seen that the Lord hath sanctified this wilderness for
his peculiar people. Woe unto them that would defile
it! And first, for this flower-decked abomination, the
altar of thy worship!'
And with his keen sword, Endicott assaulted the
hallowed May-Pole. Nor long did it resist his arm.
It groaned with a dismal sound; it showered leaves
and rose-buds upon the remorseless enthusiast; and
finally, with all its green boughs, and ribbons, and
flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the
banner-staff of Merry Mount. As it sank, tradition
says, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods
threw forth a more sombre shadow.
`There,' cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on
his work, `there lies the only May-Pole 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 us and our posterity. Amen,
saith John Endicott!'
`Amen!' echoed his followers.
-- 090 --
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But the votaries of the May-Pole gave one groan
for their idol. At the sound, the Puritan leader
glanced at the crew of Comus, each a figure of broad
mirth, yet, at this moment, strangely expressive of
sorrow and dismay.
`Valiant captain,' quoth Peter Palfrey, the Ancient
of the band, `what order shall be taken with the prisoners?”
`I thought not to repent me of cutting down a May-Pole,
' replied Endicott, `yet now I could find in my
heart to plant it again, and give each of these bestial
pagans one other dance round their idol. It would
have served rarely for a whipping-post!'
`But there are pine trees enow,' suggested the lieutenant.
`True, good Ancient,' said the leader. `Wherefore,
bind the heathen crew, and bestow on them a
small matter of stripes apiece, as earnest of our future
justice. Set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest
themselves, so soon as Providence shall bring us to
one of our own well-ordered settlements, where such
accommodations may be found. Further penalties,
such as branding and cropping of ears, shall be thought
of hereafter.'
`How many stripes for the priest?' inquired Ancient
Palfrey.
`None as yet,' answered Endicott, bending his iron
frown upon the culprit. `It must be for the Great and
General Court to determine, whether stripes and long
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may atone
for his transgressions. Let him look to himself! For
such as violate our civil order, it may be permitted us
to show mercy. But woe to the wretch that troubleth
our religion!'
`And this dancing bear,' resumed the officer. `Must
he share the stripes of his fellows?'
`Shoot him through the head!' said the energetic
Puritan. `I suspect witchcraft in the beast.'
`Here be a couple of shining ones,' continued Peter
Palfrey, pointing his weapon at the Lord and Lady of
the May. `They seem to be of high station among
these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will not be
fitted with less than a double share of stripes.'
Endicott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed
the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. There they
stood, pale, downcast, and apprehensive. Yet there
was an air of mutual support, and of pure affection,
seeking aid and giving it, that showed them to be man
and wife, with the sanction of a priest upon their love.
The youth, in the peril of the moment, had dropped
his gilded staff, and thrown his arm about the Lady of
the May, who leaned against his breast, too lightly to
burthen 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 where the emblems, had given place
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to the sternest cares of life, personified by the dark
Puritans. But never had their youthful beauty seemed
so pure and high, as when its glow was chastened
by adversity.
`Youth,' said Endicott, `ye stand in an evil case,
thou and thy maiden wife. Make ready presently;
for I am minded that ye shall both have a token to
remember your wedding-day!'
`Stern man,' cried the May Lord, `how can I
move thee? Were the means at hand, I would resist
to the death. Being powerless, I entreat! Do with
me as thou wilt; but let Edith go untouched!'
`Not so,' replied the immitigable zealot. `We are
not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, which
requireth the stricter discipline. What sayest thou,
maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy share of
the penalty, besides his own?'
`Be it death,' said Edith, `and lay it all on me!'
Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in
a woeful case. Their foes were triumphant, their
friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the
benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous
destiny, in the shape of the Puritan leader, their only
guide. Yet the deepening twilight could not altogether
conceal, that the iron man was softened; he smiled,
at the fair spectacle of early love; he almost sighed,
for the inevitable blight of early hopes.
`The troubles of life have come hastily on this
young couple,' observed Endicott. `We will see how
-- 093 --
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they comport themselves under their present trials, ere
we burthen them with greater. If, among the spoil,
there be any garments of a more decent fashion, let
them be put upon this May Lord and his Lady, instead
of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some of you.'
`And shall not the youth's hair be cut?' asked
Peter Palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the love-lock
and long glossy curls of the young man.
`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 May-Pole!'
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 May-Pole, 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 gaiety, 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,
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so, in the tie that united them, were intertwined all
the purest and best of their early joys. They went
heavenward, supporting each other along the difficult
path which it was their lot to tread and never wasted
one regretful thought on the vanities of Merry Mount.
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THE GENTLE BOY. Page 095.
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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
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uneasiness and peril, and therefore in their eyes the
most eligible, was the province of Massachusetts
Bay.
The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally distributed
by our pious forefathers; the popular antipathy,
so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years after
actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as
powerful for the Quakers, as peace, honor, and reward,
would have been for the worldly-minded. Every European
vessel brought new cargoes of the sect, eager to
testify against the oppression which they hoped to
share; and, when ship-masters 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
-- 099 --
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indulged two members of the Quaker sect with the
crown of martyrdom.
An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all
who consented to this act, but a large share of the
awful responsibility must rest upon the person then at
the head of the government. He was a man of narrow
mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromising
bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent and
hasty passions; he exerted his influence indecorously
and unjustifiably to compass the death of the enthusiasts;
and his whole conduct, in respect to them, was
marked by brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose revengeful
feelings, were not less deep because they were
inactive, remembered this man and his associates, in
after times. The historian of the sect affirms that, by
the wrath of Heaven, a blight fell upon the land in the
vicinity of the `bloody town' of Boston, so that no
wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand, as it
were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and
triumphantly recounts the judgments that overtook
them, in old age or at the parting hour. He tells us
that they died suddenly, and violently, and in madness;
but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which
he records the loathsome disease, and `death by rottenness,
' of the fierce and cruel governor.
* * * * *
On the evening of the autumn day, that had witnessed
the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker
persuasion, a Puritan settler was returning from the
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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 grey frieze cloak, quickened his pace
when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a
gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him
and his home. The low, straw-thatched houses were
scattered at considerable intervals along the road, and
the country having been settled but about thirty years,
the tracts of original forest still bore no small proportion
to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind
wandered among the branches, whirling away the
leaves from all except the pine-trees, and moaning as
if it lamented the desolation of which it was the instrument.
The road had penetrated the mass of woods
that lay nearest to the town, and was just emerging
into an open space, when the traveller's ears were
saluted by a sound more mournful than even that of
the wind. It was like the wailing of some one in
distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath a tall
and lonely fir-tree, in the centre of a cleared, but
unenclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could
not but remember that this was the very spot, which
had been made accursed a few hours before, by the
execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had been
thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree
on which they suffered. He struggled, however, against
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the superstitious fears which belonged to the age, and
compelled himself to pause and listen.
`The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause
to tremble if it be otherwise,' thought he, straining his
eyes through the dim moonlight. `Methinks it is like
the wailing of a child; some infant, it may be, which
has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon this
place of death. For the ease of mine own conscience,
I must search this matter out.'
He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat
fearfully across the field. Though now so desolate, its
soil was pressed down and trampled by the thousand
footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of
that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the
dead to their loneliness. The traveller at length
reached the fir-tree, which from the middle upward
was covered with living branches, although a scaffold
had been erected beneath, and other preparations
made for the work of death. Under this unhappy tree,
which in after times was believed to drop poison with
its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent
blood. It was a slender and light-clad little boy, who
leaned his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and
half-frozen earth, and wailed bitterly, yet in a suppressed
tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment
of crime. The Puritan, whose approach had
been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child's
shoulder, and addressed him compassionately.
`You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy,
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and no wonder that you weep,' said he. `But dry
your eyes, and tell me where your mother dwells. I
promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave
you in her arms to-night.'
The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned
his face upward to the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed
countenance, certainly not more than six years
old, but sorrow, fear, and want, had destroyed much
of its infantile expression. The Puritan, seeing the
boy's frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled
under his hand, endeavored to reassure him.
`Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the
readiest way were to leave you here. What! you do
not fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made
grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch. Take
heart, child, and tell me what is your name, and
where is your home?'
`Friend,' replied the little boy, in a sweet, though
faltering voice, `they call me Ilbrahim, and my home
is here.'
The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to
mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and
the outlandish name, almost made the Puritan believe,
that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung
up out of the grave on which he sat. But perceiving
that the apparition stood the test of a short mental
prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had
touched was life-like, he adopted a more rational supposition.
`The poor child is stricken in his intellect,'
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thought he, `but verily his words are fearful, in a
place like this.' He then spoke soothingly, intending
to humor the boy's fantasy.
Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim,
this cold autumn night, and I fear you are ill provided
with food. I am hastening to a warm supper and
bed, and if you will go with me, you shall share
them!'
`I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry and
shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor
lodging,' replied the boy, in the quiet tone which
despair had taught him, even so young. `My father
was of the people whom all men hate. They have
laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my
home.'
The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim's
hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loathsome
reptile. But he possessed a compassionate heart,
which not even religious prejudice could harden into
stone.
`God forbid that I should leave this child to perish,
though he comes of the accursed sect,' said he to
himself. `Do we not all spring from an evil root?
Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine
upon us? He shall not perish, neither in body, nor,
if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul.'
He then spoke aloud and kindly to Ilbrahim, who had
again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave.
`Was every door in the land shut against you, my
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child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed
spot?'
`They drove me forth from the prison when they
took my father thence,' said the boy, `and I stood afar
off, watching the crowd of people, and when they were
gone, I came hither, and found only this grave. I
knew that my father was sleeping here, and I said, this
shall be my home.'
`No, child, no; not while I have a roof over my
head, or a morsel to share with you!' exclaimed the
Puritan, whose sympathies were now fully excited.
`Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm.'
The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth,
as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to him
than any in a living breast. The traveller, however,
continued to entreat him tenderly, and seeming to
acquire some degree of confidence, he at length arose.
But his slender limbs tottered with weakness, his little
head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the tree of
death for support.
`My poor boy, are you so feeble?' said the Puritan.
`When did you taste food last?'
`I ate of bread and water with my father in the
prison,' replied Ilbrahim, `but they brought him none
neither yesterday nor to day, saying that he had eaten
enough to bear him to his journey's end. Trouble not
thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked
food many times ere now.'
The traveller took the child in his arms and
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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
burthen scarcely impeded his progress, and he soon
beheld the fire-rays from the windows of the cottage
which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the
western wilderness. It was surrounded by a considerable
extent of cultivated ground, and the dwelling
was situated in the nook of a wood-covered hill,
whither it seemed to have crept for protection.
`Look up, child,' said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose
faint head had sunk upon his shoulder; `there is our
home.'
At the word `home,' a thrill passed through the
child's frame, but he continued silent. A few moments
brought them to the cottage-door, at which the owner
knocked; for at that early period, when savages were
wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and
bar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling.
The summons was answered by a bond-servant, a
coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity, who,
after ascertaining that his master was the applicant,
undid the door, and held a flaring pine-knot torch to
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light him in. Farther back in the passage-way, the
red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little
crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their
father's return. As the Puritan entered, he thrust
aside his cloak, and displayed Ilbrahim's face to the
female.
`Dorothy, here is a little outcast whom Providence
hath put into our hands,' observed he. `Be kind to
him, even as if he were of those dear ones who have
departed from us.'
`What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this,
Tobias?' she inquired. `Is he one whom the wilderness
folk have ravished from some christian mother?'
`No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from
the wilderness,' he replied. `The heathen savage
would have given him to eat of his scanty morsel, and
to drink of his birchen cup; but christian men, alas!
had cast him out to die.'
Then he told her how he had found him beneath the
gallows, upon his father's grave; and how his heart
had prompted him, like the speaking of an inward
voice, to take the little outcast home, and be kind unto
him. He acknowledged his resolution to feed and
clothe him, as if he were his own child, and to afford
him the instruction which should counteract the pernicious
errors hitherto instilled into his infant mind.
Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness
than her husband, and she approved of all his doings
and intentions.
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`Have you a mother, dear child?' she inquired.
The tears burst forth from his full heart, as he
attempted to reply; but Dorothy at length understood
that he had a mother, who, like the rest of her sect,
was a persecuted wanderer. She had been taken from
the prison a short time before, carried into the uninhabited
wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger
or wild beasts. This was no uncommon method of
disposing of the Quakers, and they were accustomed
to boast, that the inhabitants of the desert were more
hospitable to them than civilized man.
`Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother,
and a kind one,' said Dorothy, when she had gathered
this information. `Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be
my child, as I will be your mother.'
The good woman prepared the little bed, from which
her own children had successively been borne to
another resting place. Before Ilbrahim would consent
to occupy it, he knelt down, and as Dorothy 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 gladness in her heart.
Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emigrants
from the old country. He had remained in England
during the first years of the civil war, in which he
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had borne some share as a cornet of dragoons, under
Cromwell. But when the ambitious designs of his
leader began to develop themselves, he quitted the
army of the parliament, and sought a refuge from the
strife, which was no longer holy, among the people of
his persuasion in the colony of Massachusetts. A
more worldly consideration had perhaps an influence
in drawing him thither; for New England offered
advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes, as well as
to dissatisfied religionists, and Pearson had hitherto
found it difficult to provide for a wife and increasing
family. To this supposed impurity of motive, the
more bigoted Puritans were inclined to impute the
removal by death of all the children, for whose earthly
good the father had been over-thoughtful. They had
left their native country blooming like roses, and like
roses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those expounders
of the ways of Providence, who had thus
judged their brother, and attributed his domestic sorrows
to his sin, were not more charitable when they
saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void
in their hearts, by the adoption of an infant of the
accursed sect. Nor did they fail to communicate
their disapprobation to Tobias; but the latter, in reply,
merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely boy, whose
appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful
arguments as could possibly have been adduced in his
own favor. Even his beauty, however, and his winning
manners, sometimes produced an effect ultimately
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unfavorable; for the bigots, when the outer surfaces
of their iron hearts had been softened and again grew
hard, affirmed that no merely natural cause could have
so worked upon them.
Their antipathy to the poor infant was also increased
by the ill success of divers theological discussions,
in which it was attempted to convince him of the
errors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a
skilful controversialist; but the feeling of his religion
was strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be
enticed nor driven from the faith which his father had
died for. The odium of this stubbornness was shared
in a great measure by the child's protectors, insomuch
that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began to experience
a most bitter species of persecution, in the
cold regards of many a friend whom they had valued.
The common people manifested their opinions more
openly. Pearson was a man of some consideration,
being a Representative to the General Court, and an
approved Lieutenant in the train-bands, yet within a
week after his adoption of Ilbrahim, he had been both
hissed and hooted. Once, also, when walking through
a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from
some invisible speaker; and it cried, `What shall be
done to the backslider? Lo! the scourge is knotted
for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord
three knots!' These insults irritated Pearson's temper
for the moment; they entered also into his heart, and
became imperceptible but powerful workers towards
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an end, which his most secret thought had not yet
whispered.
* * * * *
On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a
member of their family, Pearson and his wife deemed
it proper that he should appear with them at public
worship. They had anticipated some opposition to
this measure from the boy, but he prepared himself in
silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the new
mourning suit which Dorothy had wrought for him.
As the parish was then, and during many subsequent
years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the commencement
of religious exercises was the beat of a
drum. At the first sound of that martial call to the
place of holy and quiet thoughts, Tobias and Dorothy
set forth, each holding a hand of little Ilbrahim, like
two parents linked together by the infant of their love.
On their path through the leafless woods, they were
overtaken by many persons of their acquaintance, all
of whom avoided them, and passed by on the other
side; but a severer trial awaited their constancy when
they had descended the hill and drew near the pine-built
and undecorated house of prayer. Around the
door, from which the drummer still sent forth his
thundering summons, was drawn up a formidable
phalanx, including several of the oldest members of
the congregation, many of the middle-aged, and nearly
all the younger males. Pearson found it difficult to
sustain their united and disapproving gaze, but
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Dorothy, whose mind was differently circumstanced,
merely drew the boy closer to her, and faltered not
in her approach. As they entered the door, they
overheard the muttered sentiments of the assemblage,
and when the reviling voices of the little children
smote Ilbrahim's ear, he wept.
The interior aspect of the 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 broadaisle
formed a sexual division, impassable except by
children beneath a certain age.
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 mild-featured
maidens seemed to dread contamination; and many a
stern old man arose, and turned his repulsive and
unheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the
sanctuary were polluted by his presence. He was a
sweet infant of the skies, that had strayed away from
his home, and all the inhabitants of this miserable
world closed up their impure hearts against him, drew
back their earth-soiled garments from his touch, and
said, `We are holier than thou.'
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Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother,
and retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave
and decorous demeanor, such as might befit a person
of matured taste and understanding, who should find
himself in a temple dedicated to some worship which
he did not recognise, but felt himself bound to respect.
The exercises had not yet commenced, however, when
the boy's attention was arrested by an event, apparently
of trifling interest. A woman, having her face
muffled in a hood, and a cloak drawn completely about
her form, advanced slowly up the broad-aisle and took
place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim's faint color
varied, his nerves fluttered, he was unable to turn his
eyes from the muffled female.
When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over,
the minister arose, and having turned the hour-glass
which stood by the great bible, commenced his discourse.
He was now well stricken in years, a man of
pale, thin countenance, and his grey hairs were closely
covered by a black velvet scull-cap. In his younger
days he had practically learned the meaning of persecution,
from Archbishop Laud, and he was not now
disposed to forget the lesson against which he had
murmured then. Introducing the often discussed subject
of the Quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and
a description of their tenets, in which error predominated,
and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was
true. He adverted to the recent measures in the
province, and cautioned his hearers of weaker parts
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against calling in question the just severity, which
God-fearing magistrates had at length been compelled
to exercise. He spoke of the danger of pity, in some
cases a commendable and christian virtue, but inapplicable
to this pernicious sect. He observed that such
was their devilish obstinacy in error, that even the
little children, the sucking babes, were hardened and
desperate heretics. He affirmed that no man, without
Heaven's especial warrant, should attempt their conversion,
lest while he lent his hand to draw them from
the slough, he should himself be precipitated into its
lowest depths.
The sands of the second hour were principally in
the lower half of the glass, when the sermon concluded.
An approving murmur followed, and the
clergyman, having given out a hymn, took his seat
with much self-congratulation, and endeavored to read
the effect of his eloquence in the visages of the people.
But while voices from all parts of the house were
tuning themselves to sing, a scene occurred, which,
though not very unusual at that period in the province,
happened to be without precedent in this parish.
The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless
in the front rank of the audience, now arose, and with
slow, stately, and unwavering step, ascended the pulpit
stairs. The quaverings of incipient harmony were
hushed, and the divine sat in speechless and almost
terrified astonishment, while she undid the door, and
stood up in the sacred desk from which his
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maledictions had just been thundered. She then divested
herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most
singular array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was
girded about her waist with a knotted cord; her
raven hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its
blackness was defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which
she had strewn upon her head. Her eyebrows, dark
and strongly defined, added to the deathly whiteness
of a countenance which, emaciated with want, and
wild with enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained no
trace of earlier beauty. This figure stood gazing
earnestly on the audience, and there was no sound,
nor any movement, except a faint shuddering which
every man observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely
conscious of in himself. At length, when her fit of
inspiration came, she spoke, for the first few moments,
in a low voice, and not invariably distinct utterance.
Her discourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly
entangled with her reason; it was a vague and
incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed
to spread its own atmosphere round the hearer's soul,
and to move his feelings by some influence unconnected
with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful
but shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like
bright things moving in a turbid river; or a strong
and singularly shaped idea leapt forth, and seized at
once on the understanding or the heart. But the
course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the
persecutions of her sect, and from thence the step was
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short to her own peculiar sorrows. She was naturally
a woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge
now wrapped themselves in the garb of piety; the
character of her speech was changed, her images
became distinct though wild, and her denunciations
had an almost hellish bitterness.
`The Governor and his mighty men,' she said,
`have gathered together, taking counsel among themselves
and saying, “What shall we do unto this
people—even unto the people that have come into this
land to put our iniquity to the blush?” And lo! the
devil entereth into the council-chamber, like a lame
man of low stature and gravely appareled, 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 life-time,
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,
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at the judgment, when all the persecuted and all the
slain in this bloody land, and the father, the mother,
and the child, shall await them in a day that they
cannot escape! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith,
ye whose hearts are moving with a power that ye know
not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood!
Lift your voices, chosen ones, cry aloud, and call
down a woe and a judgment with me!'
Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity
which she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was
silent. Her voice was succeeded by the hysteric
shrieks of several women, but the feelings of the audience
generally had not been drawn onward in the
current with her own. They remained stupefied,
stranded as it were, in the midst of a torrent, which
deafened them by its roaring, but might not move
them by its violence. The clergyman, who could not
hitherto have ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise
than by bodily force, now addressed her in the
tone of just indignation and legitimate authority.
`Get you down, woman, from the holy place which
you profane,' he said. `Is it to the Lord's house that
you come to pour forth the foulness of your heart, and
the inspiration of the devil? Get you down, and
remember that the sentence of death is on you; yea,
and shall be executed, were it but for this day's work?'
`I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utterance,
' replied she, in a depressed and even mild tone.
`I have done my mission unto thee and to thy people.
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Reward me with stripes, imprisonment, or death, as
ye shall be permitted.'
The weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps
to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. The
people, in the meanwhile, were stirring to and fro on
the floor of the house, whispering among themselves,
and glancing towards the intruder. Many of them
now recognised 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 meeting-house,
and awaited her approach. Scarcely did her
feet press the floor, however, when an unexpected
scene occurred. In that moment of her peril, when
every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy
pressed forth, and threw his arms round his mother.
`I am here, mother, it is I, and I will go with thee
to prison,' he exclaimed.
She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened
expression, for she knew that the boy had been
cast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his
face again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one
of the happy visions, with which her excited fancy
had often deceived her, in the solitude of the desert,
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or in prison. But when she felt his hand warm within
her own, and heard his little eloquence of childish
love, she began to know that she was yet a mother.
`Blessed art thou, my son,' she sobbed. `My heart
was withered; yea, dead with thee and with thy
father; and now it leaps as in the first moment when
I pressed thee to my bosom.'
She knelt down, and embraced him again and again,
while the joy that could find no words, expressed itself
in broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to
vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. The sorrows
of past years, and the darker peril that was nigh, cast
not a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting moment.
Soon, however, the spectators saw a change upon her
face, as the consciousness of her sad estate returned,
and grief supplied the fount of tears which joy had
opened. By the words she uttered, it would seem
that the indulgence of natural love had given her mind
a momentary sense of its errors, and made her know
how far she had strayed from duty, in following the
dictates of a wild fanaticism.
`In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor
boy,' she said, `for thy mother's path has gone darkening
onward, till now the end is death. Son, son,
I have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were
tottering, and I have fed thee with the food that I was
fainting for; yet I have ill performed a mother's part
by thee in life, and now I leave thee no inheritance
but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through
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the world, and find all hearts closed against thee, and
their sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake.
My child, my child, how many a pang awaits thy
gentle spirit, and I the cause of all!'
She hid her face on Ilbrahim's head, and her long,
raven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning,
fell down about him like a veil. A low and interrupted
moan was the voice of her heart's anguish, and it did
not fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook
their involuntary virtue for a sin. Sobs were audible
in the female section of the house, and every man who
was a father, drew his hand across his eyes. Tobias
Pearson was agitated and uneasy, but a certain feeling
like the consciousness of guilt oppressed him, so that
he could not go forth and offer himself as the protector
of the child. Dorothy, however, had watched
her husband's eye. Her mind was free from the
influence that had begun to work on his, and she
drew near the Quaker woman, and addressed her in
the hearing of all the congregation.
`Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his
mother,' she said, taking Ilbrahim's hand. `Providence
has signally marked out my husband to protect
him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under our
roof, now many days, till our hearts have grown very
strongly unto him. Leave the tender child with us,
and be at ease concerning his welfare.'
The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the
boy closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in
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Dorothy's face. Her mild, but saddened features, and
neat, matronly attire, harmonized together, and were
like a verse of fireside poetry. Her very aspect proved
that she was blameless, so far as mortal could be so,
in respect to God and man; while the enthusiast, in
her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had
as evidently violated the duties of the present life and
the future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter.
The two females, as they held each a hand of Ilbrahim,
formed a practical allegory; it was rational piety and
unbridled fanaticism, contending for the empire of a
young heart.
`Thou art not of our people,' said the Quaker,
mournfully.
`No, we are not of your people,' replied Dorothy,
with mildness, `but we are Christians, looking upward
to the same Heaven with you. Doubt not that your
boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing on our
tender and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, I
trust, my own children have gone before me, for I
also have been a mother; I am no longer so,' she
added, in a faltering tone, `and your son will have
all my care.'
`But will ye lead him in the path which his parents
have trodden? demanded the Quaker. `Can ye teach
him the enlightened faith which his father has died
for, and for which I, even I, am soon to become an
unworthy martyr? The boy has been baptized in
blood; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon
his forehead?'
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`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 your's. Were we to act
otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even in complying
with your wishes.'
The mother looked down upon her boy with a
troubled countenance, and then turned her eyes upward
to heaven. She seemed to pray internally, and
the contention of her soul was evident.
`Friend,' she said at length to Dorothy, `I doubt
not that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at
thy hands. Nay, I will believe that even thy imperfect
lights may guide him to a better world; for surely
thou art on the path thither. But thou hast spoken
of a husband. Doth he stand here among this multitude
of people? Let him come forth, for I must know
to whom I commit this most precious trust.'
She turned her face upon the male auditors, and
after a momentary delay, Tobias Pearson came forth
from among them. The Quaker saw the dress which
marked his military rank, and shook her head; but
then she noted the hesitating air, the eyes that struggled
with her own, and were vanquished; the color
that went and came, and could find no resting place.
As she gazed, an unmirthful smile spread over her
features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some
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desolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length
she spake.
`I hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within
me and saith, “Leave thy child, Catharine, for his
place is here, and go hence, for I have other work for
thee. Break the bonds of natural affection, martyr
thy love, and know that in all these things eternal
wisdom hath its ends.” I go, friends, I go. Take ye
my boy, my precious jewel. I go hence, trusting that
all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands
there is a labor in the vineyard.'
She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at
first struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and
tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his
cheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her
hands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready
to depart.
`Farewell, friends, in mine extremity,' she said to
Pearson and his wife; `the good deed ye have done
me is a treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned
a thousandfold hereafter. And farewell ye, mine
enemies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much
as a hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for
a moment. The day is coming, when ye shall call
upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted,
and I will rise up and answer.'
She turned her steps towards the door, and the men,
who had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew,
and suffered her to pass. A general sentiment of pity
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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
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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 witchhazel, which
points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye.
His airy gaiety, 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
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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 self-support; it was a
plant that would twine beautifully round something
stronger than itself, but if repulsed, or torn away, it
had no choice but to wither on the ground. Dorothy's
acuteness taught her that severity would crush the
spirit of the child, and she nurtured him with the
gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. Her husband
manifested an equal affection, although it grew
daily less productive of familiar caresses.
The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to
the Quaker infant and his protectors, had not undergone
a favorable change, in spite of the momentary
triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over
their sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of which
he was the object, were very grievous to Ilbrahim,
especially when any circumstance made him sensible
that the children, his equals in age, partook of the
enmity of their parents. His tender and social nature
had already overflowed in attachments to everything
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about him, and still there was a residue of unappropriated
love, which he yearned to bestow upon the little
ones who were taught to hate him. As the warm days
of spring came on, Ilbrahim was accustomed to remain
for hours, silent and inactive, within hearing of the
children's voices at their play; yet, with his usual
delicacy of feeling, he avoided their notice, and would
flee and hide himself from the smallest individual
among them. Chance, however, at length seemed to
open a medium of communication between his heart
and theirs; it was by means of a boy about two years
older than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from a
tree in the vicinity of Pearson's habitation. As the
sufferer's own home was at some distance, Dorothy
willingly received him under her roof, and became his
tender and careful nurse.
Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much
skill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred him,
in other circumstances, from attempting to make a
friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter
immediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it
required some examination to discover that the cause
was a very slight distortion of the mouth, and the
irregular, broken line, and near approach of the eyebrows.
Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities,
was an almost imperceptible twist of every
joint, and the uneven prominence of the breast; forming
a body, regular in its general outline, but faulty in
almost all its details. The disposition of the boy was
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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 bed-side 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 birth-place.
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
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which grated very harshly against Ilbrahim's instinctive
rectitude. Nothing, however, could arrest the
progress of the latter's affection, and there were many
proofs that it met with a response from the dark and
stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy's
parents at length removed him, to complete his cure
under their own roof.
Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure;
but he made anxious and continual inquiries
respecting him, and informed himself of the day
when he was to reappear among his playmates. On
a pleasant summer afternoon, the children of the
neighborhood had assembled in the little forest-crowned
amphitheatre behind the 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
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they beheld him, and they stood whispering to each
other while he drew nigh; but, all at once, the devil
of their fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics,
and, sending up a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon
the poor Quaker child. In an instant, he was the
centre of a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks
against him, pelted him with stones, and displayed an
instinct of destruction, far more loathsome than the
blood-thirstiness 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 foul-hearted little villain lifted his
staff, and struck Ilbrahim on the mouth, so forcibly
that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child's
arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm
of blows; but now he dropped them at once. His
persecutors beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged
him by his long, fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on
the point of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever
entered bleeding into heaven. The uproar, however,
attracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put themselves
to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and
of conveying him to Pearson's door.
Ilbrahim's bodily harm was severe, but long and
careful nursing accomplished his recovery; the injury
done to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though
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not so visible. Its signs were principally of a negative
character, and to be discovered only by those who had
previously known him. His gait was thenceforth slow,
even, and unvaried by the sudden bursts of sprightlier
motion, which had once corresponded to his overflowing
gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its
former play of expression, the dance of sunshine reflected
from moving water, was destroyed by the cloud
over his existence; his notice was attracted in a far
less degree by passing events, and he appeared to find
greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to
him, than at a happier period. A stranger, founding
his judgment upon these circumstances, would have
said that the dulness of the child's intellect widely
contradicted the promise of his features; but the secret
was in the direction of Ilbrahim's thoughts, which
were brooding within him when they should naturally
have been wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy
to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion,
on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent
display of grief; he burst into passionate weeping, and
ran and hid himself, for his heart had become so
miserably sore, that even the hand of kindness tortured
it like fire. Sometimes, at night and probably in
his dreams, he was heard to cry, `Mother! Mother!'
as if her place, which a stranger had supplied while
Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his
extreme affliction. Perhaps, among the many life-weary
wretches then upon the earth, there was not one
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who combined innocence and misery like this poor,
broken-hearted infant, so soon the victim of his own
heavenly nature.
While this melancholy change had taken place in
Ilbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different
character had come to its perfection in his adopted
father. The incident with which this tale commences
found Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet
mentally disquieted, and longing for a more fervid
faith then he possessed. The first effect of his kindness
to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, an
incipient love for the child's whole sect; but joined
to this, and resulting perhaps from self-suspicion, was
a proud and ostentatious contempt of their tenets
and practical extravagances. In the course of much
thought, however, for the subject struggled irresistibly
into his mind, the foolishness of the doctrine began to
be less evident, and the points which had particularly
offended his reason assumed another aspect, or vanished
entirely away. The work within him appeared to
go on even while he slept, and that which had been a
doubt, when he laid down to rest, would often hold
the place of a truth, confirmed by some forgotten
demonstration, when he recalled his thoughts in the
morning. But while he was thus becoming assimilated
to the enthusiasts, his contempt, in nowise decreasing
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
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was a gibe. Such was his state of mind at the period
of Ilbrahim's misfortune; and the emotions consequent
upon that event completed the change, of which the
child had been the original instrument.
In the mean time neither the fierceness of the persecutors,
nor the infatuation of their victims, had decreased.
The dungeons were never empty; the streets
of almost every village echoed daily with the lash; the
life of a woman, whose mild and christian spirit no
cruelty could embitter, had been sacrificed; and more
innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands, that were
so often raised in prayer. Early after the Restoration,
the English Quakers represented to Charles II. that a
`vein of blood was open in his dominions;' but though
the displeasure of the voluptuous king was roused, his
interference was not prompt. And now the tale must
stride forward over many months, leaving Pearson to
encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife to a
firm endurance of a thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim
to pine and droop like a cankered rose-bud; his mother
to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the
holiest trust which can be committed to a woman.
* * * * *
A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened
over Pearson's habitation, and there were no cheerful
faces to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. The
fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy
light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow,
lay ready to be cast upon the embers. But the
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apartment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of
much of the homely wealth which had once adorned
it; for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own
neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished
the owner. And with the furniture of peace, the implements
of war had likewise disappeared; the sword
was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away for
ever; the soldier had done with battles, and might not
lift so much as his naked hand to guard his head. But
the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it
rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the
persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages.
He who listened, while the other read, was the
master of the house, now emaciated in form, and altered
as to the expression and healthiness of his countenance;
for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary
thoughts, and his body had been worn by imprisonment
and stripes: The hale and weather-beaten 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 grey
locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat, and
rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the
sacred page, the snow drifted against the windows, or
eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast kept
laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped fiercely
up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck
the hill at a certain angle, and swept down by the
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cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the most
doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the Past
were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed each a
whisper, as if the Desolation of Ages were breathed in
that one lamenting sound.
The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining
however his hand between the pages which he had
been reading, while he looked steadfastly at Pearson.
The attitude and features of the latter might have
indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his
forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed,
and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a nervous
agitation.
`Friend Tobias,' inquired the old man, compassionately,
`hast thou found no comfort in these many
blessed passages of scripture?'
`Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar
off and indistinct,' replied Pearson without lifting his
eyes. `Yea, and when I have harkened carefully, the
words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for
another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the
book,' he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. `I
have no part in its consolations, and they do but fret
my sorrow the more.'
`Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never
known the light,' said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but
with mildness. `Art thou he that wouldst be content
to give all, and endure all, for conscience' sake; desiring
even peculiar trials, that thy faith might be purified,
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and thy heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt
thou sink beneath an affliction which happens alike to
them that have their portion here below, and to them
that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint not, for thy
burthen is yet light.'
`It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!' exclaimed
Pearson, with the impatience of a variable
spirit. `From my youth upward I have been a man
marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day
after day, I have endured sorrows such as others know
not in their life-time. And now I speak not of the
love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to
ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to
danger, want, and nakedness. All this I could have
borne, and counted myself blessed. But when my
heart was desolate with many losses, I fixed it upon
the child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me
than all my buried ones; and now he too must die, as
if my love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed
man, and I will lay me down in the dust, and lift up
my head no more.'
`Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to
rebuke thee; for I also have had my hours of darkness,
wherein I have murmured against the cross,'
said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the
hope of distracting his companion's thoughts from his
own sorrows. `Even of late was the light obscured
within me, when the men of blood had banished me
on pain of death, and the constables led me onward
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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 straw-thatched
dwelling, which bore the very aspect of my home, far
over the wild ocean, far in our own England. Then
came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remembrances
that were like death to my soul. The happiness of
my early days was painted to me; the disquiet of my
manhood, the altered faith of my declining years. I
remembered how I had been moved to go forth a
wanderer, when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest
of my flock, lay on her dying bed, and'—
`Couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?
' exclaimed Pearson, shuddering.
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`Yea, yea,' replied the old man, hurriedly. `I was
kneeling by her bed-side when the voice spoke loud
within me; but immediately I rose, and took my staff,
and gat me gone. Oh! that it were permitted me to
forget her woeful look, when I thus withdrew my arm,
and left her journeying through the dark valley alone!
for her soul was faint, and she had leaned upon my
prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed
by the thought that I had been an erring christian,
and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her
pale, dying features, seemed to stand by me and
whisper, “Father, you are deceived; go home and
shelter your grey head.” Oh! 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 on in peace and joy towards the wilderness.'
The old man, though his fanaticism had generally
all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while
reciting this tale; and his unwonted emotion seemed
to rebuke and keep down that of his companion.
They sat in silence, with their faces to the fire,
imagining, perhaps, in its red embers, new scenes of
persecution yet to be encountered. The snow still
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drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as
the blaze of the logs had gradually sunk, came down
the spacious chimney and hissed upon the hearth. A
cautious footstep might now and then be heard in a
neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew
the eyes of both Quakers to the door which led thither.
When a fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his
thoughts, by a natural association, to homeless travellers
on such a night, Pearson resumed the conversation.
`I have well nigh sunk under my own share of this
trial,' observed he, sighing heavily;' yet I would that
it might be doubled to me, if so the child's mother
could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and
many, but this will be the sorest of all.'
`Fear not for Catharine,' replied the old Quaker;
`for I know that valiant woman, and have seen how
she can bear the cross. A mother's heart, indeed, is
strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with
her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks
that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice.
The boy hath done his work, and she will feel that he
is taken hence in kindness both to him and her.
Blessed, blessed are they, that with so little suffering
can enter into peace!'
The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a
portentous sound; it was a quick and heavy knocking
at the outer door. Pearson's wan countenance grew
paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him
what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood
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up erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried
soldier who awaits his enemy.
`The men of blood have come to seek me,' he
observed, with calmness. `They have heard how I
was moved to return from banishment; and now am I
to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end
I have long looked for. I will open unto them, lest
they say, “Lo, he feareth!” '
`Nay, I will present myself before them,' said
Pearson, with recovered fortitude. `It may be that
they seek me alone, and know not that thou abidest
with me.'
`Let us go boldly, both one and the other,' rejoined
his companion. `It is not fitting that thou or I
should shrink.'
They therefore proceeded through the entry to the
door, which they opened, bidding the applicant `Come
in, in God's name!' A furious blast of wind drove
the storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp;
they had barely time to discern a figure, so white from
head to foot with the drifted snow, that it seemed like
Winter's self, come in human shape to seek refuge
from its own desolation.
`Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it
may,' said Pearson. `It must needs be pressing, since
thou comest on such a bitter night.'
`Peace be with this household,' said the stranger,
when they stood on the floor of the inner apartment.
Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the
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slumbering embers of the fire, till they sent up a clear and
lofty blaze; it was a female voice that had spoken; it
was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in
that comfortable light.
`Catharine, blessed woman,' exclaimed the old man,
`art thou come to this darkened land again! art thou
come to bear a valiant testimony as in former years?
The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from
the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant; but
strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, Catharine, for
Heaven will prove thee yet this once, ere thou go to
thy reward.'
`Rejoice, friends!' she replied. `Thou who hast
long been of our people, and thou whom a little child
hath led to us, rejoice! Lo! I come, the messenger
of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is 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 joyfully among them.'
As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about
the room, in search of him for whose sake security
was dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to the
old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful
task assigned him.
`Sister,' he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm
tone, `thou tellest us of His love, manifested in temporal
good; and now must we speak to thee of that
self-same love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto,
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Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome
and difficult path, and leading an infant by the
hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward
continually, but still the cares of that little child have
drawn thine eyes, and thy affections, to the earth.
Sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall
impede thine own no more.'
But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled;
she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the very
snow that hung drifted into her hair. The firm old
man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye
upon her's, as if to repress any outbreak of passion.
`I am a woman, I am but a woman; will He try me
above my strength?' said Catharine, very quickly, and
almost in a whisper. `I have been wounded sore; I
have suffered much; many things in the body, many
in the mind; crucified in myself, and in them that
were dearest to me. Surely,' added she, with a long
shudder, `He hath spared me in this one thing.' She
broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence.
`Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God done to
me? Hath He cast me down never to rise again?
Hath He crushed my very heart in his hand? And
thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast thou
fulfilled thy trust? Give me back the boy, well,
sound, alive, alive; or earth and heaven shall avenge
me!'
The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by
the faint, the very faint voice of a child.
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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 night-fall 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 snow-drift swept
by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing of a
garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some visitant
should enter.
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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 wrapt in him, that all sounds of
the storm, and of human speech, were lost to her; but
when Catharine's shriek pierced through the room, the
boy strove to raise himself.
`Friend, she is come! Open unto her!' cried he.
In a moment, his mother was kneeling by the
-- 144 --
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bed-side; she drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled
there, with no violence of joy, but contentedly as if he
were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her
face, and reading its agony, said, with feeble earnestness;
`Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now.'
And with these words, the gentle boy was dead.
* * * * *
The king's mandate to stay the New England persecutors
was effectual in preventing further martyrdoms;
but the colonial authorities, trusting in the remoteness
of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed instability
of the royal government, shortly renewed their
severities in all other respects. Catharine's fanaticism
had become wilder by the sundering of all human ties;
and wherever a scourge was lifted, there was she to
receive the blow; and whenever a dungeon was unbarred,
thither she came, to cast herself upon the floor.
But in process of time, a more christian spirit—a spirit
of forbearance, though not of cordiality or approbation,
began to pervade the land in regard to the persecuted
sect. And then, when the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her
rather in pity than in wrath; when the matrons fed
her with the fragments of their children's food, and
offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly bed; when
no little crowd of school-boys left their sports to cast
stones after the roving enthusiast; then did Catharine
return to Pearson's dwelling, and made that her home.
As if Ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered round his
-- 145 --
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
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.
-- --
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-- 147 --
MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. Page 147.
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-- 149 -- p120-152
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A young fellow, a tobacco-pedler by trade, was on
his way from Morristown, where he had dealt largely
with the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the village
of Parker's Falls on Salmon River. He had a neat
little cart, painted green, with a box of cigars depicted
on each side-panel, and an Indian chief, holding a
pipe and a golden tobacco-stalk, on the rear. The
pedler drove a smart little mare, and was a young man
of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none the
worse liked by the Yankees; who, as I have heard
them say, would rather be shaved with a sharp razor
than a dull one. Especially was he beloved by the
pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose favor he used
to court by presents of the best smoking-tobacco in his
stock; knowing well that the country lasses of New
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England are generally great performers on pipes.
Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story,
the pedler was inquisitive, and something of a tattler,
always itching to hear the news and anxious to tell it
again.
After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco-pedler,
whose name was Dominicus Pike, had travelled
seven miles through a solitary piece of woods, without
speaking a word to any body but himself and his
little gray mare. It being nearly seven o'clock, he
was as eager to hold a morning gossip, as a city shopkeeper
to read the morning paper. An opportunity
seemed at hand, when after lighting a cigar with a
sun-glass, he looked up, and perceived a man coming
over the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the pedler
had stopped his green cart. Dominicus watched him
as he descended, and noticed that he carried a bundle
over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and travelled
with a weary, yet determined pace. He did not look
as if he had started in the freshness of the morning,
but had footed it all night, and meant to do the same
all day.
`Good morning, mister,' said Dominicus, when
within speaking distance. `You go a pretty good
jog. What's the latest news at Parker's Falls?'
The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over
his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did
not come from Parker's Falls, which, as being the
limit of his own day's journey, the pedler had naturally
mentioned in his inquiry.
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`Well, then,' rejoined Dominicus Pike, `let's have
the latest news where you did come from. I'm not
particular about Parker's Falls. Any place will
answer.'
Being thus importuned, the traveller—who was as
ill-looking a fellow as one would desire to meet, in a
solitary piece of woods—appeared to hesitate a little,
as if he was either searching his memory for news, or
weighing the expediency of telling it. At last mounting
on the step of the cart, he whispered in the ear of
Dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud, and
no other mortal would have heard him.
`I do remember one little trifle of news,' said he.
`Old Mr Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered
in his orchard, at eight o'clock last night, by an Irishman
and a nigger. They strung him up to the branch
of a St. Michæl's pear-tree, where nobody would find
him till the morning.'
As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated,
the stranger betook himself to his journey again,
with more speed than ever, not even turning his head
when Dominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar
and relate all the particulars. The pedler whistled to
his mare and went up the hill, pondering on the doleful
fate of Mr. Higginbotham, whom he had known in
the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of
long nines, and a great deal of pig-tail, lady's twist,
and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished at the
rapidity with which the news had spread. Kimballton
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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. Michæl's pear-tree.
The stranger on foot must have worn seven-league
boots, to travel at such a rate.
`Ill news flies fast, they say,' thought Dominicus
Pike; `but this beats railroads. The fellow ought
to be hired to go express with the President's Message.
'
The difficulty was solved, by supposing that the
narrator had made a mistake of one day, in the date
of the occurrence; so that our friend did not hesitate
to introduce the story at every tavern and country-store
along the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish-wrappers
among at least twenty horrified audiences.
He found himself invariably the first bearer of the
intelligence, and was so pestered with questions that
he could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became
quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece
of corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a
trader; and a former clerk of his to whom Dominicus
related the facts, testified that the old gentleman was
accustomed to return home through the orchard,
about night-fall, with the money and valuable papers
of the store in his pocket. The clerk manifested but
little grief at Mr. Higginbotham's catastrophe, hinting,
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what the pedler had discovered in his own dealings
with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as
a vise. His property would descend to a pretty niece
who was now keeping school in Kimballton.
What with telling the news for the public good, and
driving bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much
delayed on the road, that he chose to put up at a
tavern, about five miles short of Parker's Falls. After
supper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated
himself in the bar-room, and went through the story
of the murder, which had grown so fast that it took
him half an hour to tell. There were as many as
twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom received
it all for gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly
farmer, who had arrived on horseback a short time before,
and was now seated in a corner, smoking his
pipe. When the story was concluded, he rose up very
deliberately, brought his chair right in front of Dominicus,
and stared him full in the face, puffing out the
vilest tobacco smoke the pedler had ever smelt.
`Will you make affidavit,' demanded he, in the tone
of a country justice taking an examination, `that old
Squire Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in
his orchard the night before last, and found hanging
on his great pear-tree yesterday morning?'
`I tell the story as I heard it, mister,' answered
Dominicus, dropping his half-burnt cigar; `I don't say
that I saw the thing done. So I can't take my oath
that he was murdered exactly in that way.'
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`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 did'nt
seem to know any more about his own murder than I
did.'
`Why, then it can't be a fact!' exclaimed Dominicus
Pike.
`I guess he'd have mentioned, if it was,' said the
old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the
corner, leaving Dominicus quite down in the mouth.
Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham!
The pedler had no heart to mingle in the
conversation any more, but comforted himself with a
glass of gin and water, and went to bed, where, all
night long, he dreamt of hanging on the St. Michæl's
pear-tree. To avoid the old farmer (whom he so detested,
that his suspension would have pleased him
better than Mr. Higginbotham's), Dominicus rose in
the gray of the morning, put the little mare into the
green cart, and trotted swiftly away 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 any body 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
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trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over his
shoulder, on the end of a stick.
`Good morning, mister,' said the pedler, reining in
his mare. `If you come from Kimballton or that
neighborhood, may be you can tell me the real fact
about this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the
old fellow actually murdered two or three nights ago,
by an Irishman and a nigger?'
Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe,
at first, that the stranger himself had a deep
tinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden question,
the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow
hue becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking and
stammering, he thus replied:—
`No! no! There was no colored man! It was an
Irishman that hanged him last night, at eight o'clock.
I came away at seven! His folks can't have looked for
him in the orchard yet.'
Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interrupted
himself, and though he seemed weary enough
before, continued his journey at a pace, which would
have kept the pedler's mare on a smart trot. Dominicus
stared after him in great perplexity. If the murder
had not been committed till Tuesday night, who was
the prophet that had foretold it, in all its circumstances,
on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higginbotham's corpse
were not yet discovered by his own family, how came
the mulatto, at above thirty miles distance, to know
that he was hanging in the orchard, especially as he
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[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
had left Kimballton before the unfortunate man was
hanged at all. These ambiguous circumstances, with
the stranger's surprise and terror, made Dominicus
think of raising a hue and cry after him, as an accomplice
in the murder; since a murder, it seemed, had
really been perpetrated.
`But let the poor devil go,' thought the pedler.
`I don't want his black blood on my head; and hanging
the nigger would'nt unhang Mr. Higginbotham.
Unhang the old gentleman! It's a sin, I know; but I
should hate to have him come to life a second time,
and give me the lie!'
With these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into
the street of Parker's Falls, which, as every body
knows, is as thriving 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 ostler. He deemed
it advisable, however, not to be too positive as to the
date of the direful fact, and also to be uncertain
whether it were perpetrated by an Irishman and a
mulatto, or by the son of Erin alone. Neither did he
profess to relate it on his own authority, or that of any
one person; but mentioned it as a report generally
diffused.
The story ran through the town like fire among
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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. Michæl's
pear-tree with his pockets inside out. The village
poet likewise commemorated the young lady's grief in
seventeen stanzas of a ballad. The selectmen held a
meeting, and in consideration of Mr. Higginbotham's
claims on the town, determined to issue handbills,
offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension
of his murderers, and the recovery of the stolen
property.
Meanwhile, the whole population of Parker's Falls,
consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding
houses, factory girls, millmen, and schoolboys, rushed
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into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity,
as more than compensated for the silence of the cotton
machines, which refrained from their usual din out of
respect to the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham
cared about posthumous renown, his untimely ghost
would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend Dominicus,
in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precautions,
and mounting on the town pump, announced
himself as the bearer of the authentic intelligence
which had caused so wonderful a sensation. He immediately
became the great man of the moment, and
had just begun a new edition of the narrative, with a
voice like a field preacher, when the mail stage drove
into the village street. It had travelled all night, and
must have shifted horses, at Kimballton at three in the
morning.
`Now we shall hear all the particulars,' shouted the
crowd.
The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern,
followed by a thousand people; for if any man had
been minding his own business till then, he now left
it at sixes and sevens, to hear the news. The pedler,
foremost in the race, discovered two passengers, both
of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap to
find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every man
assailing them with separate questions, all propounded
at once, the couple were struck speechless, though
one was a lawyer and the other a young lady.
`Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us
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the particulars about old Mr. Higginbotham!' bawled
the mob. `What is the coroner's verdict? Are the
murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham's niece
come out of her fainting fits? Mr. Higginbotham!
Mr. Higginbotham!!'
The coachman said not a word, except to swear
awfully at the ostler 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 pocket-book. 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 lieves have
heard a love tale from it as a tale of murder.
`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,
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which was delivered me from that gentleman himself.
I find it dated at ten o'clock last evening.'
So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signature
of the note, which irrefragably proved, either that
this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was alive when he
wrote it, or,—as some deemed the more probable case,
of two doubtful ones,—that he was so absorbed in
worldly business as to continue to transact it, even
after his death. But unexpected evidence was forthcoming.
The young lady, after listening to the pedler's
explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth her
gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared at
the tavern door, making a modest signal to be heard.
`Good people,' said she, `I am Mr. Higginbotham's
niece.'
A wondering murmur passed through the crowd, on
beholding her so rosy and bright; that same unhappy
niece, whom they had supposed, on the authority of
the Parker's Falls Gazette, to be lying at death's door
in a fainting fit. But some shrewd fellows had doubted
all along whether a young lady would be quite so
desperate at the hanging of a rich old uncle.
`You see,' continued Miss Higginbotham, with a
smile, `that this strange story is quite unfounded, as
to myself; and I believe I may affirm it to be equally
so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He has
the kindness to give me a home in his house, though
I contribute to my own support by teaching a school.
I left Kimballton this morning to spend the vacation
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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 bed-side,
and gave me two dollars and fifty cents, to pay my
stage fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses.
He then laid his pocket book under his pillow, shook
hands with me, and advised me to take some biscuit
in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the road. I feel
confident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative
alive, and trust that I shall find him so on my return.'
The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech,
which was so sensible, and well-worded, and delivered
with such grace and propriety, that every body 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
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lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heart-felt
gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green
cart and rode out of town, under a discharge of artillery
from the schoolboys, who found plenty of ammunition
in the neighboring clay-pits and mud holes. As
he turned his head, to exchange a farewell glance with
Mr. Higginbotham's niece, a ball, of the consistence
of hasty-pudding, hit him slap in the mouth, giving
him a most grim aspect. His whole person was so
bespattered with the like filthy missiles, that he had
almost a mind to ride back, and supplicate for the
threatened ablution at the town pump; for, though not
meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of
charity.
However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus,
and the mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved
opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry. Being
a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could
he refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his
story had excited. The handbills of the selectmen
would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in
the State; the paragraph in the Parker's Falls Gazette
would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, and perhaps
form an item in the London newspapers; and
many a miser would tremble for his money-bags and
life, on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham.
The pedler meditated with much fervor on the charms
of the young schoolmistress, and swore that Daniel
Webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel as
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Miss Higginbotham, while defending him from the
wrathful populace at Parker's Falls.
Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike,
having all along determined to visit that place, though
business had drawn him out of the most direct road
from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the
supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circumstances
in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect
which the whole case assumed. Had nothing occurred
to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it might
now have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow
man was evidently acquainted either with the report
or the fact; and there was a mystery in his dismayed
and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. When,
to this singular combination of incidents, it was added
that the rumor tallied exactly with Mr. Higginbotham's
character and habits of life; and that he had an
orchard, and a St. Michæl's pear-tree, near which he
always passed at night-fall; the circumstantial evidence
appeared so strong, that Dominicus doubted whether
the autograph produced by the lawyer, or even the
niece's direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. Making
cautious inquiries along the road, the pedler further
learned that Mr. Higginbotham had in his service an
Irishman of doubtful character, whom he had hired
without a recommendation, on the score of economy.
`May I be hanged myself,' exclaimed Dominicus
Pike aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, `if
I'll believe old Higginbotham is unhanged, till I see
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him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own
mouth! And as he's a real shaver, I'll have the minister,
or some other responsible man, for an endorser.'
It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house
on Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from
the village of this name. His little mare was fast
bringing him up with a man on horseback, who trotted
through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded
to the toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village.
Dominicus was acquainted with the toll-man, and
while making change, the usual remarks on the weather
passed between them.
`I suppose, said the pedler, throwing back his whiplash,
to bring it down like a feather on the mare's
flank, `you have not seen anything of old Mr. Higginbotham
within a day or two?'
`Yes,' answered the toll-gatherer. `He passed the
gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides
now, if you can see him through the dusk. He's been
to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff's sale
there. The old man generally shakes hands and has
a little chat with me; but to-night, he nodded,—as if
to say, `charge my toll,'—and jogged on; for wherever
he goes, he must always be at home by eight o'clock.'
`So they tell me,' said Dominicus.
`I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the
squire does,' continued the toll-gatherer. `Says I to
myself, to-night, he's more like a ghost or an old
mummy than good flesh and blood.'
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The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight,
and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on
the village road. He seemed to recognise the rear of
Mr. Higginbotham; but through the evening shadows,
and amid the dust from the horse's feet, the figure
appeared dim and unsubstantial; as if the shape of the
mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness
and gray light. Dominicus shivered.
`Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other
world, by way of the Kimballton turnpike,' thought he.
He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about
the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow,
till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road.
On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the
man on horseback, but found himself at the head of
the village street, not far from a number of stores and
two taverns, clustered round the meeting-house steeple.
On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the boundary
of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an orchard,
further 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 back ground by the Kimballton turnpike.
Dominicus knew the place; and the little mare stopped
short by instinct; for he was not conscious of tightening
the reins.
`For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!'
said he, trembling. `I never shall be my own man
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again, till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging
on the St. Michæl's pear-tree!'
He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round
the gate-post, and ran along the green path of the
wood-lot, as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just
then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep
stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew
faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the
orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree. One great branch
stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path,
and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. But
something seemed to struggle beneath the branch!
The pedler had never pretended to more courage
than befits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could
he account for his valor on this awful emergency.
Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated
a sturdy Irishman with the but-end of his whip,
and found—not indeed hanging on the St.
Michæl's pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a
halter round his neck—the old identical Mr. Higginbotham!
`Mr. Higginbotham,' said Dominicus tremulously,
`you're an honest man, and I'll take your word for it.
Have you been hanged, or not?'
If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words
will explain the simple machinery, by which this
`coming event' was made to `cast its shadow before.'
Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr.
-- 167 --
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Higginbotham; two of them, successively, lost courage
and fled, each delaying the crime one night, by their
disappearance; the third was in the act of perpetration,
when a champion, blindly obeying the call of
fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the
person of Dominicus Pike.
It only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took
the pedler into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to
the pretty schoolmistress, and settled his whole property
on their children, allowing themselves the interest.
In due time, the old gentleman capped the climax of
his favors, by dying a Christian death, in bed, since
which melancholy event, Dominicus Pike has removed
from Kimballton, and established a large tobacco manufactory
in my native village.
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-- 169 --
LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. Page 169.
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Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
The town-crier has rung his bell, at a distant corner,
and little Annie stands on her father's door-steps,
trying to hear what the man with the loud voice is
talking about. Let me listen too. Oh! he is telling
the people that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal
tiger, and a horse with horns, and other strange beasts
from foreign countries, have come to town, and will
receive all visiters who choose to wait upon them.
Perhaps little Annie would like to go. Yes; and I
can see that the pretty child is weary of this wide and
pleasant street, with the green trees flinging their shade
across the quiet sunshine, and the pavements and the
sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just
swept them with her broom. She feels that impulse
to go strolling away—that longing after the mystery
of the great world—which many children feel, and
which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take
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a ramble with me. See! I do but hold out my hand,
and, like some bright bird in the sunny air, with her
blue silk frock fluttering upwards from her white
pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the
street.
Smooth back your brown curls, Annie; and let me
tie on your bonnet, and we will set forth! What a
strange couple to go on their rambles together! One
walks in black attire, with a measured step, and a
heavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while
the gay little girl trips lightly along, as if she were
forced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet should
dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is
because I have a smile that children love; and, on
the other hand, there are few grown ladies that could
entice me from the side of little Annie; for I delight
to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a
sinless child. So, come, Annie; but if I moralize as
we go, do not listen to me; only look about you, and
be merry!
Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two
horses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to
meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a
slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the
wharves, and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will
be smashed to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward,
also, comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow along the
pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a tumult?
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No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but
passes on with fearless confidence, a happy child
amidst a great throng of grown people, who pay the
same reverence to her infancy, that they would to
extreme old age. Nobody jostles her; all turn aside
to make way for little Annie; and what is most singular,
she appears conscious of her claim to such
respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure! A
street musician has seated himself on the steps of
yonder church, and pours forth his strains to the busy
town, a melody that has gone astray among the tramp
of footsteps, the buzz of voices, and the war of passing
wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None
but myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move
in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loth that
music should be wasted without a dance. But where
would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in
their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints; some are
stiff with age; some feeble with disease; some are so
lean that their bones would rattle, and others of such
ponderous size that their agility would crack the flag-stones;
but many, many have leaden feet, because
their hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a sad
thought that I have chanced upon. What a company
of dancers should we be! For I, too, am a gentleman
of sober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us
walk sedately on.
It is a question with me, whether this giddy child,
or my sage self, have most pleasure in looking at the
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shop-windows. We love the silks of sunny hue, that
glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry-goods
men; we are pleasantly dazzled by the burnished
silver, and the chased gold, the rings of wedlock
and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at the window
of the jeweller; but Annie, more than I, seeks for a
glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty looking-glasses
at the hardware stores. All that is bright and
gay attracts us both.
Here is a shop to which the recollections of my
boyhood, as well as present partialities, give a peculiar
magic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on the
dainties of a confectioner; those pies, with such white
and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether
rich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant
apple, delicately rose-flavored; those cakes, heart-shaped
or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; those sweet
little circlets, sweetly named kisses; those dark majestic
masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding of
an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply
snow-covered with sugar! Then the mighty treasures
of sugarplums, white, and crimson, and yellow, in
large glass vases; and candy of all varieties; and
those little cockles, or whatever they are called, much
prized by children for their sweetness, and more for
the mottos which they enclose, by love-sick maids
and bachelors! Oh! my mouth waters, little Annie,
and so doth yours; but we will not be tempted, except
to an imaginary feast; so let us hasten onward, devouring
the vision of a plum cake.
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Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a
more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. Is
Annie a literary lady? Yes; she is deeply read in
Peter Parley's tomes, and has an increasing love for
fairy tales, though seldom met with now-a-days, and
she will subscribe, next year, to the Juvenile Miscellany.
But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from
the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pictures,
such as the gay-colored ones which make this shop-window
the continual loitering place of children.
What would Annie think, if, in the book which I
mean to send her, on New Year's day, she should find
her sweet little self, bound up in silk or morocco with
gilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman
grown, with children of her own to read about their
mother's childhood! That would be very queer.
Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me
onward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the
most wondrous shop in all the town. Oh, my stars!
Is this a toyshop, or is it fairy land? For here are
gilded chariots, in which the king and queen of the
fairies might ride side by side, while their courtiers,
on these small horses, should gallop in triumphal procession
before and behind the royal pair. Here, too,
are dishes of china ware, fit to be the dining set of
those same princely personages, when they make a
regal banquet in the stateliest hall of their palace,
full five feet high, and behold their nobles feasting
adown the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the
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king and queen should sit my little Annie, the prettiest
fairy of them all. Here stands a turbaned Turk,
threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as
he is. And next a Chinese mandarine, who nods his
head at Annie and myself. Here we may review a
whole army of horse and foot, in red and blue uniforms,
with drums, fifes, trumpets and all kinds of noiseless
music; they have halted on the shelf of this window,
after their weary march from Lilliput. But what cares
Annie for soldiers? No conquering queen is she,
neither a Semiramis nor a Catharine; her whole heart
is set upon that doll, who gazes at us with such a
fashionable stare. This is the little girl's true play-thing.
Though made of wood, a doll is a visionary
and ethereal personage, endowed by childish fancy
with a peculiar life; the mimic lady is a heroine of
romance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand
shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild world
with which children ape the real one. Little Annie
does not understand what I am saying, but looks wishfully
at the proud lady in the window. We will invite
her home with us as we return. Meantime, good-by,
Dame Doll! A toy yourself, you look forth from your
window upon many ladies that are also toys, though
they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of
toys, though they wear grave visages. Oh, with your
never-closing eyes, had you but an intellect to moralize
on all that flits before them, what a wise doll would
you be! Come, little Annie, we shall find toys enough,
go where we may.
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Now we elbow our way among the throng again.
It is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to
meet with living creatures that had their birth-place in
some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature
in the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that
canary bird, hanging out of the window in his cage.
Poor little fellow! His golden feathers are all tarnished
in this smoky sunshine; he would have glistened
twice as brightly among the summer islands; but still
he has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits,
and would not sing half so well without the uproar
that drowns his music. What a pity that he does not
know how miserable he is! There is a parrot, too,
calling out, `Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll!' as we pass
by. Foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness
to strangers; especially as she is not a pretty Poll,
though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If she
had said `pretty Annie,' there would have been some
sense in it. See that gray squirrel, at the door of the
fruit-shop, whirling round and round so merrily within
his wire wheel! Being condemned to the treadmill,
he makes it an amusement. Admirable philosophy!
Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman's dog
in search of his master; smelling at every body's heels,
and touching little Annie's hand with his cold nose,
but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted
him. Success to your search, Fidelity! And there
sits a great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent
and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory
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world, with owl's eyes, and making pithy comments,
doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. Oh,
sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will
be a pair of philosophers!
Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier,
and his ding-dong-bell! Look! look at that great
cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over with wild
beasts, as if they had met together to choose a king,
according to their custom in the days of Æsop. But
they are choosing neither a king nor a President; else
we should hear a most horrible snarling! They have
come from the deep woods, and the wild mountains,
and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only to do
homage to my little Annie. As we enter among them,
the great elephant makes us a bow, in the best style of
elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his mountain
bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust out behind.
Annie returns the salute, much to the gratification of
the elephant, who is certainly the best bred monster
in the caravan. The lion and the lioness are busy
with two beef bones. The royal tiger, the beautiful,
the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a
haughty step, unmindful of the spectators, or recalling
the fierce deeds of his former life, when he was wont
to leap forth upon such inferior animals, from the
jungles of Bengal.
Here we see the very same wolf—do not go near
him, Annie!—the self-same wolf that devoured little
Red Riding Hood and her grandmother. In the next
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cage, a hyena from Egypt, who has doubtless howled
around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own
forests, are fellow prisoners, and most excellent friends.
Are there any two living creatures, who have so few
sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends? Here
sits a great white bear, whom common observers would
call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be
only absorbed in contemplation; he is thinking of his
voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home
in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs
whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he
is a bear of sentiment. But, oh, those unsentimental
monkeys! the ugly, grinning, aping, chattering, illnatured,
mischievous and queer little brutes. Annie
does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness shocks
her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and makes her
mind unquiet, because it bears a wild and dark resemblance
to humanity. But here is a little pony, just big
enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he
gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling
hoofs to a band of music. And here—with a laced
coat and a cocked hat, and a riding whip in his hand,
here comes a little gentleman, small enough to be
king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be king of the
gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. Merrily,
merrily, plays the music, and merrily gallops the
pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman. Come,
Annie, into the street again; perchance we may see
monkeys on horseback there!
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Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people
live in! Did Annie ever read the cries of London
city? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim
that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here
comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a
hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as
to say `fresh fish!' And hark! a voice on high, like
that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing
that some chimney sweeper has emerged
from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the
upper air. What cares the world for that? But,
well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the
scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition
of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced
by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes,
though without experience of such direful woe. Lo!
the town-crier again, with some new secret for the
public ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost
pocketbook, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of
some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the
caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the
bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first,
then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to
strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered
forth in quick succession, far and near.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the
din of the town; it drowns the buzzing talk of many
tongues, and draws each man's mind from his own
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business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and
ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates
downward to the cellar kitchen, where the hot
cook turns from the fire to listen. Who, of all that
address the public ear, whether in church, or court-house,
or hall of state, has such an attentive audience
as the town-crier! What saith the people's orator?
`Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL, of five
years old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets,
with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever
will bring her back to her afflicted mother—'
Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found. Oh,
my pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our
ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town-crier
to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting
old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not
once let go my hand? Well, let us hasten homeward;
and as we go, forget not to thank heaven, my Annie,
that after wandering a little way into the world, you
may return at the first summons, with an untainted
and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But
I have gone too far astray for the town-crier to call
me back!
Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my
spirit, throughout my ramble with little Annie! Say
not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an
idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of
childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a
grown man's notice. Has it been merely this? Not
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so; not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm
it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of
aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free
and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy
mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused
and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least
reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is
almost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed,
though it seems but as yesterday; when life settles
darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call
ourselves young any more; then it is good to steal
away from the society of bearded men, and even of
gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with children.
After drinking from those fountains of still
fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do
now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps
as fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder
and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All
this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie!
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WAKEFIELD. Page 183.
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In some old magazine or newspaper, I recollect a
story, told as truth, of a man—let us call him Wakefield—
who absented himself for a long time from his
wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very
uncommon, nor—without a proper distinction of circumstances—
to be condemned either as naughty or
nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most
aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance, on record,
of marital delinquency; and, moreover, as remarkable
a freak as may be found in the whole list of human
oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The
man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings
in the next street to his own house, and there,
unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the
shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt
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
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matrimonial felicity—when his death was reckoned
certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from
memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned to her
autumnal widowhood—he entered the door one evening,
quietly, as from a day's absence, and became a
loving spouse till death.
This outline is all that I remember. But the incident,
though of the purest originality, unexampled,
and probably never to be repeated, is one, I think,
which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind.
We know, each for himself, that none of us would
perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might.
To my own contemplations, at least, it has often
recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that
the story must be true, and a conception of its hero's
character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects
the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the
reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he
prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of
Wakefield's vagary, I bid him welcome; trusting that
there will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even
should we fail to find them, done up neatly, and condensed
into the final sentence. Thought has always
its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral.
What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free
to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name.
He was now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial
affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm,
habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to
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be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness
would keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be
placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so; his
mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings, that
tended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it;
his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold
of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the
term, made no part of Wakefield's gifts. With a cold,
but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind
never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor perplexed
with originality, who could have anticipated, that our
friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among
the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances
been asked, who was the man in London, the surest
to perform nothing 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 non-existent.
Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his
wife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His
equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an
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oilcloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a
small portmanteau in the other. He has informed
Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night-coach into
the country. She would fain inquire the length of his
journey, its object, and the probable time of his return;
but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interrogates
him only by a look. He tells her not to expect
him positively by the return coach, nor to be alarmed
should he tarry three or four days; but, at all events,
to look for him at supper on Friday evening. Wakefield
himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what
is before him. He holds out his hand; she gives her
own, and meets his parting kiss, in the matter-of-course
way of a ten years' matrimony; and forth goes the
middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved to perplex
his good lady by a whole week's absence. After the
door has closed behind him, she perceives it thrust
partly open, and a vision of her husband's face, through
the aperture, smiling on her, and gone in a moment.
For the time, this little incident is dismissed without
a thought. But, long 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
-- 189 --
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smile. Yet, for its sake, when all others have given
him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is
a widow.
But, our business is with the husband. We must
hurry after him, along the street, ere he lose his individuality,
and melt into the great mass of London
life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let
us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after
several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him
comfortably established by the fireside of a small apartment,
previously bespoken. He is in the next street
to his own, and at his journey's end. He can scarcely
trust his good fortune, in having got thither unperceived—
recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed
by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern;
and, again, there were footsteps, that seemed to tread
behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp
around him; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting
afar, and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless,
a dozen busybodies had been watching him, and told
his wife the whole affair. Poor Wakefield! Little
knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great
world! No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go
quietly to thy bed, foolish man; and, on the morrow,
if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs.
Wakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself,
even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste
bosom. Were she, for a single moment, to deem thee
dead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou
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wouldst be wofully conscious of a change in thy true
wife, for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in
human affections; not that they gape so long and
wide—but so quickly close again!
Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may
be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting
from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide
and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. `No'—
thinks he, gathering the bed-clothes about him—`I
will not sleep alone another night.'
In the morning, he rises earlier than usual, and sets
himself to consider what he really means to do. Such
are his loose and rambling modes of thought, that he
has taken this very singular step, with the consciousness
of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to
define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The
vagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with
which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally
characteristic of a feeble-minded man. Wakefield
sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and
finds himself curious to know the progress of matters
at home—how his exemplary wife will endure her
widowhood, of a week; and, briefly, how the little
sphere of creatures and circumstances, in which he
was a central object, will be affected by his removal.
A morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of
the affair. But, how is he to attain his ends? Not,
certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable lodging,
where, though he slept and awoke in the next street
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to his home, he is as effectually abroad, as if the stage-coach
had been whirling him away all night. Yet,
should he reappear, the whole project is knocked in
the head. His poor brains being hopelessly puzzled
with this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly
resolving to cross the head of the street, and send one
hasty glance towards his forsaken domicile. Habit—
for he is a man of habits—takes him by the hand, and
guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where,
just at the critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping
of his foot upon the step. Wakefield! whither
are you going?
At that instant, his fate was turning on the pivot.
Little dreaming of the doom to which his first backward
step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless
with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn
his head, at the distant corner. Can it be, that nobody
caught sight of him? Will not the whole household—
the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid-servant,
and the dirty little footboy—raise a hue-and-cry,
through London streets, in pursuit of their fugitive
lord and master? Wonderful escape! He gathers
courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed
with a sense of change about the familiar edifice,
such as affects us all, when, after a separation of
months or years, we again see some hill or lake, or
work of art, with which we were friends, of old. In
ordinary cases, this indescribable impression is caused
by the comparison and contrast between our imperfect
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
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 lodgings.
So much for the commencement of this long whim-wham.
After the initial conception, and the stirring
up of the man's sluggish temperament to put it in
practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural
train. We may suppose him, as the result of deep
deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and
selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his
customary suit of brown, from a Jew's old-clothes bag.
It is accomplished. Wakefield is another man. The
new system being now established, a retrograde movement
to the old would be almost as difficult as the step
that placed him in his unparalleled position. Furthermore,
he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness, occasionally
incident to his temper, and brought on, at present, by
the inadequate sensation which he conceives to have
been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. He
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[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
will not go back until she be frightened half to death.
Well; twice or thrice has she passed before his sight,
each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, and more
anxious brow; and in the third week of his non-appearance,
he detects a portent of evil entering the house,
in the guise of an apothecary. Next day, the knocker
is muffled. Towards night-fall, comes the chariot of a
physician, and deposits its big-wigged and solemn burthen
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 bed-side,
pleading with his conscience, that she must not be
disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else restrains
him, he does not know it. In the course of a few
weeks, she gradually recovers; the crisis is over; her
heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, let him return
soon or late, it will never be feverish for him again.
Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wakefield's
mind, and render him indistinctly conscious, that an
almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from
his former home. `It is but in the next street!' he
sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world. Hitherto,
he has put off his return from one particular day
to another; henceforward, he leaves the precise time
undetermined. Not tomorrow—probably next week—
pretty soon. Poor man! The dead have nearly as
much chance of re-visiting their earthly homes, as the
self-banished Wakefield.
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
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 spell-bound. We must leave him, for ten years or
so, to haunt around his house, without once crossing
the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, with all
the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is
slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be
remarked, he has lost the perception of singularity in
his conduct.
Now for a scene! Amid the throng of a London
street, we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with
few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet
bearing, in his whole aspect, the hand-writing of no
common fate, for such as have the skill to read it. He
is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply
wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes
wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to
look inward. He bends his head, and moves with an
indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display
his full front to the world. Watch him, long
enough to see what we have described, and you will
allow, that circumstances—which often produce remarkable
men from nature's ordinary handiwork—
have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to
sidle along the foot-walk, cast your eyes in the opposite
direction, where a portly female, considerably in the
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[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is proceeding
to yonder church. She has the placid mien
of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died
away, or have become so essential to her heart, that
they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the
lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing, a
slight obstruction occurs, and brings these two figures
directly in contact. Their hands touch; the pressure
of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder;
they stand, face to face, staring into each other's eyes.
After a ten years' separation, thus Wakefield meets his
wife!
The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder.
The sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds
to church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a perplexed
glance along the street. She passes in, however,
opening her prayer-book as she goes. And the
man? With so wild a face, that busy and selfish
London stands to gaze after him, he hurries to his
lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself upon the
bed. The latent feelings of years break out; his
feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength;
all the miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to
him at a glance: and he cries out, passionately—
`Wakefield! Wakefield! You are mad!'
Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation
must have so moulded him to itself, that, considered
in regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of
life, he could not be said to possess his right mind.
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He had contrived, or rather he had happened, to dissever
himself from the world—to vanish—to give up his
place and privileges with living men, without being
admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit is
nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the
city, as of old; but the crowd swept by, and saw him
not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside
his wife, and at his hearth, yet must never feel the
warmth of the one, nor the affection of the other. It
was Wakefield's unprecedented fate, to retain his
original share of human sympathies, and to be still involved
in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal
influence on them. It would be a most curious
speculation, to trace out the effect of such circumstances
on his heart and intellect, separately, and in
unison. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be
conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as
ever; glimpses of the truth, indeed, would come, but
only for the moment; and still he would keep saying—
`I shall soon go back!'—nor reflect, that he had been
saying so for twenty years.
I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear,
in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week
to which Wakefield had at first limited his absence.
He would look on the affair as no more than an interlude
in the main business of his life. When, after a
little while more, he should deem it time to re-enter his
parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on beholding
the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what
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[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
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 down-sinking blaze, almost too merrily
for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant, a
shower chances to fall, and is driven, by the unmannerly
gust, full into Wakefield's face and bosom. He
is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he
stand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth
has a good fire to warm him, and his own wife will
run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes, which,
doubtless, she has kept carefully in the closet of their
bedchamber? No! Wakefield is no such fool. He
ascends the steps—heavily!—for twenty years have
stiffened his legs, since he came down—but he knows
it not. Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole
home that is left you? Then step into your grave!
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The door opens. As he passes in, we have a parting
glimpse of his visage, and recognise the crafty smile,
which was the precursor of the little joke, that he has
ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. How
unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well;
a good night's rest to Wakefield!
This happy event—supposing it to be such—could
only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We
will not follow our friend across the threshold. He
has left us much food for thought, a portion of which
shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped into a
figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious
world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a
system, and systems to one another, and to a whole,
that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes
himself to a fearful risk of losing his place for ever.
Like Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the Outcast
of the Universe.
-- 199 --
A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP. Page 199.
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-- 201 -- p120-204
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
(Scene—the corner of two principal streets.* The
Town-Pump talking through its nose.)
Noon, by the north clock! Noon, by the east!
High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall,
scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the
water bubble and smoke, in the trough under my nose.
Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it!
And, among all the town officers, chosen at March
meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year,
the burthen of such manifold duties as are imposed, in
perpetuity, upon the Town-Pump? The title of `town-treasurer'
is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best
treasure that the town has. The overseers of the
poor ought to make me their chairman, since I provide
bountifully for the pauper, without expense to
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire
department, and one of the physicians to the board of
health. As a keeper of the peace, all water-drinkers
will confess me equal to the constable. I perform some
of the duties of the town-clerk, by promulgating public
notices, when they are posted on my front. To speak
within bounds, I am the chief person of the municipality,
and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to
my brother officers, by the cool, steady, upright, down-right,
and impartial discharge of my business, and the
constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or
winter, nobody seeks me in vain; for, all day long, I
am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market,
stretching out my arms, to rich and poor alike; and
at night, I hold a lantern over my head, both to show
where I am, and keep people out of the gutters.
At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the
parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is
chained to my waist. Like a dram-seller on the mall,
at muster-day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my
plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice.
Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk
up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! Here is
the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of
father Adam—better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica,
strong beer, or wine of any price; here it is, by the
hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay!
Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves!
It were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no
-- 203 --
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customers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen!
Quaff, and away again, so as to keep yourselves in
a nice cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another
cup-full, to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as
thick there as it is on your cowhide shoes. I see that
you have trudged half a score of miles, today; and,
like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and
stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise,
betwixt heat without and fire within, you would
have been burnt to a cinder, or melted down to nothing
at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and
make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to
quench the fiery fever of last night's potations, which
he drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most
rubicund sir! You and I have been great strangers,
hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be
anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your
breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man!
The water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet,
and is converted quite to steam, in the miniature tophet,
which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and
tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever,
in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend
the price of your children's food, for a swig half so
delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years,
you know the flavor of cold water. Good-by; and,
whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a
constant supply, at the old stand. Who next? Oh,
my little friend, you are let loose from school, and
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come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown
the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other
schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town-Pump.
Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take
it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched
with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear child,
put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly
gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving-stones,
that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them.
What! he limps by, without so much as thanking me,
as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people,
who have no wine-cellars. Well, well, sir—no harm
done, I hope! Go draw the cork, tip the decanter;
but, when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will
be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant
titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town-Pump
This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does
not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs,
and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly
he capers away again! Jowler, did your worship ever
have the gout?
Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my
good friends; and, while my spout has a moment's
leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical
reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome
shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of
the leaf-strewn earth, in the very spot where you now
behold me, on the sunny pavement. The water was
as bright and clear, and deemed as precious, as liquid
-- 205 --
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diamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of it, from
time immemorial, till the fatal deluge of the fire-water
burst upon the red men, and swept their whole race
away from the cold fountains. Endicott, and his followers,
came next, and often knelt down to drink,
dipping their long beards in the spring. The richest
goblet, then, was of birch bark. Governor Winthrop,
after a journey afoot from Boston, drank here, out of
the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here
wet his palm, and laid it on the brow of the first town-born
child. For many years, it was the watering-place,
and, as it were, the washbowl of the vicinity—whither
all decent folks resorted, to purify their visages, and
gaze at them afterwards—at least, the pretty maidens
did—in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath days,
whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled
his basin here, and placed it on the communion-table
of the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the
site of yonder stately brick one. Thus, one generation
after another was consecrated to Heaven by its waters,
and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its
glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mortal
life were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally,
the fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all
sides, and cart-loads of gravel flung upon its source,
whence oozed a turbid stream, forming a mudpuddle,
at the corner of two streets. In the hot months, when
its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in
clouds over the forgotten birthplace of the waters, now
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
their grave. But, in the course of time, a Town-Pump
was sunk into the source of the ancient spring;
and when the first decayed, another took its place—
and then another, and still another—till here stand I,
gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet.
Drink, and be refreshed! The water is as pure and
cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red Sagamore,
beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem
of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones,
where no shadow falls, but from the brick buildings.
And be it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted
and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again,
so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued
since your fathers' days, be recognised by all.
Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my
stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water,
to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two
yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere
along that way. No part of my business is
pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! how
rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides of the
trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened
with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time
to breathe it in, with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now
they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their
monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is your true toper.
But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are
impatient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute
it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a
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little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious
merits. It is altogether for your good. The
better you think of me, the better men and women
will you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my
all-important aid on washing-days; though, on that
account alone, I might call myself the household god
of a hundred families. Far be it from me, also, to
hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces,
which you would present, without my pains to keep
you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when
the midnight bells make you tremble for your combustible
town, you have fled to the Town-Pump, and
found me always at my post, firm, amid the confusion,
and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf.
Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my
claims to a medical diploma, as the physician, whose
simple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous
lore, which has found men sick or left them so, since
the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view
of my beneficial influence on mankind.
No; these are trifles, compared with the merits
which wise men concede to me—if not in my single
self, yet as the representative of a class—of being the
grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such
spouts as mine, must flow the stream, that shall cleanse
our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish,
which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still.
In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great
confederate. Milk and water! The Town-Pump and
-- 208 --
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the Cow! Such is the glorious copartnership, that
shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot
the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea
and coffee trade, and, finally monopolize the whole
business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation!
Then, Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding
no hovel so wretched, where her squalid form may
shelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims,
shall gnaw its own heart, and die. Then Sin, if she
do not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now,
the phrensy of hereditary fever has raged in the human
blood, transmitted from sire to son, and re-kindled, in
every generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame.
When that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat
of passion cannot but grow cool, and war—the drunkenness
of nations—perhaps will cease. At least, there
will be no war of households. The husband and wife,
drinking deep of peaceful joy—a calm bliss of temperate
affections—shall pass hand in hand through life,
and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted close.
To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams,
nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow
the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall
express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a
lingering smile of memory and hope.
Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to
an unpractised orator. I never conceived, till now,
what toil the temperance-lecturers undergo for my
sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to
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themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or
two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir! My
dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated,
by my instrumentality, you will collect your
useless vats and liquor casks, into one great pile, and
make a bonfire, in honor of the Town-Pump. And,
when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, then,
if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain, richly
sculptured, take my place upon this spot. Such monuments
should be erected everywhere, and inscribed
with the names of the distinguished champions of my
cause. Now listen; for something very important is
to come next.
There are two or three honest friends of mine—and
true friends, I know, they are—who, nevertheless, by
their fiery pugnacity in my behalf, do put me in fearful
hazard of a broken nose, or even of a total overthrow
upon the pavement, and the loss of the treasure which
I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this fault be
amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with
zeal for temperance, and take up the honorable cause
of the Town-Pump, in the style of a toper, fighting for
his brandy-bottle? Or, can the excellent qualities of
cold water be no otherwise exemplified, than by plunging,
slapdash, into hot water, and wofully scalding
yourselves and other people? Trust me, they may.
In the moral warfare, which you are to wage—and,
indeed, in the whole conduct of your lives—you cannot
choose a better example than myself, who have never
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permitted the dust, and sultry atmosphere, the turbulence
and manifold disquietudes of the world around
me, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, which
may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out
that soul, it is to cool earth's fever, or cleanse its
stains.
One o'clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins
to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes
a pretty young girl of my acquaintance, with a large
stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband,
while drawing her water, as Rachel did of old. Hold
out your vessel, my dear! There it is, full to the
brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image
in the pitcher, as you go; and forget not, in a glass of
my own liquor, to drink—`Success to the Town-Pump!'
-- 211 --
THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. Page 211.
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-- 213 -- p120-216
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
At night-fall, 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
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[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
was but one of their number, perhaps, who had become
so estranged from natural sympathies, by the absorbing
spell of the pursuit, as to acknowledge no satisfaction
at the sight of human faces, in the remote and solitary
region whither they had ascended. A vast extent of
wilderness lay between them and the nearest settlement,
while scant a mile above their heads, was that
bleak verge, where the hills throw off their shaggy
mantle of forest trees, and either robe themselves in
clouds, or tower naked into the sky. The roar of the
Amonoosuck would have been too awful for endurance,
if only a solitary man had listened, while the mountain
stream talked with the wind.
The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable
greetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, where
each man was the host, and all were the guests of the
whole company. They spread their individual supplies
of food on the flat surface of a rock, and partook of a
general repast; at the close of which, a sentiment of
good fellowship was perceptible among the party,
though repressed by the idea, that the renewed search
for the Great Carbuncle must make them strangers
again, in the morning. Seven men and one young
woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire,
which extended its bright wall along the whole front of
their wigwam. As they observed the various and contrasted
figures that made up the assemblage, each man
looking like a caricature of himself, in the unsteady
light that flickered over him, they came mutually to
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[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
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, weather-beaten
man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of
wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to
imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had
long been his most intimate companions. He was one
of those ill-fated mortals, such as the Indians told of,
whom, in their early youth, the Great Carbuncle smote
with a peculiar madness, and became the passionate
dream of their existence. All, who visited that region,
knew him as the Seeker, and by no other name. As
none could remember when he first took up the search,
there went a fable in the valley of the Saco, that for
his inordinate lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had
been condemned to wander among the mountains till
the end of time, still with the same feverish hopes at
sunrise—the same despair at eve. Near this miserable
Seeker sat a little elderly personage, wearing a high
crowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. He
was from beyond the sea, a Doctor Cacaphodel, who
had wilted and dried himself into a mummy, by continually
stooping over charcoal furnaces, and inhaling
unwholesome fumes, during his researches in chemistry
and alchymy. It was told of him, whether truly or
not, that, at the commencement of his studies, he had
drained his body of all its richest blood, and wasted
it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an unsuccessful
experiment—and had never been a well man since.
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Another of the adventurers was Master Ichabod Pigsnort,
a weighty merchant and selectman of Boston, and
an elder of the famous Mr. Norton's church. His
enemies had a ridiculous story, that Master Pigsnort
was accustomed to spend a whole hour, after prayer-time,
every morning and evening, in wallowing naked
among an immense quantity of pine-tree shillings,
which were the earliest silver coinage of Massachusetts.
The fourth, whom we shall notice, had no
name, that his companions knew of, and was chiefly
distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his
thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles,
which were supposed to deform and discolor the whole
face of nature, to this gentleman's perception. The
fifth adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was
the greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was
a bright-eyed man, but 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 jeweled
pommel of his sword. This was the Lord de Vere,
who, when at home, was said to spend much of his
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time in the burial-vault of his dead progenitors, rummaging
their mouldy coffins in search of all the earthly
pride and vain-glory, that was hidden among bones and
dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected
haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry.
Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb,
and by his side, a blooming little person, in whom a
delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into
the rich glow of a young wife's affection. Her name
was Hannah, and her husband's Matthew; two homely
names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair,
who seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical
fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the Great
Carbuncle.
Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze
of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers,
all so intent upon a single object, that, of whatever
else they began to speak, their closing words were
sure to be illuminated with the Great Carbuncle.
Several related the circumstances that brought them
thither. One had listened to a traveller's tale of this
marvelous 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
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of the White Mountains, awoke at midnight, and beheld
the Great Carbuncle gleaming like a meteor, so
that the shadows of the trees fell backward from it.
They spoke of the innumerable attempts, which had
been made to reach the spot, and of the singular
fatality which had hitherto withheld success from all
adventurers, though it might seem so easy to follow to
its source a light that overpowered the moon, and
almost matched the sun. It was observable that each
smiled scornfully at the madness of every other, in anticipating
better fortune than the past, yet nourished a
scarcely hidden conviction, that he would himself be
the favored one. As if to allay their too sanguine
hopes, they recurred to the Indian traditions, that a
spirit kept watch about the gem, and bewildered those
who sought it, either by removing it from peak to peak
of the higher hills, or by calling up a mist from the
enchanted lake over which it hung. But these tales
were deemed unworthy of credit; all professing to
believe, that the search had been baffled by want of
sagacity or perseverance in the adventurers, or such
other causes as might naturally obstruct the passage
to any given point, among the intricacies of forest,
valley, and mountain.
In a pause of the conversation, the wearer of the
prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party,
making each individual, in turn, the object of the
sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance.
`So, fellow-pilgrims,' said he, `here we are, seven
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wise men and one fair damsel—who, doubtless, is as
wise as any gray-beard 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
past long ago! I keep up the search for this accursed
stone, because the vain ambition of my youth has become
a fate upon me, in old age. The pursuit alone
is my strength—the energy of my soul—the warmth
of my blood, and the pith and marrow of my bones!
Were I to turn my back upon it, I should fall down
dead, on the hither side of the Notch, which is the gateway
of this mountain region. Yet, not to have my
wasted life-time back again, would I give up my hopes
of the Great Carbuncle! Having found it, I shall bear
it to a certain cavern that I wot of, and there, grasping
it in my arms, lie down and die, and keep it buried
with me for ever.'
`Oh, wretch, regardless of the interests of science!'
cried Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation.
`Thou art not worthy to behold, even from
afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever
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was concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is
the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the
possession of the Great Carbuncle. Immediately on
obtaining it—for I have a presentiment, good people,
that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific reputation—
I shall return to Europe, and employ my remaining
years in reducing it to its first elements. A portion
of the stone will I grind to impalpable powder; othe
parts shall be dissolved in acids, or whatever solvents
will act upon so admirable a composition; and the
remainder I design to melt in the crucible, or set on
fire with the blow-pipe. By these various methods, I
shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally bestow
the result of my 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 concoct
a Great Carbuncle of his own.'
`But, verily,' said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, `for
mine own part, I object to the making of these counterfeits,
as being calculated to reduce the marketable
value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have
an interest in keeping up the price. Here have I
quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in the
care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great
hazard, and furthermore, have put myself in peril of
death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages—
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and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the
congregation, because the quest for the Great Carbuncle
is deemed little better than a traffic with the
evil one. Now think ye that I would have done this
grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation and estate,
without a reasonable chance of profit?'
`Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,' said the man with
the spectacles. `I never laid such a great folly to thy
charge.'
`Truly, I hope not,' said the merchant. `Now, as
touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own that I
have never had a glimpse of it; but be it only the
hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely
outvalue the Great Mogul's best diamond, which he
holds at an incalculable sum. Wherefore, I am minded
to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard, and
voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or
into Heathendom, if Providence should send me
thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best
bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may
place it among his crown jewels. If any of ye have a
wiser plan, let him expound it.'
`That have I, thou sordid man!' exclaimed the poet.
`Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold, that thou
wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre into such
dross, as thou wallowest in already? For myself,
hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie me back
to my attick chamber, in one of the darksome alleys
of London. There, night and day, will I gaze upon
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it—my soul shall drink its radiance—it shall be diffused
throughout my intellectual powers, and gleam
brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. Thus,
long ages after I am gone, the splendor of the Great
Carbuncle will blaze around my name!'
`Well said, Master Poet!' cried he of the spectacles.
`Hide it under thy cloak, say'st thou? Why, it will
gleam through the holes, and make thee look like a
jack-o'lantern!'
`To think!' ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather to
himself, than his companions, the best of whom he
held utterly unworthy of his intercourse,—`to think
that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of conveying
the Great Carbuncle to a garret in 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 Veres!'
`It is a noble thought,' said the Cynic, with an
obsequious sneer. `Yet might I presume to say so,
the gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would
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display the glories of your lordship's progenitors more
truly in the ancestral vault, than in the castle hall.'
`Nay forsooth,' observed Matthew, the young rustic,
who sat hand in hand with his bride, `the gentleman
has bethought himself of a profitable use for this bright
stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a like
purpose.'
`How, fellow!' exclaimed his lordship, in surprise.
`What castle hall hast thou to hang it in?'
`No castle,' replied Matthew, `but as neat a cottage
as any within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye must
know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded the
last week, have taken up the search of the Great Carbuncle,
because we shall need its light in the long
winter evenings; and it will be such a pretty thing to
show the neighbors, when they visit us. It will shine
through the house, so that we may pick up a pin in
any corner, and will set all the windows a-glowing, as
if there were a great fire of pine knots in the chimney.
And then how pleasant, when we awake in the night,
to be able to see one another's faces!'
There was a general smile among the adventurers,
at the simplicity of the young couple's project, in regard
to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which the
greatest monarch on earth might have been proud to
adorn his palace. Especially the man with spectacles,
who had sneered at all the company in turn, now
twisted his visage into such an expression of ill-natured
mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather peevishly, what
he himself meant to do with the Great Carbuncle.
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`The Great Carbuncle!' answered the Cynic, with
ineffable scorn. `Why, you blockhead, there is no
such thing, in rerum naturâ. I have come three thousand
miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every
peak of these mountains, and poke my head into every
chasm, for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the
satisfaction of any man, one whit less an ass than
thyself, that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug!'
Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought
most of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills, but none
so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the
scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was one of
those wretched and evil men, whose yearnings are
downward to the darkness, instead of Heavenward, and
who, could they but extinguish the lights which God
hath kindled for us, would count the midnight gloom
their chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, several of
the party were startled by a gleam of red splendor, that
showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains,
and the rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river, with
an illumination unlike that of their fire, on the trunks
and black boughs of the forest trees. They listened
for the roll of thunder, but heard nothing, and were
glad that the tempest came not near them. The stars,
those dial-points of Heaven, now warned the adventurers
to close their eyes on the blazing logs, and open
them, in dreams, to the glow of the Great Carbuncle.
The young married couple had taken their lodgings
in the furthest corner of the wigwam, and were
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separated from the rest of the party by a curtain of curiously
woven twigs, such as might have hung, in deep festoons
around the bridal bower of Eve. The modest little
wife had wrought this piece of tapestry, while the other
guests were talking. She and her husband fell asleep
with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke, from visions
of unearthly radiance, to meet the more blessed light
of one another's eyes. They awoke at the same instant,
and with one happy smile beaming over their two faces,
which grew brighter, with their consciousness of the
reality of life and love. But no sooner did she recollect
where they were, than the bride peeped through
the interstices of the leafy curtain, and saw that the
outer room of the hut was deserted.
`Up, dear Matthew!' cried she, in haste. `The
strange folk are all gone! Up, this very minute, or
we shall lose the Great Carbuncle!'
In truth, so little did these poor young people deserve
the mighty prize which had lured them thither, that
they had slept peacefully all night, and till the summits
of the hills were glittering with sunshine; while the
other adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish
wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing precipices, and
set off to realize their dreams with the 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
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mountain side. It was a sweet emblem of conjugal affection,
as they toiled up the difficult ascent, gathering strength
from the mutual aid which they afforded. After several
little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe,
and the entanglement of Hannah's hair in a bough,
they reached the upper verge of the forest, and were
now to pursue a more adventurous course. The innumerable
trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had
hitherto shut in their thoughts, which now shrank
affrighted from the region of wind, and cloud, and
naked rocks, and desolate sunshine, that rose immeasurably
above them. They gazed back at the obscure
wilderness which they had traversed, and longed to be
buried again in its depths, rather than trust themselves
to so vast and visible a solitude.
`Shall we go on?' said Matthew, throwing his arm
round Hannah's waist, both to protect her, and to comfort
his heart by drawing her close to it.
But the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman's
love of jewels, and could not forego the hope of possessing
the very brightest in the world, in spite of the
perils with which it must be won.
`Let us climb a little higher,' whispered she, yet
tremulously, as she turned her face upward to the
lonely sky.
`Come then,' said Matthew, mustering his manly
courage, and drawing her along with him; for she
became timid again, the moment that he grew bold.
And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the
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Great Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and
thickly interwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, by
the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had
barely reached three feet in altitude. Next, they came
to masses and fragments of naked rock, heaped confusedly
together, like a cairn reared by giants, in memory
of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of upper air,
nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was no life but
what was concentred in their two hearts; they had climbed
so high, that Nature herself seemed no longer to
keep them company. She lingered beneath them, within
the verge of the forest trees, and sent a farewell glance
after her children, as they strayed where her own
green foot-prints 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
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annihilated, at least for them, the whole region of visible
space. But they drew closer together, with a fond and
melancholy gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud
should snatch them from each other's sight.
Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to
climb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, as
they could find foot-hold, if Hannah's strength had not
begun to fail, and with that, her courage also. Her
breath grew short. She refused to burthen her husband
with her weight, but often tottered against his side,
and recovered herself each time by a feebler effort.
At last, she sank down on one of the rocky steps of
the acclivity.
`We are lost, dear Matthew,' said she, mournfully.
`We shall never find our way to the earth again. And,
oh, how happy we might have been in our cottage!'
`Dear heart!—we will yet be happy there,' answered
Matthew. `Look! In this direction, the sunshine
penetrates the dismal mist. By its aid, I can direct
our course to the passage of the Notch. Let us go
back, love, and dream no more of the Great Carbuncle!'
`The sun cannot be yonder,' said Hannah, with despondence.
`By this time, it must be noon. If there
could ever be any sunshine here, it would come from
above our heads.'
`But, look!' repeated Matthew, in a somewhat
altered tone. `It is brightening every moment. If
not sunshine, what can it be?'
Nor could the young bride any longer deny, that a
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radiance was breaking through the mist, and changing
its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew
more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused with
the gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll away
from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one
object after another started out of its impenetrable
obscurity into sight, with precisely the effect of a new
creation, before the indistinctness of the old chaos had
been completely swallowed up. As the process went
on, they saw the gleaming of water close at their feet,
and found themselves on the very border of a mountain-lake,
deep, bright, clear, and calmly beautiful, spreading
from brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out
of the solid rock. A ray of glory flashed across its
surface. The pilgrims looked whence it should proceed,
but closed their eyes with a thrill of awful admiration,
to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from the
brow of a cliff, impending over the enchanted lake.
For the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery,
and found the long-sought shrine of the Great Carbuncle!
They threw their arms around each other, and trembled
at their own success; for as the legends of this
wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, they
felt themselves marked out by fate—and the consciousness
was fearful. Often, from childhood upward, they
had seen it shining like a distant star. And now that
star was throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts.
They seemed changed to one another's eyes, in the
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red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, while it
lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and sky, and
to the mists which had rolled back before its power.
But, with their next glance, they beheld an object that
drew their attention even from the mighty stone. At
the base of the cliff, directly beneath the Great Carbuncle,
appeared the figure of a man, with his arms
extended in the act of climbing, and his face turned
upward, as if to drink the full gush of splendor. But
he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble.
`It is the Seeker,' whispered Hannah, convulsively
grasping her husband's arm. `Matthew, he is dead!'
`The joy of success has killed him,' replied Matthew,
trembling violently. `Or perhaps the very light of the
Great Carbuncle was death!'
`The Great Carbuncle,' cried a peevish voice behind
them. `The Great Humbug! If you have found it,
prithee point it out to me.'
They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic,
with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose,
staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the
distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great Carbuncle
itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light,
as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about
his person. Though its radiance actually threw the
shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he turned
his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be convinced
that there was the least glimmer there.
`Where is your Great Humbug?' he repeated. `I
challenge you to make me see it!'
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`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 dropt his head, and pressed both hands across
his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in very
truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any other
light on earth, nor light of Heaven itself, for the poor
Cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects through
a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of
brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon,
striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him for
ever.
`Matthew,' said Hannah, clinging to him, `let us go
hence!'
Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down,
supported her in his arms, while he threw some of the
thrillingly-cold water of the enchanted lake upon her
face and bosom. It revived her, but could not renovate
her courage.
`Yes, dearest!' cried Matthew, pressing her tremulous
form to his breast,—`we will go hence, and return
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to our humble cottage. The blessed sunshine, and the
quiet moonlight, shall come through our window. We
will kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth, at eventide,
and be happy in its light. But never again will we
desire more light than all the world may share with
us.'
`No,' said his bride, `for how could we live by day,
or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the Great Carbuncle!”
Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a
draught from the lake, which presented them its
waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending
their guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered
not a word, and even stifled his groans in his own
most wretched heart, they began to descend the mountain.
Yet, as they left the shore, till then untrodden,
of the Spirit's lake, they threw a farewell glance
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
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heavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from his
hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his long absence,
moreover, his affairs had become so disordered, that,
for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver,
he had seldom a sixpence-worth of copper. Doctor
Cacaphodel, the alchymist, returned to his laboratory
with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground
to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible,
and burnt with the blowpipe, and published the result
of his experiments in one of the heaviest folios of the
day. And, for all these purposes, the gem itself could
not have answered better than the granite. The poet,
by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a great
piece of ice, which he found in a sunless chasm of the
mountains, and swore that it corresponded, in all
points, with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. The
critics say, that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of
the gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. The
Lord de Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where
he contented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier,
and filled, in due course of time, another coffin in the
ancestral vault. As the funeral torches gleamed within
that dark receptacle, there was no need of the Great
Carbuncle to shew the vanity of earthly pomp.
The Cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered
about the world, a miserable object, and was punished
with an agonizing desire of light, for the wilful
blindness of his former life. The whole night long,
he would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon
and stars; he turned his face eastward, at sunrise, as
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duly as a Persian idolater; he made a pilgrimage to
Rome, to witness the magnificent illumination of Saint
Peter's church; and finally perished in the great fire
of London, into the midst of which he had thrust himself,
with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray
from the blaze, that was kindling earth and heaven.
Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, and
were fond of telling the legend of the Great Carbuncle.
The tale, however, 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 Seeker's form may still be seen
to bend over its quenchless gleam.
Some few believe that this inestimable stone is
blazing, as of old, and say that they have caught its
radiance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down
the valley of the Saco. And be it owned, that, many
a mile from the Crystal Hills, I saw a wondrous light
around their summits, and was lured, by the faith of
poesy, to be the latest pilgrim of the Great Carbuncle.
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THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. Page 235.
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`But this painter!' cried Walter Ludlow, with animation.
`He not only excels in his peculiar art, but
possesses vast acquirements in all other learning and
science. He talks Hebrew with Doctor Mather, and
gives lectures in anatomy to Doctor Boylston. In a
word, he will meet the best instructed man among us,
on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished gentleman—
a citizen of the world—yes, a true cosmopolite;
for he will speak like a native of each clime and country
on the globe, except our own forests, whither he is
now going. Nor is all this what I most admire in
him.'
`Indeed!' said Elinor, who had listened with a
woman's interest to the description of such a man.
`Yet this is admirable enough.'
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`Surely it is,' replied her lover, `but far less so than
his natural gift of adapting himself to every variety of
character, insomuch that all men—and women too,
Elinor—shall find a mirror of themselves in this wonderful
painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be
told.'
`Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than
these,' said Elinor, laughing, `Boston is a perilous
abode for the poor gentleman. Are you telling me of
a painter, or a wizard?'
`In truth,' answered he, `that question might be
asked much more seriously than you suppose. They
say that he paints not merely a man's features, but his
mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments
and passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like
sunshine—or perhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled
men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is an awful gift,'
added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of enthusiasm.
`I shall be almost afraid to sit to him.'
`Walter, are you in earnest?' exclaimed Elinor.
`For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him
paint the look which you now wear,' said her lover,
smiling, though rather perplexed. `There: it is passing
away now, but when you spoke, you seemed frightened
to death, and very sad besides. What were you
thinking of?'
`Nothing; nothing,' answered Elinor, hastily. `You
paint my face with your own fantasies. Well, come for
me tomorrow, and we will visit this wonderful artist.'
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But when the young man had departed, it cannot be
denied that a remarkable expression was again visible
on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was a
sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what
should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve
of wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of
her heart.
`A look!' said Elinor to herself. `No wonder that
it startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes feel.
I know, by my own experience, how frightful a look
may be. But it was all fancy, I thought nothing of it
at the time—I have seen nothing of it since—I did
but dream it.'
And she busied herself about the embroidery of a
ruff, in which she meant that her portrait should be
taken.
The painter, of whom they had been speaking, was
not one of those native artists, who at a later period
than this, borrowed their colors from the Indians, and
manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and pre-arranged
his destiny, he might have chosen to belong to
that school without a master, in the hope of being at
least original, since there were no works of art to
imitate, nor rules to follow. But he had been born
and educated in Europe. People said, that he had
studied the grandeur or beauty of conception, and every
touch of the master-hand, in all the most famous pictures,
in cabinets and galleries, and on the walls of
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churches, till there was nothing more for his powerful
mind to learn. Art could add nothing to its lessons,
but Nature might. He had therefore visited a world,
whither none of his professional brethren had preceded
him, to feast his eyes on visible images, that were noble
and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to
canvas. America was too poor to afford other temptations
to an artist of eminence, though many of the
colonial gentry, on the painter's arrival, had expressed
a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity, by
means of his skill. Whenever such proposals were
made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and
seemed to look him through and through. If he
beheld a sleek and comfortable visage, though there
were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture, and golden
guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and
the reward. But if the face were the index of anything
uncommon, in thought, sentiment, or experience;
or if he met a beggar in the street, with a white beard
and a furrowed brow; or if, sometimes a child happened
to look up and smile: he would exhaust all the
art on them, that he denied to wealth.
Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the
painter became an object of general curiosity. If few
or none could appreciate the technical merit of his
productions, yet there were points, in regard to which
the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined
judgment of the amateur. He watched the effect that
each picture produced on such untutored beholders,
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and derived profit from their remarks, while they would
as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself, as
him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it
must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of
the age and country. Some deemed it an offence
against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery
of the Creator, to bring into existence such lively
images of his creatures. Others, frightened at the art
which could raise phantoms at will, and keep the form
of the dead among the living, were inclined to consider
the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black
Man of old witch-times, plotting mischief in a new
guise. These foolish fancies were more than half
believed, among the mob. Even in superior circles,
his character was invested with a vague awe, partly
rising like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions,
but chiefly caused by the varied knowledge and
talents which he made subservient to his profession.
Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and
Elinor were eager to obtain their portraits, as the
first of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long
series of family pictures. The day after the conversation
above recorded, they visited the painter's rooms.
A servant ushered them into an apartment, where,
though the artist himself was not visible, there were
personages, whom they could hardly forbear greeting
with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole
assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to
separate the idea of life and intellect from such striking
-- 242 --
[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
counterfeits. Several of the portraits were known to
them, either as distinguished characters of the day, or
their private acquaintances. There was Governor
Burnett, looking as if he had just received an undutiful
communication from the House of Representatives, and
were inditing a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung
beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and somewhat
puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The
ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from
the wall, in ruff and farthingale, an imperious old
dame, not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow,
then a very young man, wore the expression of warlike
enterprise, which long afterwards made him a distinguished
general. Their personal friends were recognised
at a glance. In most of the pictures, the whole
mind and character were brought out on the countenance,
and concentrated into a single look, so that, to
speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembled
themselves so strikingly as the portraits did.
Among these modern worthies, there were two old
bearded Saints, who had almost vanished into the
darkening canvas. There was also a pale, but unfaded
Madonna, who had perhaps been worshiped in
Rome, and now regarded the lovers with such a mild
and holy look, that they longed to worship too.
`How singular a thought,' observed Walter Ludlow,
`that this beautiful face has been beautiful for above
two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty would endure so
well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?'
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`If Earth were Heaven, I might,' she replied. `But
where all things fade, how miserable to be the one that
could not fade!'
`This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly
scowl, saint though he be,' continued Walter. `He
troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at us.'
`Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks,' said Elinor.
The easel stood beneath these three old pictures,
sustaining one that had been recently commenced.
After a little inspection, they began to recognise the
features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman,
growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.
`Kind old man!' exclaimed Elinor. `He gazes at
me, as if he were about to utter a word of paternal
advice.'
`And at me,' said Walter, `as if he were about to
shake his head and rebuke me, for some suspected
iniquity. But so does the original. I shall never feel
quite comfortable under his eye, till we stand before
him to be married.'
They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning,
beheld the painter, who had been some moments in
the room, and had listened to a few of their remarks.
He was a middle-aged man, with a countenance well
worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque,
though careless arrangement of his rich dress, and,
perhaps, because his soul dwelt always among painted
shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself.
His visiters were sensible of a kindred between the
-- 244 --
[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
artist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures
had stept from the canvas to salute them.
Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the
painter, explained the object of their visit. While he
spoke, a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and
Elinor's, with so happy an effect, that they also seemed
living pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by
bright fortune. The artist was evidently struck.
`My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and
my stay in Boston must be brief,' said he, thoughtfully;
then after an observant glance, he added: `but
your wishes shall be gratified, though I disappoint the
chief Justice and Madame Oliver. I must not lose
this opportunity, for the sake of painting a few ells of
broadcloth and brocade.'
The painter expressed a desire to introduce both
their portraits into one picture, and represent them
engaged in some appropriate action. This plan would
have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected,
because so large a space of canvas would have been
unfit for the room which it was intended to decorate.
Two half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon.
After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked
Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence
over their fates the painter was about to acquire.
`The old women of Boston affirm,' continued he,
`that after he has once got possession of a person's
face and figure, he may paint him in any act or situation
whatever—and the picture will be prophetic. Do
you believe it?'
-- 245 --
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
`Not quite,' said Elinor, smiling. `Yet if he has
such magic, there is something so gentle in his manner,
that I am sure he will use it well.'
It was the painter's choice to proceed with both the
portraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, in the
mystical language which he sometimes used, that the
faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly, he
gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, and
the features of one and the other began to start forth
so vividly, that it appeared as if his triumphant art
would actually disengage them from the canvas. Amid
the rich light and deep shade, they beheld their phantom
selves. But, though the likeness promised to be perfect,
they were not quite satisfied with the expression;
it seemed more vague than in most of the painter's
works. He, however, was satisfied with the prospect
of success, and being much interested in the lovers,
employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in
making a crayon sketch of their two figures. During
their sittings, he engaged them in conversation, and
kindled up their faces with characteristic traits, which,
though continually varying, it was his purpose to
combine and fix. At length he announced, that at
their next visit, both the portraits would be ready for
delivery.
`If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in
the few last touches which I meditate,' observed he,
`these two pictures will be my very best performances.
Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects.'
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[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye
upon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the
bottom of the stairs.
Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities,
takes stronger hold of the imagination, than this affair
of having a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so?
The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons,
the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,
continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts
of ourselves, which we glance at, and straightway
forget them. But we forget them, only because they
vanish. It is the idea of duration—of earthly immortality—
that gives such a mysterious interest to our
own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible
to this feeling, and hastened to the painter's rooms,
punctually at the appointed hour, to meet those pictured
shapes, which were to be their representatives with
posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into the
apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy, as they closed
the door.
Their eyes were immediately attracted to their
portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the
room. At the first glance, through the dim light and
the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural
attitudes, and with all the air that they recognised
so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of
delight.
`There we stand,' cried Walter, enthusiastically,
`fixed in sunshine for ever! No dark passions can gather
on our faces!'
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[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
`No,' said Elinor, more calmly; `no dreary change
can sadden us.'
This was said while they were approaching, and had
yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. The
painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a table
in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visiters to
form their own judgment as to his perfected labors.
At intervals, he sent a glance from beneath his deep
eyebrows, watching their countenances in profile, with
his pencil suspended over the sketch. They had now
stood some moments, each in front of the other's
picture, contemplating it with entranced attention,
but without uttering a word. At length, Walter stepped
forward—then back—viewing Elinor's portrait in
various lights, and finally spoke.
`Is there not a change?' said he, in a doubtful and
meditative tone. `Yes; the perception of it grows
more vivid, the longer I look. It is certainly the
same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress—the
features—all are the same; and yet something is
altered.'
`Is then the picture less like than it was yesterday?'
inquired the painter, now drawing near, with irrepressible
interest.
`The features are perfect Elinor,' answered Walter;
`and, at the first glance, the expression seemed also
her's. But, I could fancy that the portrait has changed
countenance, while I have been looking at it. The
eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
expression. Nay, it is grief and terror! Is this like
Elinor?'
`Compare the living face with the pictured one,'
said the painter.
Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started.
Motionless and absorbed—fascinated, as it were—in
contemplation of Walter's portrait, Elinor's face had
assumed precisely the expression of which he had just
been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours
before a mirror, she could not have caught the look so
successfully. Had the picture itself been a mirror, it
could not have thrown back her present aspect, with
stronger and more melancholy truth. She appeared
quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist
and her lover.
`Elinor,' exclaimed Walter, in amazement, `what
change has come over you?'
She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed gaze,
till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her notice;
then, with a sudden tremor, she looked from the picture
to the face of the original.
`Do you see no change in your portrait?' asked
she.
`In mine?—None!' replied Walter, examining it.
`But let me see! Yes; there is a slight change—an
improvement, I think, in the picture, though none in
the likeness. It has a livelier expression than yesterday,
as if some bright thought were flashing from the
eyes, and about to be uttered from the lips. Now that
I have caught the look, it becomes very decided.'
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[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
While he was intent on these observations, Elinor
turned to the painter. She regarded him with grief
and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy
and commiseration, though wherefore, she could but
vaguely guess.
`That look!' whispered she, and shuddered. `How
came it there?'
`Madam,' said the painter, sadly, taking her hand,
and leading her apart, `in both these pictures, I have
painted what I saw. The artist—the true artist—must
look beneath the exterior. It is his gift—his proudest,
but often a melancholy one—to see the inmost soul,
and, by a power indefinable even to himself, to make
it glow or darken upon the canvas, in glances that
express the thought and sentiment of years. Would
that I might convince myself of error in the present
instance!'
They had now approached the table, on which were
heads in chalk, hands almost as expressive as ordinary
faces, ivied church-towers, thatched cottages, old thunder-stricken
trees, oriental and antique costume, and all
such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle moments.
Turning them over, with seeming carelessness, a
crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed.
`If I have failed,' continued he;—`if your heart
does not see itself reflected in your own portrait—if
you have no secret cause to trust my delineation of
the other—it is not yet too late to alter them. I might
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[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
change the action of these figures too. But would it
influence the event?'
He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran
through Elinor's frame; a shriek was upon her lips;
but she stifled it, with the self-command that becomes
habitual to all, who hide thoughts of fear and anguish
within their bosoms. Turning from the table, she
perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to
have seen the sketch, though she could not determine
whether it had caught his eye.
`We will not have the pictures altered,' said she,
hastily. `If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer for
the contrast.'
`Be it so,' answered the painter, bowing. `May
your griefs be such fanciful ones, that only your picture
may mourn for them! For your joys—may they
be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this
lovely face, till it quite belie my art!'
After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pictures
formed the two most splendid ornaments of their
abode. They hung side by side, separated by a narrow
panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet
always returning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled
gentlemen, who professed a knowledge of such subjects,
reckoned these among the most admirable specimens
of modern portraiture; while common observers
compared them with the originals, feature by feature,
and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. But, it
was on a third class,—neither travelled connoisseurs
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[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
nor common observers, but people of natural sensibility—
that the pictures wrought their strongest effect.
Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming
interested, would return day after day, and
study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic
volume. Walter Ludlow's portrait attracted their
earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his
bride, they sometimes disputed as to the expression
which the painter had intended to throw upon the
features; all agreeing that there was a look of earnest
import, though no two explained it alike. There was
less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor's picture.
They differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate the
nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her
face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from the
natural temperament of their youthful friend. A certain
fanciful person announced, as the result of much
scrutiny, that both these pictures were parts of one
design, and that the melancholy strength of feeling, in
Elinor's countenance, bore reference to the more vivid
emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, in that
of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he even
began a sketch, in which the action of the two figures
was to correspond with their mutual expression.
It was whispered among friends, that, day by day,
Elinor's face was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness,
which threatened soon to render her too true a
counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on
the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look
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[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
which the painter had given him on the canvas, became
reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes
of emotion, however it might be smouldering within.
In course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of
purple silk, wrought with flowers, and fringed with
heavy golden tassels, before the pictures, under pretence
that the dust would tarnish their hues, or the
light dim them. It was enough. Her visiters felt, that
the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn,
nor the portraits mentioned in her presence.
Time wore on; and the painter came again. He
had been far enough to the north to see the silver
cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast
round of cloud and forest, from the summit of New
England's loftiest mountain. But he did not profane
that scene by the mockery of his art. He had also lain
in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, making his
soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till not
a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recollection.
He had gone with the Indian hunters to
Niagara, and there, again, had flung his hopeless pencil
down the precipice, feeling that he could as soon
paint the roar, as aught else that goes to make up the
wondrous cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse
to copy natural scenery, except as a frame-work for
the delineations of the human form and face, instinct
with thought, passion, or suffering. With store of
such, his adventurous ramble had enriched him; the
stern dignity of Indian chiefs; the dusky loveliness
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[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
of Indian girls; the domestic life of wigwams; the
stealthy march; the battle beneath gloomy pine-trees;
the frontier fortress with its garrison; the anomaly of
the old French partisan, bred in courts, but grown
gray in shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and
portraits that he had sketched. The glow of perilous
moments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce
power—love, hate, grief, frenzy—in a word, all the
worn-out heart of the old earth, had been revealed to
him under a new form. His portfolio was filled with
graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory,
which genius would transmute into its own substance,
and imbue with immortality. He felt that the deep
wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was
found.
But, amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the
forest, or its overwhelming peacefulness, still there
had been two phantoms, the companions of his way.
Like all other men around whom an engrossing purpose
wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of
human kind. He had no aim—no pleasure—no sympathies—
but what were ultimately connected with his
art. Though gentle in manner, and upright in intent
and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his
heart was cold; no living creature could be brought
near enough to keep him warm. For these two beings,
however, he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the sort
of interest which always allied him to the subjects of
his pencil. He had pried into their souls with his
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
keenest insight, and pictured the result upon their
features, with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall
short of that standard which no genius ever reached,
his own severe conception. He had caught from the
duskiness of the future—at least, so he fancied—a
fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the
portraits. So much of himself—of his imagination
and all other powers—had been lavished on the study
of Walter and Elinor, that he almost regarded them as
creations of his own, like the thousands with which he
had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did
they flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on
the mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of
the lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They
haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life,
nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits,
each with the unalterable expression which his
magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He
could not recross the Atlantic, till he had again beheld
the originals of those airy pictures.
`Oh, glorious Art!' thus mused the enthusiastic
painter, as he trod the street. `Thou art the image of
the Creator's own. The innumerable forms, that
wander in nothingness, start into being at thy beck.
The dead live again. Thou recallest them to their
old scenes, and givest their gray shadows the lustre of
a better life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou
snatchest back the fleeting moments of History. With
thee, there is no Past; for, at thy touch, all that is
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great becomes for ever present; and illustrious men
live through long ages, in the visible performance of
the very deeds, which made them what they are. Oh,
potent Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past
to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight, which we call
Now, canst thou summon the shrouded Future to meet
her there? Have I not achieved it! Am I not thy
Prophet?'
Thus, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, did he
almost cry aloud, as he passed through the toilsome
street, among people that knew not of his reveries,
nor could understand nor care for them. It is not
good for man to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless
there be those around him, by whose example he may
regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and hopes will
become extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps
the reality, of a madman. Reading other bosoms,
with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter
failed to see the disorder of his own.
`And this should be the house,' said he, looking up
and down the front, before he knocked. `Heaven
help my brains! That picture! Methinks it will
never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the
door, there it is framed within them, painted strongly,
and glowing in the richest tints—the faces of the
portraits—the figures and action of the sketch!'
He knocked.
`The Portraits! Are they within inquired he,
of the domestic; then recollecting himself—`your
master and mistress! Are they at home?'
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`They are, sir,' said the servant, adding, as he
noticed that picturesque aspect of which the painter
could never divest himself,—`and the Portraits too!'
The guest was admitted into a parlor, communicating
by a central door, with an interior room of the
same size. As the first apartment was empty, he
passed to the entrance of the second, within which,
his eyes were greeted by those living personages, as
well as their pictured representatives, who had long
been the objects of so singular an interest. He involuntarily
paused on the threshold.
They had not perceived his approach. Walter and
Elinor were standing before the portraits, whence the
former had just flung back the rich and voluminous
folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel
with one hand, while the other grasped that of his
bride. The pictures, concealed for months, gleamed
forth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to
throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to
be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor
had been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next
a gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her countenance,
deepening, with the lapse of time, into a quiet
anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made
it the very expression of the portrait. Walter's face
was moody and dull, or animated only by fitful flashes,
which left a heavier darkness for their momentary
illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait,
and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which
he finally stood absorbed.
-- 257 --
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The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny
approaching behind him, on its progress towards its
victims. A strange thought darted into his mind.
Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had
embodied itself, and he a chief agent of the coming
evil which he had foreshadowed?
Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing
with it, as with his own heart, and abandoning
himself to the spell of evil influence, that the painter
had cast upon the features. Gradually his eyes kindled;
while as Elinor watched the increasing wildness
of his face, her own assumed a look of terror; and
when at last, he turned upon her, the resemblance of
both to their portraits was complete.
`Our fate is upon us!' howled Walter. `Die!'
Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sinking
to the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. In the
action, and in the look and attitude of each, the painter
beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with all
its tremendous coloring, was finished.
`Hold, madman!' cried he sternly.
He had advanced from the door, and interposed himself
between the wretched beings, with the same sense
of power to regulate their destiny, as to alter a scene
upon the canvas. He stood like a magician, controlling
the phantoms which he had evoked.
`What!' muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed
from fierce excitement into sullen gloom. `Does Fate
impede its own decree?'
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`Wretched lady!' said the painter. `Did I not
warn you?'
`You did,' replied Elinor calmly, as her terror gave
place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. `But—
I loved him!'
Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the
result of one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and
set before us—some would call it Fate, and hurry
onward—others be swept along by their passionate
desires—and none be turned aside by the Prophetic
Pictures.
-- 259 --
DAVID SWAN. Page 259.
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We can be but partially acquainted even with the
events which actually influence our course through
life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable
other events, if such they may be called, which come
close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or
even betraying their near approach, by the reflection
of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we
know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be
too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment,
to afford us a single hour of true serenity. This idea
may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of
David Swan.
We have nothing to do with David, until we find
him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his
native place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a
small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind
the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a
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native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents,
and had received an ordinary school education, with a
classic finish by a year at Gilmanton academy. After
journeying on foot, from sunrise till nearly noon of a
summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat
determined him to sit down in the first convenient
shade, and await the coming up of the stage coach.
As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared
a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the
midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring, that it seemed
never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David
Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty
lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing
his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons,
tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sun-beams
could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise
from the road, after the heavy rain of yesterday; and
his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed
of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him;
the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky, overhead;
and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams
within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are
to relate events which he did not dream of.
While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people
were wide awake, and passed to and fro, a-foot, 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
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admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some
laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several,
whose hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected their
venomous superfluity on David Swan. A middle-aged
widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a
little way into the recess, and vowed that the young
fellow looked charming in his sleep. A temperance
lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David into the
texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful instance
of dead drunkenness by the road-side. 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 stand-still, nearly in
front of David's resting place. A linch-pin had fallen
out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The
damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary
alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were
returning to Boston in the carriage. While the coachman
and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady
and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple
trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and
David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe
which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him,
the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow;
and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk
gown, lest David should start up, all of a sudden.
`How soundly he sleeps!' whispered the old
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gentleman. `From what a depth he draws that easy breath!
Such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate,
would be worth more to me than half my income; for
it would suppose health, and an untroubled mind.'
`And youth, besides,' said the lady. `Healthy and
quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no
more like his, than our wakefulness.'
The longer they looked, the more did this elderly
couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom
the way-side and the maple shade were as a secret
chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains
brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam
glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to
twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And having
done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a
mother to him.
`Providence seems to have laid him here,' whispered
she to her husband, `and to have brought us hither
to find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's
son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed
Henry. Shall we waken him?'
`To what purpose?' said the merchant, hesitating.
`We know nothing of the youth's character.'
`That open countenance!' replied his wife, in the
same hushed voice, yet earnestly. `This innocent
sleep!'
While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's
heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated,
nor his features betray the least token of interest.
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Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let
fall a burthen of gold. The old merchant had lost his
only son, and had no heir to his wealth, except a distant
relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied.
In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things
than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to
splendor, who fell asleep in poverty.
`Shall we not waken him?' repeated the lady, persuasively.
`The coach is ready, sir,' said the servant, behind.
The old couple started, reddened, and hurried
away, mutually wondering, that they should ever have
dreamed of doing any thing so very ridiculous. The
merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and
occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent
asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile,
David Swan enjoyed his nap.
The carriage could not have gone above a mile or
two, when a pretty young girl came along, with a
tripping pace, which shewed precisely how her little
heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this
merry kind of motion that caused—is there any harm
in saying it?—her garter to slip its knot. Conscious
that the silken girth, if silk it were, was relaxing its
hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple
trees, and there found a young man asleep by the
spring! Blushing, as red as any rose, that she should
have intruded into a gentleman's bedchamber, and for
such a purpose too, she was about to make her escape
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on tiptoe. But, there was peril near the sleeper. A
monster of a bee had been wandering overhead—buzz,
buzz, buzz—now among the leaves, now flashing
through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the
dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the
eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes
deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent,
the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief,
brushed him soundly, and drove him from beneath the
maple shade. How sweet a picture! This good deed
accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper
blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger, for
whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air.
`He is handsome!' thought she, and blushed redder
yet.
How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so
strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength,
it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the
girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile
of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come,
the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful
idea, had been severed from his own, and whom,
in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to
meet. Her, only, could he love with a perfect love—
him, only, could she receive into the depths of her
heart—and now her image was faintly blushing in the
fountain, by his side; should it pass away, its happy
lustre would never gleam upon his life again.
`How sound he sleeps!' murmured the girl.
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She departed, but did not trip along the road so
lightly as when she came.
Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant
in the neighborhood, and happened, at that
identical time, to be looking out for just such a young
man as David Swan. Had David formed a way-side
acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become
the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession.
So here, again, had good fortune—the best of
fortunes—stolen so near, that her garments brushed
against him; and he knew nothing of the matter.
The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men
turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark
faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down
aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby,
yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of
rascals, who got their living by whatever the devil sent
them, and now, in the interim of other business, had
staked the joint profits of their next piece of 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?'
The other villain nodded, winked, and leered.
`I'll bet you a horn of brandy,' said the first, `that
the chap has either a pocketbook, or a snug little
hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts.
And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons'
pocket.'
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`But how if he wakes?' said the other.
His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed
to the handle of a dirk, and nodded.
`So be it!' muttered the second villain.
They approached the unconscious David, and, while
one pointed the dagger 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.
`I must take away the bundle,' whispered one.
`If he stirs, I'll strike,' muttered the other.
But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the
ground, came in beneath the maple trees, and gazed
alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at
the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.
`Pshaw!' said one villain. `We can do nothing
now. The dog's master must be close behind.'
`Let's take a drink, and be off,' said the other.
The man, with the dagger, thrust back the weapon
into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not
of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was
a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed
upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram,
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and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter
at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might
be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a
few hours, they had forgotten the whole affair, nor
once imagined that the recording angel had written
down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters
as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still
slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death
when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed
life, when that shadow was withdrawn.
He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An
hour's repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, the
weariness with which many hours of toil had burthened
it. Now, he stirred—now, moved his lips, without
a sound—now, talked, in an inward tone, to the noon-day
spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels
came rattling louder and louder along the road, until
it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumber—
and there was the stage coach. He started up,
with all his ideas about him.
`Halloo, driver!—Take a passenger?' shouted he
`Room on top!' answered the driver.
Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily 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 waters—nor that one of love had sighed softly
to their murmur—nor that one of death had threatened
to crimson them with his blood—all, in the brief hour
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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?
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SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. Page 271.
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So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small.
Here I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at
a dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me
still. O that I could soar up into the very zenith,
where man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and
where the ethereal azure melts away from the eye, and
appears only a deepened shade of nothingness! And
yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. What
clouds are gathering in the golden west, with direful
intent against the brightness and the warmth of this
summer afternoon! They are ponderous air-ships,
black as death, and freighted with the tempest; and
at intervals their thunder, the signal-guns of that unearthly
squadron, rolls distant along the deep of heaven.
These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor—methinks I could
roll and toss upon them the whole day long!—seem
scattered here and there, for the repose of tired pilgrims
through the sky. Perhaps—for who can tell?—
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beautiful spirits are disporting themselves there, and
will bless my mortal eye with the brief appearance of
their curly locks of golden light, and laughing faces,
fair and faint as the people of a rosy dream. Or,
where the floating mass so imperfectly obstructs the
color of the firmament, a slender foot and fairy limb,
resting too heavily upon the frail support, may be thrust
through, and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy
follows them in vain. Yonder again is an airy archipelago,
where the sunbeams love to linger in their
journeyings through space. Every one of those little
clouds has been dipped and steeped in radiance, which
the slightest pressure might disengage in silvery profusion,
like water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. Bright
they are as a young man's visions, and like them,
would be realized in chillness, obscurity and tears.
I will look on them no more.
In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is
this spire, I discern cultivated fields, villages, white
country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid
lakes, and here and there a rising ground, that would
fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea,
stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue and
calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow flits
across its surface, and is gone. Hitherward, a broad
inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge of the
harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and over
it am I, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. O
that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like those
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of Madrid, and betray in smoky whispers, the secrets
of all who, since their first foundation, have assembled
at the hearths within! O that the Limping Devil of
Le Sage would perch beside me here, extend his wand
over this contiguity of roofs, uncover every chamber,
and make me familiar with their inhabitants! The
most desirable mode of existence might be that of a
spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering invisible round man
and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into
their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity,
and shade from their sorrow, and retaining no emotion
peculiar to himself. But none of these things are
possible; and if I would know the interior of brick
walls, or the mystery of human bosoms, I can but
guess.
Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south.
The stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of
verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from
every door to the pavement. Ornamental trees, the
broad-leafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending,
the graceful but infrequent willow, and others
whereof I know not the names, grow thrivingly among
brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun are intercepted
by these green citizens, and by the houses,
so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant
walk. On its whole extent there is now but a single
passenger, advancing from the upper end; and he,
unless distance, and the medium of a pocket spyglass
do him more than justice, is a fine young man of
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twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping his left
hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon the
pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a
glance before him. Certainly, he has a pensive air.
Is he in doubt, or in debt? Is he, if the question be
allowable, in love? Does he strive to be melancholy
and gentlemanlike?—Or, is he merely overcome by
the heat? But I bid him farewell, for the present.
The door of one of the houses, an aristocratic edifice,
with curtains of purple and gold waving from the
windows, is now opened, and down the steps come
two ladies, swinging their parasols, and lightly arrayed
for a summer ramble. Both are young, both are
pretty; but methinks the left hand lass is the fairer of
the twain; and though she be so serious at this
moment, I could swear that there is a treasure of gentle
fun within her. They stand talking a little while upon
the steps, and finally proceed up the street. Meantime,
as their faces are now turned from me, I may look
elsewhere.
Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding street,
is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I have just
noticed. Business evidently has its centre there, and
many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor
and anxiety, in losing riches, or in gaining them, when
he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant
country village, or shaded lake in the forest, or wild
and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading at the
wharf, and precious merchandise strown upon the
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ground, abundantly as at the bottom of the sea, that
market whence no goods return, and where there is
no captain nor supercargo to render an account of
sales. Here, the clerks are diligent with their paper
and pencils, and sailors ply the block and tackle that
hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries,
long-drawn and roughly melodious, till the bales and
puncheons ascend to upper air. At a little distance, a
group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a
warehouse. Grave seniors be they, and I would wager—
if it were safe, in these times, to be responsible for
any one—that the least eminent among them, might
vie with old Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of
Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of the company.
It is the elderly personage in somewhat rusty black,
with powdered hair, the superfluous whiteness of which
is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships
are wafted on some of their many courses by every
breeze that blows, and his name—I will venture to say,
though I know it not—is a familiar sound among the
far separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.
But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter.
On looking again to the long and shady walk, I perceive
that the two fair girls have encountered the
young man. After a sort of shyness in the recognition,
he turns back with them. Moreover, he has sanctioned
my taste in regard to his companions by placing
himself on the inner side of the pavement, nearest the
Venus to whom I—enacting, on a steeple-top, the part
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of Paris on the top of Ida—adjudged the golden
apple.
In two streets, converging at right angles towards
my watchtower, I distinguish three different processions.
One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers in
bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence I
look down, the painted veterans that garrison the
windows of a toyshop. And yet, it stirs my heart;
their regular advance, their nodding plumes, the sunflash
on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the roll of
their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and
anon piercing through—these things have wakened a
warlike fire, peaceful though I be. Close to their rear
marches a battalion of schoolboys, ranged in crooked
and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a
harsh and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin, and
ridiculously aping the intricate manœuvres of the
foremost band. Nevertheless, as slight differences are
scarcely perceptible from a church spire, one might be
tempted to ask, `Which are the boys?'—or rather,
`Which the men?' But, leaving these, let us turn to
the third procession, which, though sadder in outward
show, may excite identical reflections in the thoughtful
mind. It is a funeral. A hearse, drawn by a black
and bony steed, and covered by a dusty pall; two or
three coaches rumbling over the stones, their drivers
half asleep; a dozen couple of careless mourners in
their every-day attire; such was not the fashion of our
fathers, when they carried a friend to his grave. There
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is now no doleful clang of the bell, to proclaim sorrow to
the town. Was the King of Terrors more awful in
those days than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy
have been able to produce this change? Not so.
Here is a proof that he retains his proper majesty.
The military men, and the military boys, are wheeling
round the corner, and meet the funeral full in the face.
Immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap that
regulates each simultaneous foot-fall. The soldiers
yield the path to the dusty hearse, and unpretending
train, and the children quit their ranks, and cluster on
the sidewalks, with timorous and instinctive curiosity.
The mourners enter the churchyard at the base of the
steeple, and pause by an open grave among the burial
stones; the lightning glimmers on them as they lower
down the coffin, and the thunder rattles heavily while
they throw the earth upon its lid. Verily, the shower
is near, and I tremble for the young man and the girls,
who have now disappeared from the long and shady
street.
How various are the situations of the people covered
by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the
events at this moment befalling them! The new-born,
the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent
dead, are in the chambers of these many mansions. The
full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desperate,
dwell together within the circle of my glance.
In some of the houses over which my eyes roam so
coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted
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by a debased and trodden virtue,—guilt is on the
very edge of commission, and the impending deed
might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal
wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts
struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them
distinctness, they would make their way in eloquence.
Lo! the rain-drops are descending.
The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over
all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in one
unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals, the
lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers,
disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling
slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has
sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and
raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the
approaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the
funeral has already vanished like its dead, and all
people hurry homeward—all that have a home; while
a few lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately,
at their leisure. In a narrow lane which communicates
with the shady street, I discern the rich old
merchant, putting himself to the top of his speed, lest
the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste.
Unhappy gentleman! By the slow vehemence, and
painful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but
too evident that Podagra has left its thrilling tenderness
in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid
pace, come three other of my acquaintance, the two
pretty girls and the young man, unseasonably interrupted
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in their walk. Their footsteps are supported by
the risen dust, the wind lends them its velocity, they
fly like three sea-birds driven landward by the tempestuous
breeze. The ladies would not thus rival
Atalanta, if they but knew that any one were at leisure
to observe them. Ah! as they hasten onward, laughing
in the angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe
has chanced. At the corner where the narrow lane
enters into the street, they come plump against the old
merchant, whose tortoise motion has just brought him
to that point. He likes not the sweet encounter; the
darkness of the whole air gathers speedily upon his
visage, and there is a pause on both sides. Finally he
thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes an
arm of each of the two girls, and plods onward, like a
magician with a prize of captive fairies. All this is
easy to be understood. How disconsolate the poor
lover stands! regardless of the rain that threatens an
exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, till
he catches a backward glance of mirth from a bright
eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys.
The old man and his daughters are safely housed,
and now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling
I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they
shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous
shower, and shrinking away from the quick fiery glare.
The large drops descend with force upon the slated
roofs, and rise again in smoke. There is a rush and
roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy streams
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bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their
dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath
iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not
my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult
which I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue
lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder muttering
its first awful syllables in my ear. I will descend.
Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the
foam breaks out in long white lines upon a broad expanse
of blackness, or boils up in far distant points,
like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and
let me look once more at the green plain, and little
hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm
is striding in robes of mist, and at the town, whose
obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of
the dead: and turning a single moment to the sky,
now gloomy as an author's prospects, I prepare to
resume my station on lower earth. But stay! A
little speck of azure has widened in the western
heavens; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing
through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud,
born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world,
and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the
Rainbow!
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THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. Page 283.
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In those strange old times, when fantastic dreams
and madmen's reveries were realized among the actual
circumstances of life, two persons met together at an
appointed hour and place. One was a lady, graceful
in form and fair of feature, though pale and troubled,
and smitten with an untimely blight in what should
have been the fullest bloom of her years; the other
was an ancient and meanly dressed woman, of ill-favored
aspect, and so withered, shrunken and decrepit,
that even the space since she began to decay must
have exceeded the ordinary term of human existence.
In the spot where they encountered, no mortal could
observe them. Three little hills stood near each other,
and down in the midst of them sunk a hollow basin,
almost mathematically circular, two or three hundred
feet in breadth, and of such depth that a stately cedar
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might but just be visible above the sides. Dwarf pines
were numerous upon the hills, and partly fringed the
outer verge of the intermediate hollow; within which
there was nothing but the brown grass of October, and
here and there a tree-trunk, that had fallen long ago,
and lay mouldering with no green successor from its
roots. One of these masses of decaying wood, formerly
a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of
green and sluggish water at the bottom of the basin.
Such scenes as this (so gray tradition tells) were once
the resort of a Power of Evil and his plighted subjects;
and here, at midnight or on the dim verge of
evening, they were said to stand round the mantling
pool, disturbing its putrid waters in the performance
of an impious baptismal rite. The chill beauty of an
autumnal sunset was now gilding the three hill-tops,
whence a paler tint stole down their sides into the
hollow.
`Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,' said
the aged crone, `according as thou hast desired. Say
quickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but
a short hour that we may tarry here.'
As the old withered woman spoke, a smile glimmered
on her countenance, like lamplight on the wall of
a sepulchre. The lady trembled, and cast her eyes
upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to
return with her purpose unaccomplished. But it was
not so ordained.
`I am stranger in this land, as you know,' said she
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at length. `Whence I come it matters not;—but I
have left those behind me with whom my fate was
intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off for ever.
There is a weight in my bosom that I cannot away
with, and I have come hither to inquire of their welfare.
'
`And who is there by this green pool, that can
bring thee news from the ends of the Earth?' cried
the old woman, peering into the lady's face. `Not
from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet, be
thou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from
yonder hill-top, before thy wish be granted.'
`I will do your bidding though I die,' replied the
lady desperately.
The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the
fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her
gray locks, and beckoned her companion to draw near.
`Kneel down,' she said, `and lay your forehead on
my knees.'
She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety, that had
long been kindling, burned fiercely up within her. As
she knelt down, the border of her garment was dipped
into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old
woman's knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the
lady's face, so that she was in darkness. Then she
heard the muttered words of a 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
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returning recollection, she hushed herself, and was still as
death.
For it seemed as if other voices,—familiar in infancy,
and unforgotten through many wanderings, and in
all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune—were
mingling with the accents of the prayer. At first the
words were faint and indistinct, not rendered so by
distance, but rather resembling the dim pages of a
book, which we strive to read by an imperfect and
gradually brightening light. In such a manner, as the
prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon
the ear; till at length the petition ended, and the conversation
of an aged man, and of a woman broken and
decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to the
lady as she knelt. But those strangers appeared not
to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills.
Their voices were encompassed and re-echoed by the
walls of a chamber, the windows of which were rattling
in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, the
crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers as
they fell among the ashes, rendred 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
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their talk, their voices seemed to melt into the sound
of the wind sweeping mournfully among the autumn
leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was
she kneeling in the hollow between three hills.
`A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple
have of it,' remarked the old woman, smiling in the
lady's face.
`And did you also hear them!' exclaimed she, a
sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her
agony and fear.
`Yea; and we have yet more to hear,' replied the
old woman. `Wherefore, cover thy face quickly.'
Again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous
words of a prayer that was not meant to be
acceptable in Heaven; and soon, in the pauses of her
breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually
increasing so as to drown and overpower the
charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through
the obscurity of sound, and were succeeded by the
singing of sweet female voices, which in their turn
gave way to a wild roar of laughter, broken suddenly
by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly
confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. Chains
were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats,
and the scourge resounded at their command. All
these noises deepened and became substantial to the
listener's ear, till she could distinguish every soft and
dreamy accent of the love songs, that died causelessly
into funeral hymns. She shuddered at the unprovoked
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wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling
of flame, and she grew faint at the fearful merriment,
raging miserably around her. In the midst of this
wild scene, where unbound passions jostled each other
in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice of a
man, and a manly and melodious voice it might once
have been. He went to-and-fro continually, and his
feet sounded upon the floor. In each member of that
frenzied company, whose own burning thoughts had
become their exclusive world, he sought an auditor for
the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their
laughter and tears as his reward of scorn or pity. He
spoke of woman's perfidy, of a wife who had broken
her holiest vows, of a home and heart made desolate.
Even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek,
the sob, rose up in unison, till they changed into the
hollow, fitful, and uneven sound of the wind, as it
fought among the pine trees on those three lonely hills.
The lady looked up, and there was the withered
woman smiling in her face.
`Couldst thou have thought there were such merry
times in a Mad House?' inquired the latter.
`True, true,' said the lady to herself; `there is
mirth within its walls, but misery, misery without.'
`Wouldst thou hear more?' demanded the old
woman.
`There is one other voice I would fain listen to
again,' replied the lady faintly.
Then lay down thy head speedily upon my knees,
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that thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be
past.'
The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon
the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the
pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to overspread
the world. Again that evil woman began to
weave her spell. Long did it proceed unanswered, till
the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of
her words, like a clang that had travelled far over
valley and rising ground, and was just ready to die in
the air. The lady shook upon her companion's knees,
as she heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew and
sadder, and deepened into the tone of a death-bell,
knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled tower, and
bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cottage, to
the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer, that all might
weep for the doom appointed in turn to them. Then
came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly on, as
of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on
the ground, so that the ear could measure the length
of their melancholy array. Before them went the
priest, reading the burial-service, while the leaves of
his book were rustling in the breeze. And though
no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there
were revilings and anathemas, whispered but distinct,
from women and from men, breathed against the
daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her parents,—
the wife who had betrayed the trusting fondness
of her husband,—the mother who had sinned
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against natural affection, and left her child to die.
The sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away
like a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had
seemed to shake the coffin-pall, moaned sadly round
the verge of the Hollow between three Hills. But
when the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she
lifted not her head.
`Here has been a sweet hour's sport!' said the
withered crone, chuckling to herself.
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THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. Page 293.
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At fifteen, I became a resident in a country village,
more than a hundred miles from home. The morning
after my arrival—a September morning, but warm and
bright as any in July—I rambled into a wood of oaks,
with a few walnut trees intermixed, forming the closest
shade above my head. The ground was rocky, uneven,
overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings,
and traversed only by cattle-paths. The track, which
I chanced to follow, led me to a crystal spring, with a
border of grass, as freshly green as on May morning,
and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak. One
solitary sunbeam found its way down, and played like
a goldfish in the water.
From my childhood, I have loved to gaze into a
spring. The water filled a circular basin, small, but
deep, and set round with stones, some of which were
covered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of
variegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. The
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bottom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled
in the lonely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate the
spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot,
the gush of the water violently agitated the sand,
but without obscuring the fountain, or breaking the
glassiness of its surface. It appeared as if some living
creature were about to emerge, the Naiad of the spring,
perhaps, in the shape of a beautiful young woman, with
a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of rainbow drops,
and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. How would
the beholder shiver, pleasantly, yet fearfully, to see her
sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in
the ripples, and throwing up water, to sparkle in the
sun! Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers,
they would immediately be moist, as with morning
dew. Then would she set about her labors, like a
careful housewife, to clear the fountain of withered
leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old acorns from
the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in
drinking, till the bright sand, in the bright water, were
like a treasury of diamonds. But, should the intruder
approach too near, he would find only the drops of a
summer shower, glistening about the spot where he
had seen her.
Reclining on the border of grass, where the dewy
goddess should have been, I bent forward, and a pair
of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They
were the reflection of my own. I looked again, and
lo! another face, deeper in the fountain than my own
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image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as
thought. The vision had the aspect of a fair young
girl, with locks of paly gold. A mirthful expression
laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy
countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain
would be, if, while dancing merrily into the sunshine,
it should assume the shape of woman. Through the
dim rosiness of the cheeks, I could see the brown
leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and the sparkling
sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the
golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, and
became a glory round that head so beautiful!
My description can give no idea how suddenly the
fountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left
desolate. I breathed; and there was the face! I held
my breath; and it was gone! Had it passed away, or
faded into nothing? I doubted whether it had ever
been.
My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour
did I spend, where that vision found and left me!
For a long time, I sat perfectly still, waiting till it
should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion,
or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it
away. Thus have I often started from a pleasant
dream, and then kept quiet, in hopes to wile it back.
Deep were my musings, as to the race and attributes
of that ethereal being. Had I created her? Was she
the daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes
which peep under the lids of children's eyes? And
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did her beauty gladden me, for that one moment, and
then die? Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain,
or fairy, or woodland goddess, peeping over my
shoulder, or the ghost of some forsaken maid, who had
drowned herself for love? Or, in good truth, had a
lovely girl, with a warm heart, and lips that would
bear pressure, stolen softly behind me, and thrown her
image into the spring?
I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I
departed, but with a spell upon me, which drew me
back, that same afternoon, to the haunted spring. There
was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, and the
sunbeam glimmering. There the vision was not, but
only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, who
immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made
himself invisible, all except a pair of long legs, beneath
a stone. Methought he had a devilish look! I could
have slain him as an enchanter, who kept the mysterious
beauty imprisoned in the fountain.
Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Between
me and the church spire, rose a little hill, and
on its summit a group of trees, insulated from all the
rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance
hovering on them from the west, and their own solitary
shadow falling to the east. The afternoon being far
declined, the sunshine was almost pensive, and the
shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were mingled
in the placid light; as if the spirits of the Day and
Evening had met in friendship under those trees, and
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found themselves akin. I was admiring the picture,
when the shape of a young girl emerged from behind
the clump of oaks. My heart knew her; it was the
Vision; but so distant and ethereal did she seem, so
unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive glory
of the spot where she was standing, that my spirit
sunk within me, sadder than before. How could I
ever reach her!
While I gazed, a sudden shower came pattering down
upon the leaves. In a moment the air was full of
brightness, each rain-drop catching a portion of sunlight
as it fell, and the whole gentle shower appearing
like a mist, just substantial enough to bear the burthen
of radiance. A rainbow, vivid as Niagara's, was painted
in the air. Its southern limb came down before the
group of trees, and enveloped the fair Vision, as if the
hues of Heaven were the only garment for her beauty.
When the rainbow vanished, she, who had seemed a
part of it, was no longer there. Was her existence
absorbed in nature's loveliest phenomenon, and did
her pure frame dissolve away in the varied light? Yet,
I would not despair of her return; for, robed in the
rainbow, she was the emblem of Hope.
Thus did the Vision leave me; and many a doleful
day succeeded to the parting moment. By the spring,
and in the wood, and on the hill, and through the
village; at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that
magic hour of sunset, when she had vanished from my
sight, I sought her, but in vain. Weeks came and
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went, months rolled away, and she appeared not in
them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered
to-and-fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught
a glimpse of Heaven, and could take no more joy on
earth. I withdrew into an inner world, where my
thoughts lived and breathed, and the Vision in the
midst of them. Without intending it, I became at
once the author and hero of a romance, conjuring up
rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my
own, and experiencing every change of passion, till
jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had I
the burning fancy of my early youth, with manhood's
colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts, sweet
ladies, should flutter at my tale!
In the middle of January, I was summoned home.
The day before my departure, visiting the spots which
had been hallowed by the Vision, I found that the
spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow
and a glare of winter sunshine, on the hill of the rainbow.
`Let me hope,' thought I, `or my heart will be
as icy as the fountain, and the whole world as desolate
as this snowy hill.' Most of the day was spent in preparing
for the journey, which was to commence at four
o'clock the next morning. About an hour after supper,
when all was in readiness, I descended from my chamber
to the sitting-room, to take leave of the old clergyman
and his family, with whom I had been an inmate.
A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passed through
the entry.
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According to their invariable custom, so pleasant a
one when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were
sitting in the parlor, with no other light than what
came from the hearth. As the good clergyman's scanty
stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the
foundation of his fires was always a large heap of tan,
or ground bark, which would smoulder away, from
morning till night, with a dull warmth and no flame.
This evening, the heap of tan was newly put on, and
surmounted with three sticks of red oak, full of moisture,
and a few pieces of dry pine, that had not yet
kindled. There was no light, except the little that
came sullenly from two half-burnt brands, without even
glimmering on the andirons. But I knew the position
of the old minister's arm-chair, and also where his wife
sat, with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his two
daughters, one a stout country lass, and the other a
consumptive girl. Groping through the gloom, I found
my own place next to that of the son, a learned collegian,
who had come home to keep school in the village
during the winter vacation. I noticed that there was
less room than usual, to-night, between the collegian's
chair and mine.
As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a
word was said for sometime after my entrance. Nothing
broke the stillness but the regular click of the
matron's knitting-needles. At times, the fire threw
out a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the
old man's glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our
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circle, but was far too faint to portray the individuals
who composed it. Were we not like ghosts? Dreamy
as the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode
in which departed people, who had known and loved
each other here, would hold communion in eternity?
We were aware of each other's presence, not by sight,
nor sound, nor touch, but by an inward consciousness.
Would it not be so among the dead?
The silence was interrupted by the consumptive
daughter, addressing a remark to some one in the circle,
whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and
decayed accents were answered by a single word, but
in a voice that made me start, and bend towards the
spot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard that
sweet, low tone? If not, why did it rouse up so many
old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of
things familiar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with
confused images of her features who had spoken,
though buried in the gloom of the parlor? Whom
had my heart recognised, that it throbbed so? I listened,
to catch her gentle breathing, and strove, by
the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape where
none was visible.
Suddenly, the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up
with a ruddy glow; and where the darkness had been,
there was she—the Vision of the Fountain! A spirit
of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow,
and appeared again in the fire-light, perhaps to flicker
with the blaze, and be gone. Yet, her cheek was rosy
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and life-like, and her features, in the bright warmth of
the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my
recollection of them. She knew me! The mirthful
expression, that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled
over her countenance, when I beheld her faint beauty
in the fountain, was laughing and dimpling there now.
One moment, our glance mingled—the next, down
rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood—and
darkness snatched away that daughter of the light, and
gave her back to me no more!
Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must the
simple mystery be revealed, then, that Rachel was the
daughter of the village 'Squire, and had left home for
a boarding-school, the morning after I arrived, and
returned the day before my departure? If I transformed
her to an angel, it is what every youthful lover
does for his mistress. Therein consists the essence of
my story. But, slight the change, sweet maids, to
make angels of yourselves!
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FANCY'S SHOW BOX. Page 305.
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What is Guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is
a point of vast interest, whether the soul may contract
such stains, in all their depth and flagrancy, from
deeds which have been plotted and resolved upon, but
which, physically, have never had existence. Must
the fleshly hand, and visible frame of man, set its seal
to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give them
their entire validity against the sinner? Or, while none
but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly
tribunal, will guilty thoughts—of which guilty deeds
are no more than shadows—will these draw down the
full weight of a condemning sentence, in the supreme
court of eternity? In the solitude of a midnight
chamber, or in a desert, afar from men, or in a church,
while the body is kneeling, the soul may pollute itself
even with those crimes, which we are accustomed to
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deem altogether carnal. If this be true, it is a fearful
truth.
Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example.
A venerable gentleman, one Mr. Smith, who had long
been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence, was
warming his aged blood with a glass or two of generous
wine. His children being gone forth about their
worldly business, and his grandchildren at school, he
sat alone, in a deep, luxurious arm chair, with his feet
beneath a richly carved mahogany table. Some old
people have a dread of solitude, and when better company
may not be had, rejoice even to hear the quiet
breathing of a babe, asleep upon the carpet. But Mr.
Smith, whose silver hair was the bright symbol of a life
unstained, except by such spots as are inseparable from
human nature, he had no need of a babe to protect
him by its purity, nor of a grown person, to stand
between him and his own soul. Nevertheless, either
Manhood must converse with Age, or Womanhood
must soothe him with gentle cares, or Infancy must
sport around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into
the misty region of the past, and the old man be chill
and sad. Wine will not always cheer him. Such
might have been the case with Mr. Smith, when,
through the brilliant medium of his glass of old Madeira,
he beheld three figures entering the room. These
were Fancy, who had assumed the garb and aspect of
an itinerant showman, with a box of pictures on her
back; and Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, with a
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pen behind her ear, an ink-horn at her button-hole,
and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm; and
lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in a
dusky mantle, which concealed both face and form.
But Mr. Smith had a shrewd idea that it was Conscience.
How kind of Fancy, Memory, and Conscience, to
visit the old gentleman, just as he was beginning to
imagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle,
nor so excellent a flavor, as when himself and the
liquor were less aged! Through the dim length of
the apartment, where crimson curtains muffled the
glare of sunshine, and created a rich obscurity, the
three guests drew near the silver-haired old man.
Memory, with a finger between the leaves of her huge
volume, placed herself at his right hand. Conscience,
with her face still hidden in the dusky mantle, took
her station on the left, so as to be next his heart; while
Fancy set down her picture-box upon the table, with
the magnifying glass convenient to his eye. We can
sketch merely the outlines of two or three, out of the
many pictures, which at the pulling of a string, successively
peopled the box with the semblances of living
scenes.
One was a moonlight picture; in the back ground, a
lowly dwelling; and in front, partly shadowed by a
tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two
youthful figures, male and female. The young man
stood with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip,
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and a gleam of triumph in his eye, as he glanced down
ward at the kneeling girl. She was almost prostrate
at his feet, evidently sinking under a weight of shame
and anguish, which hardly allowed her to lift her
clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she could not
lift. But neither her agony, nor the lovely features on
which it was depicted, nor the slender grace of the
form which it convulsed, appeared to soften the obduracy
of the young man. He was the personification of
triumphant scorn. Now, strange to say, as old Mr.
Smith peeped through the magnifying glass, which
made the objects start out from the canvas with magical
deception, he began to recognise the farm-house, the
tree, and both the figures of the picture. The young
man, in times long past, had often met his gaze within
the looking-glass; the girl was the very image of his
first love—his cottage-love—his Martha Burroughs!
Mr. Smith was scandalized. `Oh, vile and slanderous
picture!' he exclaims. `When have I triumphed over
ruined innocence? Was not Martha wedded, in her
teens, to David Tomkins, who won her girlish love, and
long enjoyed her affection as a wife? And ever since
his death, she has lived a reputable widow!' Meantime,
Memory was turning over the leaves of her
volume, rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers,
until, among the earlier pages, she found one which
had reference to this picture. She reads it, close to
the old gentleman's ear; it is a record merely of sinful
thought, which never was embodied in an act; but,
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while Memory is reading, Conscience unveils her face,
and strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith. Though
not a death-blow, the torture was extreme.
The exhibition proceeded. One after another, Fancy
displayed her pictures, all of which appeared to have
been painted by some malicious artist, on purpose to
vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have
been adduced, in any earthly court, that he was guilty
of the slightest of those sins which were thus made to
stare him in the face. In one scene, there was a table
set out, with several bottles, and glasses half filled with
wine, which threw back the dull ray of an expiring
lamp. There had been mirth and revelry, until the
hand of the clock stood just at midnight, when Murder
stept between the boon companions. A young man
had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead, with a
ghastly wound crushed into his temple, while over him,
with a delirium of mingled rage and horror in his
countenance, stood the youthful likeness of Mr. Smith.
The murdered youth wore the features of Edward
Spencer! `What does this rascal of a painter mean?'
cries Mr. Smith, provoked beyond all patience. `Edward
Spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true
to me as I to him, through more than half a century.
Neither I, nor any other, ever murdered him. Was
he not alive within five years, and did he not, in token
of our long friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed
cane, and a mourning ring?' Again had Memory
been turning over her volume, and fixed at length upon
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so confused a page, that she surely must have scribbled
it when she was tipsy. The purport was, however,
that, while Mr. Smith and Edward Spencer were
heating their young blood with wine, a quarrel had
flashed up between them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly
wrath, had flung a bottle at Spencer's head. True, it
missed its aim, and merely smashed a looking-glass;
and the next morning, when the incident was imperfectly
remembered, they had shaken hands with a
hearty laugh. Yet, again, while Memory was reading,
Conscience unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the
heart of Mr. Smith, and quelled his remonstrance
with her iron frown. The pain was quite excruciating.
Some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtful
a touch, and in colors so faint and pale that the
subjects could barely be conjectured. A dull, semitransparent
mist had been thrown over the surface of
the canvas, into which the figures seemed to vanish,
while the eye sought most earnestly to fix them. But,
in every scene, however dubiously portrayed, Mr.
Smith was invariably haunted by his own lineaments,
at various ages, as in a dusty mirror. After poring
several minutes over one of these blurred and almost
indistinguishable pictures, he began to see, that the
painter had intended to represent him, now in the
decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the backs
of three half-starved children. `Really, this puzzles
me!' quoth Mr. Smith, with the irony of conscious
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rectitude. `Asking pardon of the painter, I pronounce
him a fool, as well as a scandalous knave. A man of
my standing in the world, to be robbing little children
of their clothes! Ridiculous!'—But while he spoke,
Memory had searched her fatal volume, and found a
page, which, with her sad, calm voice, she poured into
his ear. It was not altogether inapplicable to the
misty scene. It told how Mr. Smith had been grievously
tempted, by many devilish sophistries, on the
ground of a legal quibble, to commence a lawsuit
against three orphan children, joint heirs to a considerable
estate. Fortunately, before he was quite
decided, his claims had turned out nearly as devoid of
law, as justice. As Memory ceased to read, Conscience
again thrust aside her mantle, and would have
struck her victim with the envenomed dagger, only
that he struggled, and clasped his hands before his
heart. Even then, however, he sustained an ugly
gash.
Why should we follow Fancy through the whole
series of those awful pictures? Painted by an artist
of wondrous power, and terrible acquaintance with the
secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the never-perpetrated
sins, that had glided through the life-time
of Mr. Smith. And could such beings of cloudy
fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid evidence
against him, at the day of judgment? Be that
the case or not, there is reason to believe, that one
truly penitential tear would have washed away each
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hateful picture, and left the canvas white as snow.
But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too keen to
be endured, bellowed aloud, with impatient agony, and
suddenly discovered that his three guests were gone.
There he sat alone, a silver-haired and highly venerated
old man, in the rich gloom of the crimson-curtained
room, with no box of pictures on the table, but
only a decanter of most excellent Madeira. Yet his
heart still seemed to fester with the venom of the
dagger.
Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might
have argued the matter with Conscience, and alleged
many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so
pitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should
be somewhat in the following fashion. A scheme of
guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a
train of incidents in a projected tale. The latter, in
order to produce a sense of reality in the reader's mind,
must be conceived with such proportionate strength by
the author as to seem, in the glow of fancy, more like
truth, past, present, or to come, than purely fiction.
The prospective sinner, on the other hand, weaves his
plot of crime, but seldom or never feels a perfect
certainty that it will be executed. There is a dreaminess
diffused about his thoughts; in a dream, as it
were, he strikes the death-blow into his victim's heart,
and starts to find an indelible blood-stain on his hand.
Thus a novel-writer, or a
damatist, in creating a villain
of romance, and fitting him with evil deeds, and the
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villain of actual life, in projecting crimes that will be
perpetrated, may almost meet each other, half way
between reality and fancy. It is not until the crime is
accomplished, that guilt clenches its gripe upon the
guilty heart and claims it for its own. Then, and not
before, sin is actually felt and acknowledged, and, if
unaccompanied by repentance, grows a thousand fold
more virulent by its self-consciousness. Be it considered,
also, that men often over-estimate their capacity
for evil. At a distance, while its attendant circumstances
do not press upon their notice, and its results
are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. They
may take the steps which lead to crime, impelled by
the same sort of mental action as in working out a
mathematical problem, yet be powerless with compunction,
at the final moment. They knew not what deed
it was, that they deemed themselves resolved to do.
In truth, there is no such thing in man's nature, as a
settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except
at the very moment of execution. Let us hope, therefore,
that all the dreadful consequences of sin will not
be incurred, unless the act have set its seal upon the
thought.
Yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have
framed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven.
Man must not disclaim his brotherhood, even with the
guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart
has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of
iniquity. He must feel, that, when he shall knock at
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the gate of Heaven, no semblance of an unspotted life
can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence must
kneel, and Mercy come from the footstool of the throne,
or that golden gate will never open!
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DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. Page 317.
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That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once
invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study.
There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne,
Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a
withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow
Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures,
who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest
misfortune it was, that they were not long ago in their
graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had
been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a
frantic speculation, and was now little better than a
mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best
years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of
sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of
pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of
soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician,
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a man of evil fame, or at least had been so, till time
had buried him from the knowledge of the present
generation, and made him obscure instead of infamous.
As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that
she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long
while past, she had lived in deep seclusion, on account
of certain scandalous stories, which had prejudiced the
gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance
worth mentioning, that each of these three old gentlemen,
Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr.
Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly,
and had once been on the point of cutting each other's
throats for her sake. And, before proceeding farther,
I will merely hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four
guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside
themselves; as is not unfrequently the case with old
people, when worried either by present troubles or
woful recollections.
`My dear old friends,' said Dr. Heidegger, motioning
them to be seated, `I am desirous of your assistance
in one of those little experiments with which I amuse
myself here in my study.'
If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must
have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned
chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and be-sprinkled
with antique dust. Around the walls stood
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which
were filled with rows of gigantic folios, and black-letter
quartos, and the upper with little parchment
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covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was
a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to
some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to
hold consultations, in all difficult cases of his practice.
In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and
narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which
doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the
bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high
and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among
many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was
fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased
patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in
the face whenever he looked thitherward. The opposite
side of the chamber was ornamented with the
full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the
faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and
with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a
century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of
marriage with this young lady; but, being affected
with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of
her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening.
The greatest curiosity of the study remains to
be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound
in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There
were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the
title of the book. But it was well known to be a book
of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted
it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had
rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had
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stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly
faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the
brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said—`Forbear!'
Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer
afternoon of our tale, a small round table, as black as
ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a
cut-glass vase, of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship.
The sunshine came through the window,
between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains,
and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild
splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages
of the five old people who sat around. Four champaigne
glasses were also on the table.
`My dear old friends,' repeated Dr. Heidegger,' may
I reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly
curious experiment?'
Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman,
whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a
thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to
my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back
to mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the
present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be
content to bear the stigma of a fiction-monger.
When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his
proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more
wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump,
or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or
some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly
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in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without
waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the
chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio,
bound in black leather, which common report affirmed
to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he
opened the volume, and took from among its black-letter
pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though
now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed
one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready
to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands.
`This rose,' said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, `this
same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five-and-fifty
years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward,
whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it
in my bosom at our wedding. Five-and-fifty years it
has been treasured between the leaves of this old
volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this
rose of half a century could ever bloom again?'
`Nonsense!' said the Widow Wycherly, with a
peevish toss of her head. `You might as well ask
whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever
bloom again.'
`See!' answered Dr. Heidegger.
He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose
into the water which it contained. At first, it lay
lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe
none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular
change began to be visible. The crushed and dried
petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of
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crimson, as if the flower were reviving from a death-like
slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became
green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking
as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to
her lover. It was scarcely full-blown; for some of
its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist
bosom, within which two or three dew-drops were
sparkling.
`That is certainly a very pretty deception,' said the
doctor's friends; carelessly, however, for they had
witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show: `pray
how was it effected?'
`Did you never hear of the “Fountain of Youth?”'
asked Dr. Heidegger, `which Ponce De Leon, the
Spanish adventurer, went in search of, two or three
centuries ago?'
`But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?' said the
Widow Wycherly.
`No,' answered Dr. Heidegger, `for he never sought
it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth,
if I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern
part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake
Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic
magnolias, which, though numberless centuries
old, have been kept as fresh as violets, by the virtues
of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine,
knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me
what you see in the vase.'
`Ahem!' said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not
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a word of the doctor's story: `and what may be the
effect of this fluid on the human frame?'
`You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,'
replied Dr. Heidegger; `and all of you, my respected
friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable
fluid, as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For
my own part, having had much trouble in growing
old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With
your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the
progress of the experiment.'
While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the
four champaigne 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 skeptics as to its rejuvenescent power,
they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr.
Heidegger besought them to stay a moment.
`Before you drink, my respectable old friends,' said
he, `it would be well that, with the experience of a
life-time 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!'
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The doctor's four venerable friends made him no
answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so
very ridiculous was the idea, that, knowing how closely
repentance treads behind the steps of error, they
should ever go astray again.
`Drink, then,' said the doctor, bowing: `I rejoice
that I have so well selected the subjects of my experiment.
With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their
lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as
Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been
bestowed on four human beings who needed it more
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 again. They drank off the water,
and replaced their glasses on the table.
Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement
in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might
have been produced by a glass of generous wine,
together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine,
brightening over all their visages at once. There was
a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the
ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like.
They gazed at one another, and fancied that some
magic power had really begun to smooth away the
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deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had
been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow
Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a
woman again.
`Give us more of this wondrous water!' cried they,
eagerly. `We are younger—but we are still too old!
Quick!—give us more!'
`Patience, patience!' quoth Dr. Heidegger, who
sat watching the experiment, with philosophic coolness.
`You have been a long time growing old.
Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an
hour! But the water is at your service.'
Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth,
enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half
the old people in the city to the age of their own
grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling
on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their
glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at
a single gulp. Was it delusion! Even while the
draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to
have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their
eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened
among their silvery locks; they sat around the table,
three gentlemen, of middle age, and a woman, hardly
beyound her buxom prime.
`My dear widow, you are charming!' cried Colonel
Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face,
while the shadows of age were flitting from it like
darkness from the crimson daybreak.
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The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's
compliments were not always measured by sober
truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still
dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would
meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved
in such a manner, as proved that the water of
the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating
qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits
were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sudden
removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's
mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether
relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily
be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have
been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth
full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory,
and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous
stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously
that even his own conscience could scarcely
catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured
accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as if a
royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods.
Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth
a jolly bottle-song, and ringing his glass in symphony
with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the
buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other
side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in
a calculation of dollars and cents, with which was
strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East
Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the
polar icebergs.
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As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the
mirror, curtseying 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 long-remembered
wrinkle or crows-foot had indeed vanished. She examined
whether the snow had so entirely melted from her
hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown
aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a
sort of dancing step to the table.
`My dear old doctor,' cried she, `pray favor me
with another glass!'
`Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!' replied the
complaisant doctor; `see! I have already filled the
glasses.'
There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brim-full 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 moon-like splendor gleamed from within the vase,
and rested alike on the four guests, and on the doctor's
venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved,
oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of aspect
that might have well befitted that very Father Time,
whose power had never been disputed, save by this
fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third
draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost
awed by the expression of his mysterious visage.
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But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of
young life shot through their veins. They were now
in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable
train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remembered
only as the trouble of a dream, from which they
had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so
early lost, and without which the world's successive
scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again
threw its enchantment over all their prospects. They
felt like new-created beings, in a new-created universe.
`We are young! We are young!' they cried, exultingly.
Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the
strongly marked characteristics of middle life, and
mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of
merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant
frolicksomeness of their years. The most singular
effect of their gaiety was an impulse to mock the infirmity
and decrepitude of which they had so lately been
the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned
attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of
the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the
blooming girl. One limped across the floor, like a
gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride
of his nose, and pretended to pore over the blackletter
pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in
an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity
of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and
leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly—if
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so fresh a damsel could be called a widow—tripped up
to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merriment in
her rosy face.
`Doctor, you dear old soul,' cried she, `get up and
dance with me!' And then the four young people
laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure
the poor old doctor would cut.
`Pray excuse me,' answered the doctor, quietly. `I
am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over
long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen
will be glad of so pretty a partner.'
`Dance with me, Clara!' cried Colonel Killigrew.
`No, no, I will be her partner!' shouted Mr. Gascoigne.
She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!' exclaimed
Mr. Medbourne.
They all gathered round her. One caught both her
hands in his passionate grasp—another threw his arm
about her waist—the third buried his hand among the
glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap.
Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her
warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she
strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their
triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of
youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize.
Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of
the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still
wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures
of the three old, gray, withered grandsires,
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ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled
granddam.
But they were young: their burning passions proved
them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the
girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her
favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening
glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they
grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they
struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the
vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious
Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the
floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown
old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to
die. The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber,
and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger.
`Come, come, gentlemen!—come, Madam Wycherly,
' exclaimed the doctor, `I really must protest
against this riot.'
They stood still, and shivered; for it seemed as if
gray Time were calling them back from their sunny
youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of
years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in
his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century,
which he had rescued from among the fragments of
the shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the
four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily,
because their violent exertions had wearied them,
youthful though they were.
`My poor Sylvia's rose!' ejaculated Dr. Heidegger,
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holding it in the light of the sunset clouds: `it appears
to be fading again.'
And so it was. Even while the party were looking
at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became
as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown
it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture
which clung to its petals.
`I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness,'
observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered
lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down
from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor.
His guests shivered again. A strange 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 life-time been crowded into so brief a
space, and were they now four aged people, sitting
with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger?
`Are we grown old again, so soon!' cried they,
dolefully.
In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed
merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The
delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes!
they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that
showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her
skinny hands before her face, and wished that the
-- 334 --
[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
coffin-lid were over it, since it could be no longer
beautiful.
`Yes, friends, ye are old again,' said Dr. Heidegger;
`and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the
ground. Well—I bemoan it not; for if the fountain
gushed at my very door-step, I would not stoop to bathe
my lips in it—no, though its delirium were for years
instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught
me!'
But the doctor's four friends had taught no such
lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make
a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon,
and night, from the Fountain of Youth.
THE END.
Back matter
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Back matter
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CATALOGUE OF SCHOOL AND CLASSICAL BOOKS, PUBLISHED AND SOLD BY THE AMERICAN STATIONERS' COMPANY, BOSTON.
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
The Publishers beg leave to call the attention of Instructors and
School Committees to the list of School Books enumerated below.
It is their aim to be engaged in the publication of such
only as will stand the test of criticism, and receive the approbation
of discriminating Teachers; and also to have their Books
manufactured in a superior manner.
THE NORTH AMERICAN ARITHMETIC, in Three
Parts. By Frederick Emerson, late Principal of the Department
of Arithmetic, Boylston School, Boston.
PART FIRST is a small book, designed for the use of children
from five to eight years of age.
PART SECOND contains, within itself, a complete system
of Mental and Written Arithmetic, sufficiently extensive for
common schools.
PART THIRD, for advanced scholars, comprises a review
of the elementary principles of arithmetic, with a full development
of its higher operations.
KEYS to Emerson's Arithmetic, for the use of Teachers.
This System of Arithmetic is the result of five years' labor,
which the author entered upon with a view of preparing a standard
work, that would justify general use in American schools.
The effort has proved completely successful; and the ease and
rapidity with which scholars learn arithmetic from these books
is truly gratifying. The recommendations in favor of the work
are very numerous and decisive; they are from gentlemen who
do not lend their names to give countenance to indifferent publications.
They are such as the following:—
Williams College, Oct. 2, 1832.
To Mr. Frederick Emerson.
Sir,
—I have received the First and Second Parts of your North
American Arithmetic, and am highly pleased with the plan of the work, and
the manner of its execution thus far. It unites simplicity with fulness. and
will thus be sure to interest the beginner, whilst it furnishes, at the same time.
an ample guide to the more advanced pupil.
Respectfully and truly yours,
ALBERT HOPKINS,
Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy in
Williamstown College.
-- --
VALUABLE SCHOOL BOOKS PUBLISHED
Cambridge, Oct. 31, 1834.
To the Publishers of Emerson's Arithmetic.
Gentlemen,
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
—I have examined the Third Part of Mr. Emerson's
Arithmetic with great pleasure. The perspicuity of its arrangement, and
the clearness and brevity of its explanations, combined with its happy adaptation
to the purposes of practical business, are its great recommendations.
I hope it will soon be introduced into all our schools, and take the place of
ill-digested treatises, to which our instructors have hitherto been compelled
to resort.
Respectfully,
BENJAMIN PIERCE,
Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy,
Harvard University.
Burlington, 15th Feb. 1833.
[Conclusion of a letter to the Author.] I should think it hardly possible
that a child could be faithfully conducted through these two works [First and
Second Parts] without being vastly better acquainted with the subject than
children formerly were. Being judiciously compelled in some measure to
invent their own rules, they can scarcely fail of being able to assign a proper
reason for the process, as well as to recollect it for future use. Indeed, I do
not know any one particular in which, for the use of very young pupils, they
could be improved.
Yours resp'y,
JAMES DEAN,
Late Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy
in the University of Vermont.
Boston, Nov. 10, 1834.
To the Publishers.
I have carefully examined the Third Part of the North American
Arithmetic, by Mr. Emerson; and am so well satisfied that it is the best
treatise on the subject with which I am acquainted, that I have determined
to introduce it as a text-book into my school.
Very respectfully, &c., yours,
E. BAILEY,
Principal of the Young Ladies' High School, Boston.
Friends' Boarding School, Providence, 5 mo. 15, 1835.
Notwithstanding the obvious improvements of the study, both in a practical
point of view and as an intellectual exercise, arithmetic is perhaps
the science which is most negligently taught in common schools, and the
true principles of which are left in the greatest obscurity in the minds of
scholars. One reason of this is the imperfection of the common treatises used
in our schools. The Arithmetic of Dr. Adams was a decided improvement
upon its predecessors in the way of lucid explanations, and, as might be expected,
others followed which went still farther in the track of inductive
illustration. The North American Arithmetic, by Frederick Emerson, appears
to me to exhibit the science in a manner more clear, simple and practical,
better adapted to the use of schools and the benefit of teachers, who
may not themselves be thoroughly conversant with arithmetic, than any book
I have seen. The doctrine of Ratio and Proportion is treated in the way in
which it can alone be rendered perfectly intelligible to the pupil, and far
more satisfactory than in any English or American Arithmetic that has fallen
under my notice.
J. GRISCOM,
Literary Principal of the Friends' Boarding School—
late of the New York High School.
New York, June 20, 1835.
Mr. Emerson,
Dear Sir,
—Having examined your North American Arithmetic
with much care, and made some use of it as a text-book in my classes, I do
not hesitate to regard it as better adapted than any other, to the schools of
the United States. It has long been objected to the books on this subject in
common use, that they are deficient in explanation, and unscientific in arrangement;
more apt to check than develop the powers of reasoning and calculation.
To your work, certainly, these objections are inapplicable. No
pupil, it seems to me, can go through Parts First, Second, and Third, with
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
ordinary attention, without acquiring a facility of analysis, a readiness both
of rule and reason, and a dexterity of practice, not easily to be derived from
any other books yet published.
Your friend, respectfully,
WM. J. ADAMS,
Principal of Classical and Commercial School.
The Masters of the Boston Public Schools, Department of
Arithmetic, make the following statement:—
We have considered it our duty to render ourselves acquainted with the
more prominent systems of arithmetic, published for the use of Schools, and
to fix on some work which appears to unite the greatest advantages, and to
report the same to the School Committee of Boston, for adoption in the Public
Schools. After the most careful examination, we have, without any hesitancy,
come to the conclusion, that Emerson's North American Arithmetic
[Parts First, Second, and Third,] is the work best suited to the wants of all
classes of scholars, and most convenient for the purposes of instruction. Accordingly,
we have petitioned for the adoption of the work in the Public
Schools.
P. MACKINTOSH, Jr., LEVI CONANT,
JAMES ROBINSON, J. FAIRBANK,
OTIS PIERCE, JOHN P. LATHROP,
ABEL WHEELER, ABNER FORBES.
&hand; At a meeting of the School Committee of Boston, held Nov.
18, 1834, it was voted, unanimously, “That Emerson's North
American Arithmetic be substituted for Colburn's First Lessons
and Sequel.”
Among others, who have recommended Emerson's Arithmetic,
are—
WALTER R. JOHNSON,
Principal of the Philadelphia High School.
EDWARD TURNER,
Professor of Math. and Phil. in Middlebury College.
JOHN ADAMS,
Principal of the Phillips Academy, Andover.
GEORGE W. KEELY,
Professor of Mathematics in Waterville College.
A. CASWELL,
Professor of Mathematics in Brown University.
AMOS EATON,
Senior Professor in the Rensselaer School.
JAMES HAMILTON,
Prof. Math., Nat. Phil. and Astronomy in Nashville Univ.
S. W. SETON,
Visitor for the Public School Society, New York.
B. F. JOSLIN,
Professor of Natural Philosophy, Union College.
WILLIAM WALL,
Professor of Mathematics in Ohio University.
B. M'GOWAN,
Professor of Math. and Nat. Phil. St. Louis University.
MERRITT CALDWELL,
Principal of the Maine Wesleyan Seminary.
E. A. ANDREWS,
Principal of the New Haven Young Ladies' Institute.
J. F. JENKINS,
Principal of Mechanics' Society School, New York.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
1. THE FIRST-CLASS READER; a Selection for Exercises
in Reading, from standard British and American Authors,
designed for the Use of Schools in the United States.
2. THE SECOND-CLASS READER; designed for the
Use of the Middle Class of Schools.
3. THIRD CLASS READER; designed for the Younger
Classes in Schools.
4. THE PROGRESSIVE PRIMER AND FOURTH
CLASS READER; a First Book for Children, introductory to
the National Spelling Book, and Third Class Reader.
These four works, prepared by Mr. B. D. Emerson, author of
the “National Spelling Book,” and other highly-approved school
books, form a series of Readers, which have been compiled
chiefly in reference to the condition and present wants of the
common schools of our country; the pupils of which generally
are, or advantageously might be, organized into three reading
classes. The matter contained in each of these Readers is happily
adapted to the intellectual advancement of those pupils who
may be supposed to hold a place in that class for which it is designed;
the style and sentiment contained in each Class Book
rising in proper gradation from the most juvenile of the series,
to that of the most maturity.
These Readers are confidently recommended to all who have
the superintendence of education. They contain nothing sectarian,
nothing which is not calculated to promote unaffected
devotion, pure morality, diffusive benevolence, sound patriotism,
and general intelligence. In addition to these general traits of
character, it is believed that the Introductory part of this series,
embraced under the head of “Suggestions to Teachers,” cannot
fail to be duly appreciated by every intelligent schoolmaster.
Gentlemen,
—I have examined the First Class Reader, by B. D. Emerson;
and, in my view, the selections are judiciously made, and characterized
by great purity and elegance of style, and yet are not so elevated
as to be unintelligible by those for whose use it is designed. The work is
throughout, so far as I have discovered, unexceptionable in the sentiment
with which it is fraught. It is introduced by some very useful “Suggestions
to Teachers,” with regard to the examination of their pupils on the lessons
read. On the whole, I know not of a reading book of higher merit, for the
more advanced classes in our schools.
JOHN HOUGH,
Professor of Languages.
Gentlemen,
—Allow me to express my cordial approbation of the selection
of pieces introduced into the First Class Reader. In correctness of sentiment,
manliness of style, and elegance of diction, this approaches more
nearly than any of the previous compilations with which I am acquainted, to
what a book should be, which is designed to be a reading manual for youth.
Yours very respectfully,
EDWARD TURNER,
Professor of Math. and Nat. Phil.
-- --
To the Publishers.
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
I have carefully examined the Reading Books prepared by Mr.
B. D. Emerson, and cordially bear testimony to the merits of the work. I
am much pleased with the character of the selections, and highly approve of
the system of instruction recommended by Mr. E. in his “Suggestions to
Teachers.” I hope these books will gain the extensive circulation to which
they are justly entitled.
S. LAMSON,
Principal of Abbot Female Academy.
Philadelphia, April 5, 1834.
Having examined the series of School Reading Books, entitled the “First
Class Reader,” the “Second Class Reader,” and the “Third Class Reader,”
by B. D. Emerson, the undersigned regard them as having very high claims
to the notice and approbation of the public. The books form a regular series,
carefully graduated according to the advancement of classes in good
English Schools. The selections are very judiciously made, both in matter
and style. Each piece is adapted to the comprehension of the scholar, and
conveys some useful truth, either moral or scientific. Specimens are presented
of the best writers in the English language, and throughout the series
is given a very great deal of historical and general information.
These considerations, together with the accuracy, plainness and beauty of
the printing and paper, and the unusually moderate price at which they are
sold, are deemed by us sufficient to authorize this public testimonial of our
approbation, and in doing so we cordially recommend Mr. Emerson's Readers
to the teachers throughout the United States.
S. C. WALKER,
J. B. WALKER,
Principals of Commercial and Classical School.
&hand; In addition to the above, the Publishers beg leave to state that these
books have been introduced into the Preparatory School of the University of
Pennsylvania, into all the Public Schools in Philadelphia, and into very many
of the best Schools in Pennsylvania, New York, and New England.
To the Publishers.
Having examined the First and Second Class Readers, compiled by
Mr. B. D. Emerson, I take great pleasure in recommending them to the public,
as highly deserving their patronage. I consider these works a decided improvement
upon those of a similar character now in use. The selections are
made with much taste and judgment, and are peculiarly adapted to the capacities
and wants of those for whose use they are intended. I shall introduce
them into the series of reading books used by my pupils.
W. F. SPEAR,
Principal of the Roxbury Female High School.
I fully and most cordially concur in the above recommendation.
F. S. EASTMAN,
Principal of the Roxbury Grammar School.
Bradford Academy, Nov. 25, 1834.
Dear Sir,
—I have attentively examined your series of Readers. The lessons
are selected with much taste, and are well calculated to produce a good
moral influence. It is desirable that these works should be extensively used
in our High Schools and Academies. Your Third Class Reader is used in
all our District Schools and highly approved.
Yours very respectfully,
BENJ'N GREENLEAF.
Emerson's Class Readers. * * * * The selections are made with
reference to purity of sentiment, and to moral impression; and are, on that
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
account, worthy of all commendation. * * * * In short, we can say of
these Readers, that we know of no books, which, for beauty of selection,
purity of sentiment, and for variety of expression, will compare with them.
The sooner they are introduced into our schools the better.
The First Class Reader and The Second Class Reader.—
* * We are pleased with these selections, for we think they are executed on
the plan proposed; that “each extract should contain some useful truth—
something of more importance than the mere amusement of a passing hour.”
To the Publishers.
Gentlemen,
—Having given Mr. Emerson's Reading Books a
careful examination, I feel confident that they possess merits equal to those
of any other Readers now in use. The experience of many years in school-keeping
has convinced me that a change of books is of primary importance
in acquiring an art so much neglected, yet so ornamental and useful as good
reading. It is not to be supposed that children can profit much by reading
again and again what has, from their earliest recollections, been sounded
over and over in their ears, till every section and almost every word are as
familiar to them as the walls of their school-room. To make ready readers
there is need of some novelty. We not unfrequently meet with those who
can read fluently and well the worn pages of a school book, but yet who
hesitate and blunder over the columns of a newspaper, or the pages of a
strange book. I am, therefore, glad to see your Readers, and it will give
me pleasure to encourage their introduction into our schools.
Yours respectfully,
WM. COFFIN, Jr.
Principal of the Male Department of Coffin School, Nantucket.
AN INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH GRAMMAR, on
an Analytical Plan, adapted to the Use of Students in Colleges,
and the Higher Classes in Academies and Common Schools.
By Samuel Webber, A. M.
The great fault of Murray is a want of perspicuity. The definitions are
often vague, and in some instances a definition of one term contains another,
that is not explained till some time after, in a more advanced part of the work;
nor do the definitions seem always to be correct. There are, besides, often
omissions of circumstances of importance; and the Syntax presents little but
a chaos of rules and remarks, without any guiding principles in the use of
language and the construction of sentences.
It seemed to the author that the way to correct these defects was to arrange
the whole system anew; to take up the subject from the very beginning,
and pursue it more analytically, tracing out and explaining the various
natures, properties and uses of words, instead of defining them, and drawing
out and exhibiting their forms and modifications from the different purposes to
which they are applied, and as expressive of their corresponding changes in
signification; going on gradually from step to step, and as far as possible
making each step clear itself, without anticipating any thing not sufficiently
obvious to persons having such a general comprehension of the meaning of
language, as to fit them for pursuing a subject that must be taught by language
solely.
The American Monthly Review says of Doct. Webber's Grammar, “The
author has treated the subject with great acuteness: he has resorted to explanations
which reward examination, by imparting a well-defined meaning,
resulting from through induction. The Syntax surpasses that of any of the
Grammars in common use; the rules are expressed with great care, and
generally with all the clearness which the subject admits. We think the
plan of the Syntax very judicious and successful.”
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
A COMPEND OF HISTORY from the Earliest Times;
comprehending a General View of the Present State of the World.
By Samuel Whelpley. Seventh Edition, with Corrections and
Improvements, by Rev. Joseph Emerson, Principal of the
Female Seminary at Wethersfield.
Of Whelpley's Compend, the Rev. Mr. Emerson says, in the Prospectus
of his Female Seminary, “For many years I have been solicitously inquiring
for the best Compend of General History for the use of Schools. That which
I consider by far the best which I have yet examined, is the Compend of Mr.
Whelpley. My estimation of this work has been rising for more than ten
years, while I have been engaged in reading and teaching it more than ten
times through. It is not a mere compilation or abridgment in the words of
others: his style is his own—a style, perhaps, not less distinctly marked than
that of any other prose writer in the language.”
CONVERSATIONS ON THE ANIMAL ECONOMY;
designed for the Instruction of Youth. By Isaac Ray, M. D.
Illustrated by numerous Engravings.
This book can need no other recommendation than that it was made by
Doct. Ray, has received the sanction of Professor Cleaveland, and is used in
many of our most respectable seminaries.
A CATECHISM OF NATURAL THEOLOGY. By
I. Nichols, D. D. “Every house is builded by some man.
He that built all things is God.”
This valuable work was much wanted, especially for the higher classes in
our Sunday schools, to which Paley's admirable treatise on the same subject
is, on many accounts, not fitted. The general style of the latter, it is
true, is incomparable, and many of the author's illustrations are among the
most striking and beautiful that can be adduced; and of these Dr. Nichols
has availed himself freely, and, for the most part, without altering the expression.
But Paley committed a serious error in the very outset, considering
his work as one to be put into the hands of the young, by plunging into
some of the most abstruse and difficult metaphysical questions on the atheistical
controversy; questions for which his readers are not prepared, and
questions, too, it must be confessed, which he has not treated with much
ability, nor even with his accustomed clearness, nor even with fairness. Paley,
also, as is well known, was not an adept in the natural sciences; in consequence
of which several defects and a few serious blunders occur in his
work, which are but imperfectly corrected and supplied by Paxton's Illustrations,
and the excellent notes in the last Boston edition. Dr. Nichols has
had this edition before him, and other recent and valuable treatises on
the same and kindred subjects, and particularly Dr. Bell's two admirable
numbers, in the “Library of Useful Knowledge,” on Animal Mechanics.
With these materials, he has given us a compilation, which, for the learning
it displays, and the devotional spirit breathing through its pages, as well as
for its literary execution and general appearance, merits a much higher distinction
than is commonly awarded to works of this class. The present edition
is a great improvement on the first, as regards the mechanical execution.
The text has also been enlarged about one seventh part; most of the additions
consisting of further and important illustrations, under the different
heads, borrowed from comparative anatomy.
—Christian Examiner.
This valuable work, which is wholly free from any thing of a sectarian
character, is rapidly coming into use in various Academies, and the higher
classes of Sunday Schools.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
WANOSTROCHT'S FRENCH GRAMMAR.—This
highly-esteemed and well-known French Grammar needs no
commendation at the present day. It is used throughout the
country, and has passed through a great many editions in London,
and been several times printed in Paris. Its extensive use
may be considered a sufficient test of its worth.
FRENCH WORD-BOOK The Explanatory and Pronouncing
French Word-Book; or First Step to the French
Language. Being an easy Spelling-Book, and Vocabulary of
Three Thousand Words. To which is annexed, the French
Phrase-Book. By M.L'Abbé Bossut.
The original plan of this little manual has been highly appreciated, and
the work used with much success; but with the view of rendering it still
more useful to those pupils who cannot always call to their aid the services of
a native teacher, and also to assist such instructors in the French language
as may not be perfectly conversant with its pronunciation, the editor has in
this edition annexed the sound and articulation of each word, according to
the approved Dictionary of the Abbé Tardy.
The teacher will find it a great help; and as far as a knowledge of three
thousand words, and a great many familiar and idiomatic phrases will go, so
far, at least, the young English scholar may, by this work, acquire the French
language and idiom without the aid of a professional in tructor.
LA BAGATELLE; intended to introduce young Children to
some Knowledge of the French Language.—This little work will
be found interesting to very young children. It is reprinted with
additions and improvements from the English edition, which has
been found a very useful and popular book to be used as the First
Lessons in French.
CHARLES XII. in French, by Voltaire; with English
Notes, for Schools and Academies. Stereotype Edition.—This
celebrated Classic is now too extensively used in Schools and
Academies throughout England and America to require any
comment.
HENTZ'S FRENCH READER. A Classical French
Reader; selected from the best Writers in that Language, in Prose
and Poetry; attended with Notes explanatory of Idioms, &c.,
throughout the Work. By N. M. Hentz, A. M., Professor of
Modern Languages in the University of North Carolina.
It has been heretofore a great disadvantage in teaching French in this
country, that a good selection from authors could not easily be obtained.
The compiler of this work has availed himself of the experience acquired in
several years' teaching, and hopes he has produced a work which will prove
useful and satisfactory.
BOYER'S FRENCH AND ENGLISH DICTIONARY.—
This is far superior to any other Dictionary ever published, and
the demand for it is constantly increasing.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
FIRST LESSONS IN LATIN, UPON A NEW PLAN,
combining Abstract Rules with a Progressive Series of Practical
Exeroises. By Charles Dexter Cleveland. Stereotype
Edition; used in the Boston Public Latin School.
WALKER'S LATIN READER. The New Latin Reader,
containing the Latin Text for the Purpose of Recitation, accompanied
with a Key, containing the Text, with a Literal and
Free Translation, arranged in such a Manner as to point out the
Difference between the Latin and English Idioms. For the Use
of Beginners in the Study of the Latin Language. By S. C.
Walker. Philadelphia. Fourth Edition, Stereotype.
The translations consist of, Part 1, Familiar Latin Phrases; Part 2, Histori
æ Sacræ; Part 3, Narrationes Selectæ.
To teach the Idiomatic difference of the Latin or Greek languages from
the English—the most difficult part of the labor of learning a language—is
what this method proposes to accomplish, and what, in our opinion, it is assuredly
able to accomplish. We have not a doubt that a clever boy will learn
in one week more words, and more of the idiomatic difference between the English
and the Latin by this book, than he will by the use of a grammar, dictionary,
and the common mode of ancient instruction, in a month.
The mode of teaching after the plan of this book is simply this. 1. It
gives the literal meaning of each root in the original. 2. By means of the
prepositions and auxiliaries, it gives the meaning of each root, as modified by
inflection. 3 It gives a translation of phrases, or idioms by which the true import
of the original and the difference of the idiom are learned with precision.
4. The Latin words are arranged after the English order in the Key. 5. The
pupil is required to translate from the pure Latin text, at the latter part of
the book.
The pupil begins to translate and study grammar at the same time. He
is directed to study, for recitation, a small lesson in grammar; and by the
aid of the Key to prepare for translation a suitable portion of the Latin text.
In this way he is beguiled, without difficulty or pain, into a knowledge of the
first principles of the language, and in a little time, applied to other similar
exercises, will be able to throw away these mechanical aids, and read a
Latin author without them.
—Flint's Western Review.
We regard the method of studying Latin proposed by Mr. Walker as
very decidedly superior to the prevailing one. It is recommended by philosophy
as well as by common sense. It is a mode of instruction calculated
to interest the youngest class of learners, instead of perplexing and fatiguing
them in the manner of the ancient method. It is particularly suited to the
purposes of maternal instruction, and to the use of those advanced beyond
the period of childhood, who may wish to instruct themselves. Lastly, it is
admirably calculated for the purposes of monitorial instruction.
We have already so fully borne testimony to the general merits of the
system, and to the faithful execution of this work in particular, that it is
scarcely necessary to add a cordial recommendation of Mr. Walker's book
to teachers and parents throughout our country.
—Journal of Education.
GILES'S FIRST BOOK IN LATIN, on a New Plan.
LEMPRIERE'S CLASSICAL DICTIONARY, for Schools
and Academies, in which all the indelicate passages are omitted.
(Boston Edition.)
A LIFE OF GEORGE WASHINGTON, in Latin Prose.
By Francis Glass, A. M. Edited by J. N. Reynolds. Highly
recommended by Professors Anthon and Kingsley.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
NEW AMERICAN UNIVERSAL GEOGRAPHY, for
Schools and Academies, on the Principles of Analysis and Comparison;
illustrated with thirty-two Copperplate and Stereotype
Maps, besides numerous Engravings, Tables, and Diagrams.
By Rev. J. L. Blake, A. M.
The plan of this work contains some very important peculiarities,
which meet the eye at the first glance—so apparent that
they need only be seen in order to be appreciated. From an
examination of the sheets before the book was bound, orders
were received for about 4000 copies.
The form is imperial octavo, having twelve copperplate colored
Maps done up with the text. It is also illustrated and enriched
by Diagrams, Statistical Tables, and a large number of stereotype
Maps for the more important parts of Geography.
It will be seen, from an examination of Blake's New Geography,
that it contains three or four times as much matter as several
of the School Geographies designed to hold a corresponding
rank, now extensively in use, while at the same time the price is
one third less. The pages are not only large, but are filled with
closely-printed columns, instead of being nearly half blank.
Should the New American Universal Geography be introduced
into schools, where scholars will be unable to go through the
whole of it, the extra portions contained in it, as will be readily
perceived, can be passed over. without any interruption in studying
what is common to all School Geographies. The Historical
Sketches, and the description of cities and towns, make these
extra portions of the volume, which are so arranged in separate
divisions as to have no perplexing connection with the other
parts of it.
Among the recommendations which have been given are the
following:—
To the Rev. J. L. Blake.
Sir,
—Having received and examined, with some attention, a
copy of your “American Universal Geography.” I have no hesitation in giving
it the preference to other works intended for School Geographies, and
for the following reason, viz.: Your Geography contains the copperplate
Maps in the same volume with the text; it embraces matter far greater in
quantity, and in my opinion superior in quality; it unites History with Geography
as History and Geography should be united; and, finally, its value
is much enhanced by the stereotype Maps.
Yours, truly,
B. CUSHMAN
Preceptor Portland Academy.
From a cursory examination, we feel no hesitation in expressing our decided
approbation of Blake's New American School Geography. The form
of the volume being such as to admit the insertion of the Maps, together
with the minuteness of detail presented by the author, we think, gives the
work a decided superiority over those of the kind now in use.
The general plan and execution of the work we cheerfully approve.
In behalf of the Prudential Committee of the Literary Fraternity of
Waterville College,
R. GIDDINGS, Chairman
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
1. THE NATIONAL SPELLING BOOK. This work, prepared by
B. D. Emerson, late Principal of the Adams Grammar School, Boston, is
used exclusively in the Boston and Philadelphia Public Schools, and is
extensively used in New England, New York, and the Southern and Western
States.
“The ingenious classification of the words, so as to mark accurately the sounds,
not only of the accented, but of the unaccented syllables; the conciseness and simplicity
of the Introduction and Key; the abundance and judicious arrangement of
the matter contained in the work, and its faithful mechanical execution, render it, in
our opinion, decidedly superior to any Spelling Book with which we are acquainted.”
JOHN FROST,
ABRAHAM ANDREWS,
CORNELIUS WALKER,
N. K. G. OLIVER,
CHARLES FOX,
WM. ADAMS,
BARNUM FIELD,
Masters in the Department of
Reading and Grammar in the
Public Schools of Boston.
“This Spelling Book bears every mark of having been compiled with strict reference
to the actual purposes of instruction. Great pains have evidently been taken to
render it highly superior in character, and worthy of becoming a National Work.”
Journal of Education.
“Having carefully examined a copy of the National Spelling Book, by B. D.
Emerson, I do not hesitate to say that, in my opinion, it is, beyond all comparison,
the best book of the kind with which I am acquainted.”
EBENEZER BAILEY,
Principal of the Young Ladies' High School, Boston.
“This Spelling Book is the result of the labors of a practical and popular teacher;
and, so far as I have the means of judging, it has the advantage when compared with
any other book of the kind that has ever been published, either in Great Britain or in
the United States.”
JOHN PIERPONT,
Compiler of the American First Class Book, National Reader, &c.
“The plan of the National Spelling Book is happily devised for the aid of school
teachers, and for the intellectual improvement of scholars. It is very desirable that
it be universally introduced. Send me a hundred to be introduced in this region.
Yours, &c.”
ANDREW YATES,
President of the Polytechnic Institution, Chittenango, New York.
“Having examined with some care the National Spelling Book, compiled by B. D.
Emerson, we cheerfully express our approbation of the work. We recommend the
work to the school committees, instructors, and others concerned in directing common
education throughout our country.”
B. B. WISNER, D. D., and WILLIAM JENKS, D. D., Boston.
JEREMIAH EVARTS, Cor. Sec. Am. Board of Com. for Foreign Missions.
FRANCIS WAYLAND, Jr., D. D., President Brown University.
B. F. FARNSWORTH, Academ. and Theolog. Inst., New Hampton, N. H.
Rev. S. C. LOVELAND, Reading, Vt., Author of a Greek and English Lexicon
of the New Testament.
DANIEL ADAMS, M. D., Author of the Scholar's Arithmetic, &c.
Rev. N. BOUTON, Concord, N. H. Rev. N. W. WILLIAMS, Do.
“We have examined Mr. B. D. Emerson's Spelling Book with care and satisfaction.
We think it contains improvements on initiatory books of the same class
heretofore used.”
LEVI HEDGE, LL. D., and SIDNEY WILLARD, A. M.,
Professors Harvard University.
“I must say, I like the National Spelling Book better than any other I ever saw;
and I have seen many.”
I. I. HITCHCOCK, Instructor, Baltimore.
“I think the National Spelling Book deserving of ample consideration, by teachers
and committees intrusted with the selection of school books.”
WALTER R. JOHNSON,
Principal of the High School, Franklin Institute, Philadelphia.
“In the most flattering recommendations of Emerson's Spelling Book we fully
concur, and we would cordially recommend it to our citizens as being, in our opinion,
better adapted for general use in our district schools than any other.”
L. COLEMAN, M. LAWRENCE, M. SHAW, School Com. of Belchertown.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
It has likewise received the approbation of BENJA. A. GOULD, late Principal
of the Public Latin Grammar School, Boston—Capt. PARTRIDGE, Scientific and
Military Academy, Middletown—JOHN RICHARDSON, Leicester Academy—R. G.
PARKER, Roxbury.
2. THE INTRODUCTION TO THE NATIONAL SPELLING
BOOK; for the use of Primary Schools.
3. THE NEW NATIONAL SPELLING BOOK. This work may
properly be called a revised and improved version of the old National Spelling
Book (meaning that now in general use). The principal improvements
are as follows:—The k in such words as publick, frolick, and the u in such
words as honour, favour, &c., are omitted; the Key is rendered more simple;
and additional progressive reading lessons, illustrated by cuts, are introduced.
In its present popular form, it is believed to be better adapted to the wants of
the common schools of our country, than any other spelling book ever presented
to the public.
* * * “No book enjoys a greater or more justly deserved reputation than the
National Spelling Book, by B. D. Emerson, of which this work is a revision by the
original author, and it is evidently an improvement upon its predecessor.”
—Dover Gaz.
* * * * “This work is decidedly an improvement upon the former, by the
same author. The Key is more simple; the reading lessons are more judiciously
selected; and the arrangement is improved.”
Annals of Education.
1. THE AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY,
with Occasional Notes. By G. B. Cheever.
2. THE AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE; a
Collection of Eloquent and Interesting Extracts from the Writings of American
Authors. By G. B. Cheever.
&hand; These volumes are selected entirely from American authors, and contain specimens
of American literature from its earliest period to the present day. All the
pieces are of the purest moral character. They are intended as reading books for
the higher classes in seminaries for both sexes, and will be found, it is thought, well
adapted to a department of education in which it is difficult to find a volume of suitable
character. They will also serve as a pleasant mental recreation for the fireside.
They are used in all the leading High Schools in this country, and also in many of
the most distinguished in Great Britain.
“The Common-Place Book of American Poetry.—The Americans complain
bitterly, and with some appearance of justice, that their poets have been undeservedly
neglected by the people of England. This they ascribe to envy, to jealousy, to the
affected contempt for every thing American, once so fashionable among our literary
coxcombs; forgetting that Irving, and Bryant, and Channing, furnish indisputable
proof of the respect shown to transatlantic talent.
“The greater, and far the better part of American poetry, is of the class usually
called occasional and fugitive; and to this cause, principally, must be attributed the
ignorance of our countrymen on the subject. Mr. Cheever has performed a commendable
task in collecting the scattered gems that were spread over a wide extent of
pamphlets and periodicals. Every piece he has inserted well merits a place in the
collection. The preface, and the few notes written by the editor, are very valuable,
and prove that he has a mind capable of comprehending the highest beauties of poetry,
and the still more rare qualification of imaginative taste controlled by critical sagacity.”
London Atheneum.
“It may be said of the American Common-Place Book of Poetry, as the English
reviewers said of the Common-Place Book of Prose, that `it is, in fact, any
thing but common-place.' The selections are made with great impartiality, and are
distinguished by purity of taste, and a pervading tone of devotional feeling. On the
whole, we think such a book could not have been compiled better. Among three or
four hundred extracts, there are none which the tasteful reader regrets to see; there
are none which are not creditable to our moral and intellectual character as a nation.
There is something so purifying in the influence of good poetry, that young people
cannot be too much encouraged in forming a taste for it; and we know of no compilation
more likely to form a correct taste, than Mr. Cheever's American Common-Place
Book of Poetry.'
Massachusetts Journal.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
AN ABRIDGMENT OF UNIVERSAL GEOGRAPHY,
MODERN AND ANCIENT, chiefly compiled from the
Abrège de Geographie of Adrian Balbi. By T. G. Bradford;
accompanied by a valuable Atlas, and illustrated by
Engravings.
The above work contains 520 pages, 12mo., and is the most copious School
Geography yet offered to the public, and it is believed to be an important
improvement, especially for the use of the higher schools and seminaries. It
has received the sanction of all teachers who have examined it, and has been
favorably noticed in many of our public journals. The Atlas accompanying
this work contains thirty-six maps and charts, and is confidently recommended
as superior, in every respect, to any thing of the kind now in use. From
the numerous notices of the work, the publishers present the following:—
From the Rev. J. M. Matthews, D. D., Chancellor of New York University.
I have looked over Balbi's Geography, and the Atlas accompanying it.
The arrangement and execution of both the works are such as to render
them a valuable acquisition to our schools. I hope they will meet the patronage
which they so well merit.
From the Rev. George Bush, Professor of Hebrew and Oriental Literature,
New York University.
From the examination I have been able to bestow upon Balbi's Geography
and Atlas, I am fully satisfied of its claims to general patronage. As a manual
of geography and statistics, at once compendious and complete, I am
not acquainted with any so highly deserving the attention of those who are
placed at the head of our literary institutions.
From S. Johnston, Esq., Principal of an English and Classical School,
New York.
The examination of Balbi's Geography and Atlas has afforded me much
pleasure. I highly approve of its arrangement, which, with the new matter
it contains relative to Canals and Railroads, &c., renders it a valuable text-book
for our more advanced schools. As a proof of my approbation of the
book, I have resolved to adopt it in my first class.
From Mr. J. F. Jenkins, Principal of the Mechanics' Society Institute, New
York.
New York, Sept. 11, 1835.
Having examined Bradford's edition of Balbi's Geography, I am happy to
state my conviction that it is a valuable work. The arrangement of a greater
amount than usual of important information, is judicious throughout, and the
number, neatness and accuracy of the accompanying maps, give it a decided
superiority over most of the geographical treatises in use, and render it
peculiarly suitable for the highest classes of students.
From Mr. A. Clarke, Principal of the Owego Academy, Tioga County,
New York.
I have examined, with much pleasure, Bradford's edition of Balbi's Geography
and Atlas. With the arrangement of subjects I am particularly
pleased. The student is at once made acquainted with the more easy and
interesting geography of his own country, and is then introduced to other
portions of the world, arranged somewhat in the order of their importance.
I think that this, with the valuable Atlas accompanying it, will be well received
by an intelligent public.
From the New York Morning News.
It has, indeed, all the advantages which Balbi's work could supply; but it
has also the additional ones of more recent dates and facts, and a fuller and
more accurate notice of our own country. It has also the merit of an arrangement
at once new, philosophic, and, to the American reader, more acceptable
than that of the European geographies.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
BAILEY'S FIRST LESSONS IN ALGEBRA.—Although
this work has been before the public but little more than a year,
several editions have already been called for; and it has been
very extensively introduced into academies and schools in various
parts of the country. From a great number of notices and recommendations
of the work in their possession, the publishers
select the following:—
We have used “Bailey's First Lessons in Algebra,” in the Public Writing
Schools of Boston, respectively committed to our instruction, and can testify
with confidence to its high value. The peculiar excellence of the work consists
in its serving not only as a text-book, but in a great measure as a teacher.
The plainness, simplicity, and fulness with which the subject is treated, enable
the scholar to proceed in the exercises understandingly, with little or no
aid, other than that which is to be found on the pages of the book.
P. MACKINTOSH, Jr., OTIS PIERCE,
JAMES ROBINSON, ABEL WHEELER.
Boston, November 25, 1834.
I have, with much attention and satisfaction, examined “Bailey's First
Lessons in Algebra.” As a first course of lessons in this very interesting
science, this book, I do not hesitate to say, far exceeds any other that I have
seen. No scholar will consider Algebra a dry study while attending to this
system. I am very glad to find that Algebra has been introduced into many
of our town schools; and am positive that there is no better way to make
scholars understand Arithmetic well, than that they should devote part of
their time to the study of Algebra. I most cordially recommend the work to
the attention of School Committees and Teachers.
A KEY, in a separate volume, is published for the use of
Teachers.
A HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,
on a Plan adapted to the Capacity of Youth, and designed
to aid the Memory, by systematic Arrangement and interesting
Association. By Charles A. Goodrich. A New Stereotype
Edition, revised and enlarged from the Forty-Fourth Edition.
Containing General Views of the Aboriginal Tribes; Sketches of
the Discoveries and Settlements made by different Nations; the
Progress of the Colonies; the Revolution; the several Administrations.
The whole interspersed with Notices of the different
Eras of the Progress of Manners, Religion, Commerce, Agriculture,
Arts and Manufactures, Population, and Education.
GOODRICH'S QUESTIONS to the above.
EMERSON'S QUESTIONS. Questions and Supplement
to Goodrich's History of the United States.
THE CHILD'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES,
designed as a First Book of History for Schools, illustrated by
numerous Anecdotes and Engravings. By Charles A. Goodrich.
Seventh Edition.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
VOSE'S ASTRONOMY. A Compendium of Astronomy;
intended to simplify and illustrate the Principles of that Science.
Adapted to the Use of Common Schools, as well as higher Seminaries.
By John Vose, A. M., late Principal of Pembroke
Academy, and Author of a larger work on Astronomy.
In this Compendium of Astronomy, it has been the aim of the author to render
the principles of the science so simple, that they may be easily understood,
not only by the scholar who attends a few weeks at an academy, but
by him whose means and views do not carry him beyond the common
schools.
From the Annals of Education.
It (Vose's Astronomy) appears to have been prepared with care, and to
deserve confidence for its accuracy. * * * The spirit of the writer is excellent;
and we rejoice to see that our elementary books of natural science
have begun to recognize the Great First Cause, as well as the immediate
second causes of the wonders they describe. We think this book is well
adapted to high schools.
From the American Traveller.
We are pleased to meet with a successful attempt to simplify the principles
of Astronomy, and reduce its leading features to the understanding of
children.
From the Boston Galaxy.
Mr. Vose's book contains a simple and luminous account of the solar system,
and of most of the celestial phenomena. It is well written and arranged.
The definitions are copious and accurate. He has made the principles of the
science easy to be understood; and we doubt not that his labors will be useful
to many besides school-boys.
From Amasa Bush, High School, Norwich, Vt.
I consider the Astronomy by John Vose to be the most lucid compend I
have ever seen on that science. I have introduced it into my school in
preference to any other.
From Benjamin Greenleaf, Bradford Academy.
I have attentively examined Vose's Astronomy. The work is well arranged,
clear, and perspicuous. The scholar will find little or no difficulty
in understanding the illustrations. I have seen no work on this science, of
the same extent, which I consider so valuable.
FIRST LESSONS IN ASTRONOMY; designed for
Common Schools, illustrated with Cuts. By Samuel Worcester.
New revised and enlarged Stereotype Edition.
This work is written in an easy and familiar style, and will be found useful
in every school in leading the pupils on in the first steps to one of the most
interesting of the sciences, and one which has heretofore been too much neglected.
It is believed that this work contains nothing but what quite young
children can comprehend; and yet it contains the essential rudiments of this
study, than which there is not one better calculated to expand and ennoble
the youthful mind. The science of Astronomy seems not to have been heretofore
so far divested of its more difficult parts, as to be adapted to our common
schools; and therefore our children grow up in ignorance of much valuable
and interesting truth relating to this subject, which they are capable of
receiving.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
PHILOSOPHICAL CONVERSATIONS; in which are familiarly
explained the Causes of many daily-occurring Natural Phenomena. By
Frederick C. Bakewell—With Notes and Questions for Review. By
Ebenezer Bailey.
“This work is composed of philosophical conversations, in which are familiarly
explained the causes of many daily-occurring natural phenomena; edited by Mr.
Bailey, who has added notes and questions for review. From an examination of this
useful book, we should think it better adapted to the capacity of youthful learners,
than other familiarizing essays of the kind which have fallen under our notice. The
conversational style is pleasing, and matter conveyed in this way becomes most accurately
impressed on the minds of learners. It is difficult to make children interested
in natural science; and a work like this, which renders it attractive, and which is at
the same time perfectly correct, should be unhesitatingly adopted by parents and
teachers.”
Centinel and Palladium.
“We have taken more than usual pains to examine this book, and find it worthy
of all commendation. The explanations of natural phenomena are given in a dialogue
so spirited and lively, and the methods of illustration are so happily adapted to the
capacity and tastes of young persons, that we should think a boy beginning to peruse
this book would find himself almost as much interested in it as in Sandford and Merton
or the History of Robinson Crusoe.”
New York Evening Post.
“In these Conversations many natural phenomena of daily occurrence are explained
in a manner highly useful and instructive to the juxvenile mind. It is exceedingly well
adapted to schools and private families.”
New York Albion.
“Bakewell's delightful Conversations have been much improved by the judicious
adoption of questions for review, which must greatly facilitate the study of this interesting
and much approved work.”
The Knickerbocker.
“Bakewell has succeeded in producing a work filled with so many interesting
descriptions and experiments, that the favorable opinion of the young reader will
speedily be enlisted in its favor. Every thing that has puzzled his inexperienced
mind, from the falling of snow, or the use of the thermometer, to the generation of
steam, or the refraction of light, is explained in so perspicuous a manner, that he
cannot fail to go along with his author. The conversational style which has been
adopted, and the employment of numerous diagrams to illustrate the text, also greatly
assist in facilitating the communication of the writer's ideas.”
—Montreal Gazette.
&hand; Numerous recommendations of Bakewell's Philosophy have been received
from instructors, which we have not room to insert here.
THE JUVENILE SPEAKER, comprising a Collection of Pieces,
original and selected, from various Authors, adapted to the Capacities of
Children in Common Schools. By An Instructor.
LEMPRIERE'S CLASSICAL DICTIONARY, for Schools and Academie,
containing every Name, and all that is important or useful, in the
original Work.
&hand; This edition contains every name in the best revised edition of Lempriere's
original work, and all the matter that is useful or important for families and young
persons. All the indelicate passages are excluded, that render it improper for youth
of either sex; and the work is so arranged as to make it the best fitted for schools of
any in use. As there are several editions of Lempriere published (all more expensive
than this), care should be taken to order the Boston Improved Edition.
MERCHANTS, and COUNTRY TRADERS generally, can be
supplied with SCHOOL BOOKS and STATIONERY, in any quantity, on
the most accommodating terms, by addressing their orders and references to
J. B. Russell, Agent for the American Stationers' Company.
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Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804-1864 [1837], Twice-told tales (American Stationers Co., Boston) [word count] [eaf120].
