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THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES ........................................................................................................1

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE ................................................................................................................1

IN September of the year during the February of which Hawthorne had completed "The Scarlet Letter," he

began "The House of the Seven Gables." Meanwhile, he had removed from Salem to Lenox, in Berkshire

County, Massachusetts, where he occupied with his family a small red wooden house, still standing at the

"I sha'n't have the new story ready by November," he explained to his publisher, on the 1st of October, "for I

am never good for anything in the literary way till after the first autumnal frost, which has somewhat such an

effect on my imagination that it does on the foliage here about memultiplying and brightening its hues." But

by vigorous application he was able to complete the new work about the middle of the January following.

Since research has disclosed the manner in which the romance is interwoven with incidents from the history

of the Hawthorne family, "The House of the Seven Gables" has acquired an interest apart from that by which

it first appealed to the public. John Hathorne (as the name was then spelled), the greatgrandfather of

Nathaniel Hawthorne, was a magistrate at Salem in the latter part of the seventeenth century, and officiated at

the famous trials for witchcraft held there. It is of record that he used peculiar severity towards a certain

woman who was among the accused; and the husband of this woman prophesied that God would take revenge

upon his wife's persecutors. This circumstance doubtless furnished a hint for that piece of tradition in the

book which represents a Pyncheon of a former generation as having persecuted one Maule, who declared that

God would give his enemy "blood to drink." It became a conviction with The Hawthorne family that a curse

had been pronounced upon its members, which continued in force in the time of The romancer; a conviction

perhaps derived from the recorded prophecy of The injured woman's husband, just mentioned; and, here

again, we have a correspondence with Maule's malediction in The story. Furthermore, there occurs in The

"American NoteBooks" (August 27, 1837), a reminiscence of The author's family, to the following effect.

Philip English, a character wellknown in early Salem annals, was among those who suffered from John

Hathorne's magisterial harshness, and he maintained in consequence a lasting feud with the old Puritan

official. But at his death English left daughters, one of whom is said to have married the son of Justice John

Hathorne, whom English had declared he would never forgive. It is scarcely necessary to point out how

clearly this foreshadows the final union of those hereditary foes, the Pyncheons and Maules, through the

marriage of Phoebe and Holgrave. The romance, however, describes the Maules as possessing some of the

traits known to have been characteristic of the Hawthornes: for example, "so long as any of the race were to

be found, they had been marked out from other mennot strikingly, nor as with a sharp line, but with an

effect that was felt rather than spoken ofby an hereditary characteristic of reserve." Thus, while the general

suggestion of the Hawthorne line and its fortunes was followed in the romance, the Pyncheons taking the

place of The author's family, certain distinguishing marks of the Hawthornes were assigned to the imaginary

There are one or two other points which indicate Hawthorne's method of basing his compositions, the result

in the main of pure invention, on the solid ground of particular facts. Allusion is made, in the first chapter of

the "Seven Gables," to a grant of lands in Waldo County, Maine, owned by the Pyncheon family. In the

"American NoteBooks" there is an entry, dated August 12, 1837, which speaks of the Revolutionary

general, Knox, and his landgrant in Waldo County, by virtue of which the owner had hoped to establish an

estate on the English plan, with a tenantry to make it profitable for him. An incident of much greater

importance in the story is the supposed murder of one of the Pyncheons by his nephew, to whom we are

introduced as Clifford Pyncheon. In all probability Hawthorne connected with this, in his mind, the murder of

Mr. White, a wealthy gentleman of Salem, killed by a man whom his nephew had hired. This took place a

few years after Hawthorne's gradation from college, and was one of the celebrated cases of the day, Daniel

Webster taking part prominently in the trial. But it should be observed here that such resemblances as these

between sundry elements in the work of Hawthorne's fancy and details of reality are only fragmentary, and

In the same way he has made his description of Hepzibah Pyncheon's sevengabled mansion conform so

nearly to several old dwellings formerly or still extant in Salem, that strenuous efforts have been made to fix

upon some one of them as the veritable edifice of the romance. A paragraph in The opening chapter has

perhaps assisted this delusion that there must have been a single original House of the Seven Gables, framed

Familiar as it stands in the writer's recollectionfor it has been an object of curiosity with him from

boyhood, both as a specimen of the best and stateliest architecture of a longpast epoch, and as the scene of

events more full of interest perhaps than those of a gray feudal castlefamiliar as it stands, in its rusty old

age, it is therefore only the more difficult to imagine the bright novelty with which it first caught the

Hundreds of pilgrims annually visit a house in Salem, belonging to one branch of the Ingersoll family of that

place, which is stoutly maintained to have been The model for Hawthorne's visionary dwelling. Others have

supposed that the now vanished house of The identical Philip English, whose blood, as we have already

noticed, became mingled with that of the Hawthornes, supplied the pattern; and still a third building, known

as the Curwen mansion, has been declared the only genuine establishment. Notwithstanding persistent

popular belief, The authenticity of all these must positively be denied; although it is possible that isolated

reminiscences of all three may have blended with the ideal image in the mind of Hawthorne. He, it will be

seen, remarks in the Preface, alluding to himself in the third person, that he trusts not to be condemned for

"laying out a street that infringes upon nobody's private rights... and building a house of materials long in use

for constructing castles in the air." More than this, he stated to persons still living that the house of the

romance was not copied from any actual edifice, but was simply a general reproduction of a style of

architecture belonging to colonial days, examples of which survived into the period of his youth, but have

since been radically modified or destroyed. Here, as elsewhere, he exercised the liberty of a creative mind to

heighten the probability of his pictures without confining himself to a literal description of something he had

While Hawthorne remained at Lenox, and during the composition of this romance, various other literary

personages settled or stayed for a time in the vicinity; among them, Herman Melville, whose intercourse

Hawthorne greatly enjoyed, Henry James, Sr., Doctor Holmes, J. T. Headley, James Russell Lowell, Edwin

P. Whipple, Frederika Bremer, and J. T. Fields; so that there was no lack of intellectual society in the midst

of the beautiful and inspiring mountain scenery of the place. "In the afternoons, nowadays," he records,

shortly before beginning the work, "this valley in which I dwell seems like a vast basin filled with golden

Sunshine as with wine;" and, happy in the companionship of his wife and their three children, he led a simple,

refined, idyllic life, despite the restrictions of a scanty and uncertain income. A letter written by Mrs.

Hawthorne, at this time, to a member of her family, gives incidentally a glimpse of the scene, which may

properly find a place here. She says: "I delight to think that you also can look forth, as I do now, upon a broad

valley and a fine amphitheater of hills, and are about to watch the stately ceremony of the sunset from your

piazza. But you have not this lovely lake, nor, I suppose, the delicate purple mist which folds these

slumbering mountains in airy veils. Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sun shine, slightly fleckered

with the shadows of a tree, and Una and Julian have been making him look like the mighty Pan, by covering

his chin and breast with long grassblades, that looked like a verdant and venerable beard." The pleasantness

and peace of his surroundings and of his modest home, in Lenox, may be taken into account as harmonizing

with the mellow serenity of the romance then produced. Of the work, when it appeared in the early spring of

"`The House of the Seven Gables' in my opinion, is better than `The Scarlet Letter:' but I should not wonder if

I had refined upon the principal character a little too much for popular appreciation, nor if the romance of the

book should be somewhat at odds with the humble and familiar scenery in which I invest it. But I feel that

portions of it are as good as anything I can hope to write, and the publisher speaks encouragingly of its

From England, especially, came many warm expressions of praise, a fact which Mrs. Hawthorne, in a

private letter, commented on as the fulfillment of a possibility which Hawthorne, writing in boyhood to his

mother, had looked forward to. He had asked her if she would not like him to become an author and have his

WHEN a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed that he wishes to claim a certain

latitude, both as to its fashion and material, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume had he

professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form of composition is presumed to aim at a very minute fidelity,

not merely to the possible, but to the probable and ordinary course of man's experience. The formerwhile,

as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself to laws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve

aside from the truth of the human hearthas fairly a right to present that truth under circumstances, to a

great extent, of the writer's own choosing or creation. If he think fit, also, he may so manage his

atmospherical medium as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich the shadows of the picture.

He will be wise, no doubt, to make a very moderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to

mingle the Marvelous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as any portion of the actual

substance of the dish offered to the public. He can hardly be said, however, to commit a literary crime even if

In the present work, the author has proposed to himselfbut with what success, fortunately, it is not for him

to judgeto keep undeviatingly within his immunities. The point of view in which this tale comes under the

Romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygone time with the very present that is flitting away

from us. It is a legend prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance, down into our own broad

daylight, and bringing along with it some of its legendary mist, which the reader, according to his pleasure,

may either disregard, or allow it to float almost imperceptibly about the characters and events for the sake of

a picturesque effect. The narrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture as to require this advantage,

Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their

works. Not to be deficient in this particular, the author has provided himself with a moral,the truth,

namely, that the wrongdoing of one generation lives into the successive ones, and, divesting itself of every

temporary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief; and he would feel it a singular

gratification if this romance might effectually convince mankindor, indeed, any one manof the folly of

tumbling down an avalanche of illgotten gold, or real estate, on the heads of an unfortunate posterity,

thereby to maim and crush them, until the accumulated mass shall be scattered abroad in its original atoms. In

good faith, however, he is not sufficiently imaginative to flatter himself with the slightest hope of this kind.

When romances do really teach anything, or produce any effective operation, it is usually through a far more

subtile process than the ostensible one. The author has considered it hardly worth his while, therefore,

relentlessly to impale the story with its moral as with an iron rod,or, rather, as by sticking a pin through a

butterfly, thus at once depriving it of life, and causing it to stiffen in an ungainly and unnatural attitude. A

high truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and skilfully wrought out, brightening at every step, and crowning the final

development of a work of fiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer, and seldom any more

The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to the imaginary events of this narrative. If

permitted by the historical connection,which, though slight, was essential to his plan,the author would

very willingly have avoided anything of this nature. Not to speak of other objections, it exposes the romance

to an inflexible and exceedingly dangerous species of criticism, by bringing his fancypictures almost into

positive contact with the realities of the moment. It has been no part of his object, however, to describe local

manners, nor in any way to meddle with the characteristics of a community for whom he cherishes a proper

respect and a natural regard. He trusts not to be considered as unpardonably offending by laying out a street

that infringes upon nobody's private rights, and appropriating a lot of land which had no visible owner, and

building a house of materials long in use for constructing castles in the air. The personages of the

talethough they give themselves out to be of ancient stability and considerable prominenceare really of

the author's own making, or at all events, of his own mixing; their virtues can shed no lustre, nor their defects

redound, in the remotest degree, to the discredit of the venerable town of which they profess to be inhabitants.

He would be glad, therefore, ifespecially in the quarter to which he alludesthe book may be read strictly as

a Romance, having a great deal more to do with the clouds overhead than with any portion of the actual soil

HALFWAY down a bystreet of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven

acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the

midst. The street is Pyncheon Street; the house is the old Pyncheon House; and an elmtree, of wide

circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to every townborn child by the title of the Pyncheon Elm.

On my occasional visits to the town aforesaid, I seldom failed to turn down Pyncheon Street, for the sake of

passing through the shadow of these two antiquities, the great elmtree and the weatherbeaten edifice.

The aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human countenance, bearing the traces not

merely of outward storm and sunshine, but expressive also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and

accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within. Were these to be worthily recounted, they would form a

narrative of no small interest and instruction, and possessing, moreover, a certain remarkable unity, which

might almost seem the result of artistic arrangement. But the story would include a chain of events extending

over the better part of two centuries, and, written out with reasonable amplitude, would fill a bigger folio

volume, or a longer series of duodecimos, than could prudently be appropriated to the annals of all New

England during a similar period. It consequently becomes imperative to make short work with most of the

traditionary lore of which the old Pyncheon House, otherwise known as the House of the Seven Gables, has

been the theme. With a brief sketch, therefore, of the circumstances amid which the foundation of the house

was laid, and a rapid glimpse at its quaint exterior, as it grew black in the prevalent east wind,pointing, too,

here and there, at some spot of more verdant mossiness on its roof and walls,we shall commence the real

action of our tale at an epoch not very remote from the present day. Still, there will be a connection with the

long pasta reference to forgotten events and personages, and to manners, feelings, and opinions, almost or

wholly obsolete which, if adequately translated to the reader, would serve to illustrate how much of old

material goes to make up the freshest novelty of human life. Hence, too, might be drawn a weighty lesson

from the littleregarded truth, that the act of the passing generation is the germ which may and must produce

good or evil fruit in a fardistant time; that, together with the seed of the merely temporary crop, which

mortals term expediency, they inevitably sow the acorns of a more enduring growth, which may darkly

The House of the Seven Gables, antique as it now looks, was not the first habitation erected by civilized man

on precisely the same spot of ground. Pyncheon Street formerly bore the humbler appellation of Maule's

Lane, from the name of the original occupant of the soil, before whose cottagedoor it was a cowpath. A

natural spring of soft and pleasant watera rare treasure on the seagirt peninsula where the Puritan

settlement was madehad early induced Matthew Maule to build a hut, shaggy with thatch, at this point,

although somewhat too remote from what was then the centre of the village. In the growth of the town,

however, after some thirty or forty years, the site covered by this rude hovel had become exceedingly

desirable in the eyes of a prominent and powerful personage, who asserted plausible claims to the

proprietorship of this and a large adjacent tract of land, on the strength of a grant from the legislature. Colonel

Pyncheon, the claimant, as we gather from whatever traits of him are preserved, was characterized by an iron

energy of purpose. Matthew Maule, on the other hand, though an obscure man, was stubborn in the defence

of what he considered his right; and, for several years, he succeeded in protecting the acre or two of earth

which, with his own toil, he had hewn out of the primeval forest, to be his garden ground and homestead. No

written record of this dispute is known to be in existence. Our acquaintance with the whole subject is derived

chiefly from tradition. It would be bold, therefore, and possibly unjust, to venture a decisive opinion as to its

merits; although it appears to have been at least a matter of doubt, whether Colonel Pyncheon's claim were

not unduly stretched, in order to make it cover the small metes and bounds of Matthew Maule. What greatly

strengthens such a suspicion is the fact that this controversy between two illmatched antagonists at a

period, moreover, laud it as we may, when personal influence had far more weight than nowremained for

years undecided, and came to a close only with the death of the party occupying the disputed soil. The mode

of his death, too, affects the mind differently, in our day, from what it did a century and a half ago. It was a

death that blasted with strange horror the humble name of the dweller in the cottage, and made it seem almost

a religious act to drive the plough over the little area of his habitation, and obliterate his place and memory

Old Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for the crime of witchcraft. He was one of the martyrs to that

terrible delusion, which should teach us, among its other morals, that the influential classes, and those who

take upon themselves to be leaders of the people, are fully liable to all the passionate error that has ever

characterized the maddest mob. Clergymen, judges, statesmen,the wisest, calmest, holiest persons of their

day stood in the inner circle round about the gallows, loudest to applaud the work of blood, latest to confess

themselves miserably deceived. If any one part of their proceedings can be said to deserve less blame than

another, it was the singular indiscrimination with which they persecuted, not merely the poor and aged, as in

former judicial massacres, but people of all ranks; their own equals, brethren, and wives. Amid the disorder

of such various ruin, it is not strange that a man of inconsiderable note, like Maule, should have trodden the

martyr's path to the hill of execution almost unremarked in the throng of his fellow sufferers. But, in after

days, when the frenzy of that hideous epoch had subsided, it was remembered how loudly Colonel Pyncheon

had joined in the general cry, to purge the land from witchcraft; nor did it fail to be whispered, that there was

an invidious acrimony in the zeal with which he had sought the condemnation of Matthew Maule. It was well

known that the victim had recognized the bitterness of personal enmity in his persecutor's conduct towards

him, and that he declared himself hunted to death for his spoil. At the moment of executionwith the halter

about his neck, and while Colonel Pyncheon sat on horseback, grimly gazing at the scene Maule had

addressed him from the scaffold, and uttered a prophecy, of which history, as well as fireside tradition, has

preserved the very words. "God," said the dying man, pointing his finger, with a ghastly look, at the

undismayed countenance of his enemy, "God will give him blood to drink!" After the reputed wizard's

death, his humble homestead had fallen an easy spoil into Colonel Pyncheon's grasp. When it was

understood, however, that the Colonel intended to erect a family mansionspacious, ponderously framed of

oaken timber, and calculated to endure for many generations of his posterity over the spot first covered by the

logbuilt hut of Matthew Maule, there was much shaking of the head among the village gossips. Without

absolutely expressing a doubt whether the stalwart Puritan had acted as a man of conscience and integrity

throughout the proceedings which have been sketched, they, nevertheless, hinted that he was about to build

his house over an unquiet grave. His home would include the home of the dead and buried wizard, and would

thus afford the ghost of the latter a kind of privilege to haunt its new apartments, and the chambers into which

future bridegrooms were to lead their brides, and where children of the Pyncheon blood were to be born. The

terror and ugliness of Maule's crime, and the wretchedness of his punishment, would darken the freshly

plastered walls, and infect them early with the scent of an old and melancholy house. Why, then, while so

much of the soil around him was bestrewn with the virgin forest leaves,why should Colonel Pyncheon

But the Puritan soldier and magistrate was not a man to be turned aside from his wellconsidered scheme,

either by dread of the wizard's ghost, or by flimsy sentimentalities of any kind, however specious. Had he

been told of a bad air, it might have moved him somewhat; but he was ready to encounter an evil spirit on his

own ground. Endowed with commonsense, as massive and hard as blocks of granite, fastened together by

stern rigidity of purpose, as with iron clamps, he followed out his original design, probably without so much

as imagining an objection to it. On the score of delicacy, or any scrupulousness which a finer sensibility

might have taught him, the Colonel, like most of his breed and generation, was impenetrable. He therefore

dug his cellar, and laid the deep foundations of his mansion, on the square of earth whence Matthew Maule,

forty years before, had first swept away the fallen leaves. It was a curious, and, as some people thought, an

ominous fact, that, very soon after the workmen began their operations, the spring of water, above mentioned,

entirely lost the deliciousness of its pristine quality. Whether its sources were disturbed by the depth of the

new cellar, or whatever subtler cause might lurk at the bottom, it is certain that the water of Maule's Well, as

it continued to be called, grew hard and brackish. Even such we find it now; and any old woman of the

neighborhood will certify that it is productive of intestinal mischief to those who quench their thirst there.

The reader may deem it singular that the head carpenter of the new edifice was no other than the son of the

very man from whose dead gripe the property of the soil had been wrested. Not improbably he was the best

workman of his time; or, perhaps, the Colonel thought it expedient, or was impelled by some better feeling,

thus openly to cast aside all animosity against the race of his fallen antagonist. Nor was it out of keeping with

the general coarseness and matteroffact character of the age, that the son should be willing to earn an

honest penny, or, rather, a weighty amount of sterling pounds, from the purse of his father's deadly enemy. At

all events, Thomas Maule became the architect of the House of the Seven Gables, and performed his duty so

faithfully that the timber framework fastened by his hands still holds together.

Thus the great house was built. Familiar as it stands in the writer's recollection,for it has been an object of

curiosity with him from boyhood, both as a specimen of the best and stateliest architecture of a longpast

epoch, and as the scene of events more full of human interest, perhaps, than those of a gray feudal

castle,familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age, it is therefore only the more difficult to imagine the bright

novelty with which it first caught the sunshine. The impression of its actual state, at this distance of a hundred

and sixty years, darkens inevitably through the picture which we would fain give of its appearance on the

morning when the Puritan magnate bade all the town to be his guests. A ceremony of consecration, festive as

well as religious, was now to be performed. A prayer and discourse from the Rev. Mr. Higginson, and the

outpouring of a psalm from the general throat of the community, was to be made acceptable to the grosser

sense by ale, cider, wine, and brandy, in copious effusion, and, as some authorities aver, by an ox, roasted

whole, or at least, by the weight and substance of an ox, in more manageable joints and sirloins. The carcass

of a deer, shot within twenty miles, had supplied material for the vast circumference of a pasty. A codfish of

sixty pounds, caught in the bay, had been dissolved into the rich liquid of a chowder. The chimney of the new

house, in short, belching forth its kitchen smoke, impregnated the whole air with the scent of meats, fowls,

and fishes, spicily concocted with odoriferous herbs, and onions in abundance. The mere smell of such

festivity, making its way to everybody's nostrils, was at once an invitation and an appetite.

Maule's Lane, or Pyncheon Street, as it were now more decorous to call it, was thronged, at the appointed

hour, as with a congregation on its way to church. All, as they approached, looked upward at the imposing

edifice, which was henceforth to assume its rank among the habitations of mankind. There it rose, a little

withdrawn from the line of the street, but in pride, not modesty. Its whole visible exterior was ornamented

with quaint figures, conceived in the grotesqueness of a Gothic fancy, and drawn or stamped in the glittering

plaster, composed of lime, pebbles, and bits of glass, with which the woodwork of the walls was overspread.

On every side the seven gables pointed sharply towards the sky, and presented the aspect of a whole

sisterhood of edifices, breathing through the spiracles of one great chimney. The many lattices, with their

small, diamondshaped panes, admitted the sunlight into hall and chamber, while, nevertheless, the second

story, projecting far over the base, and itself retiring beneath the third, threw a shadowy and thoughtful gloom

into the lower rooms. Carved globes of wood were affixed under the jutting stories. Little spiral rods of iron

beautified each of the seven peaks. On the triangular portion of the gable, that fronted next the street, was a

dial, put up that very morning, and on which the sun was still marking the passage of the first bright hour in a

history that was not destined to be all so bright. All around were scattered shavings, chips, shingles, and

broken halves of bricks; these, together with the lately turned earth, on which the grass had not begun to

grow, contributed to the impression of strangeness and novelty proper to a house that had yet its place to

The principal entrance, which had almost the breadth of a churchdoor, was in the angle between the two

front gables, and was covered by an open porch, with benches beneath its shelter. Under this arched doorway,

scraping their feet on the unworn threshold, now trod the clergymen, the elders, the magistrates, the deacons,

and whatever of aristocracy there was in town or county. Thither, too, thronged the plebeian classes as freely

as their betters, and in larger number. Just within the entrance, however, stood two servingmen, pointing

some of the guests to the neighborhood of the kitchen and ushering others into the statelier

rooms,hospitable alike to all, but still with a scrutinizing regard to the high or low degree of each. Velvet

garments sombre but rich, stiffly plaited ruffs and bands, embroidered gloves, venerable beards, the mien and

countenance of authority, made it easy to distinguish the gentleman of worship, at that period, from the

tradesman, with his plodding air, or the laborer, in his leathern jerkin, stealing awestricken into the house

One inauspicious circumstance there was, which awakened a hardly concealed displeasure in the breasts of a

few of the more punctilious visitors. The founder of this stately mansiona gentleman noted for the square

and ponderous courtesy of his demeanor, ought surely to have stood in his own hall, and to have offered the

first welcome to so many eminent personages as here presented themselves in honor of his solemn festival.

He was as yet invisible; the most favored of the guests had not beheld him. This sluggishness on Colonel

Pyncheon's part became still more unaccountable, when the second dignitary of the province made his

appearance, and found no more ceremonious a reception. The lieutenantgovernor, although his visit was one

of the anticipated glories of the day, had alighted from his horse, and assisted his lady from her sidesaddle,

and crossed the Colonel's threshold, without other greeting than that of the principal domestic.

This persona grayheaded man, of quiet and most respectful deportment found it necessary to explain

that his master still remained in his study, or private apartment; on entering which, an hour before, he had

"Do not you see, fellow," said the highsheriff of the county, taking the servant aside, "that this is no less a

man than the lieutenantgovernor? Summon Colonel Pyncheon at once! I know that he received letters from

England this morning; and, in the perusal and consideration of them, an hour may have passed away without

his noticing it. But he will be illpleased, I judge if you suffer him to neglect the courtesy due to one of our

chief rulers, and who may be said to represent King William, in the absence of the governor himself. Call

"Nay, please your worship," answered the man, in much perplexity, but with a backwardness that strikingly

indicated the hard and severe character of Colonel Pyncheon's domestic rule; "my master's orders were

exceeding strict; and, as your worship knows, he permits of no discretion in the obedience of those who owe

him service. Let who list open yonder door; I dare not, though the governor's own voice should bid me do it!"

"Pooh, pooh, master high sheriff!" cried the lieutenantgovernor, who had overheard the foregoing

discussion, and felt himself high enough in station to play a little with his dignity. "I will take the matter into

my own hands. It is time that the good Colonel came forth to greet his friends; else we shall be apt to suspect

that he has taken a sip too much of his Canary wine, in his extreme deliberation which cask it were best to

broach in honor of the day! But since he is so much behindhand, I will give him a remembrancer myself!"

Accordingly, with such a tramp of his ponderous ridingboots as might of itself have been audible in the

remotest of the seven gables, he advanced to the door, which the servant pointed out, and made its new panels

reecho with a loud, free knock. Then, looking round, with a smile, to the spectators, he awaited a response.

As none came, however, he knocked again, but with the same unsatisfactory result as at first. And now, being

a trifle choleric in his temperament, the lieutenantgovernor uplifted the heavy hilt of his sword, wherewith

he so beat and banged upon the door, that, as some of the bystanders whispered, the racket might have

disturbed the dead. Be that as it might, it seemed to produce no awakening effect on Colonel Pyncheon.

When the sound subsided, the silence through the house was deep, dreary, and oppressive, notwithstanding

that the tongues of many of the guests had already been loosened by a surreptitious cup or two of wine or

"Strange, forsooth!very strange!" cried the lieutenantgovernor, whose smile was changed to a frown.

"But seeing that our host sets us the good example of forgetting ceremony, I shall likewise throw it aside, and

He tried the door, which yielded to his hand, and was flung wide open by a sudden gust of wind that passed,

as with a loud sigh, from the outermost portal through all the passages and apartments of the new house. It

rustled the silken garments of the ladies, and waved the long curls of the gentlemen's wigs, and shook the

windowhangings and the curtains of the bedchambers; causing everywhere a singular stir, which yet was

more like a hush. A shadow of awe and halffearful anticipationnobody knew wherefore, nor of

They thronged, however, to the now open door, pressing the lieutenantgovernor, in the eagerness of their

curiosity, into the room in advance of them. At the first glimpse they beheld nothing extraordinary: a

handsomely furnished room, of moderate size, somewhat darkened by curtains; books arranged on shelves; a

large map on the wall, and likewise a portrait of Colonel Pyncheon, beneath which sat the original Colonel

himself, in an oaken elbowchair, with a pen in his hand. Letters, parchments, and blank sheets of paper were

on the table before him. He appeared to gaze at the curious crowd, in front of which stood the

lieutenantgovernor; and there was a frown on his dark and massive countenance, as if sternly resentful of

A little boythe Colonel's grandchild, and the only human being that ever dared to be familiar with

himnow made his way among the guests, and ran towards the seated figure; then pausing halfway, he

began to shriek with terror. The company, tremulous as the leaves of a tree, when all are shaking together,

drew nearer, and perceived that there was an unnatural distortion in the fixedness of Colonel Pyncheon's

stare; that there was blood on his ruff, and that his hoary beard was saturated with it. It was too late to give

assistance. The ironhearted Puritan, the relentless persecutor, the grasping and strongwilled man was dead!

Dead, in his new house! There is a tradition, only worth alluding to as lending a tinge of superstitious awe to

a scene perhaps gloomy enough without it, that a voice spoke loudly among the guests, the tones of which

were like those of old Matthew Maule, the executed wizard,"God hath given him blood to drink!"

Thus early had that one guest,the only guest who is certain, at one time or another, to find his way into

every human dwelling, thus early had Death stepped across the threshold of the House of the Seven

Colonel Pyncheon's sudden and mysterious end made a vast deal of noise in its day. There were many

rumors, some of which have vaguely drifted down to the present time, how that appearances indicated

violence; that there were the marks of fingers on his throat, and the print of a bloody hand on his plaited ruff;

and that his peaked beard was dishevelled, as if it had been fiercely clutched and pulled. It was averred,

likewise, that the lattice window, near the Colonel's chair, was open; and that, only a few minutes before the

fatal occurrence, the figure of a man had been seen clambering over the garden fence, in the rear of the house.

But it were folly to lay any stress on stories of this kind, which are sure to spring up around such an event as

that now related, and which, as in the present case, sometimes prolong themselves for ages afterwards, like

the toadstools that indicate where the fallen and buried trunk of a tree has long since mouldered into the earth.

For our own part, we allow them just as little credence as to that other fable of the skeleton hand which the

lieutenant governor was said to have seen at the Colonel's throat, but which vanished away, as he advanced

farther into the room. Certain it is, however, that there was a great consultation and dispute of doctors over

the dead body. One,John Swinnerton by name,who appears to have been a man of eminence, upheld it,

if we have rightly understood his terms of art, to be a case of apoplexy. His professional brethren, each for

himself, adopted various hypotheses, more or less plausible, but all dressed out in a perplexing mystery of

phrase, which, if it do not show a bewilderment of mind in these erudite physicians, certainly causes it in the

unlearned peruser of their opinions. The coroner's jury sat upon the corpse, and, like sensible men, returned

It is indeed difficult to imagine that there could have been a serious suspicion of murder, or the slightest

grounds for implicating any particular individual as the perpetrator. The rank, wealth, and eminent character

of the deceased must have insured the strictest scrutiny into every ambiguous circumstance. As none such is

on record, it is safe to assume that none existed Tradition,which sometimes brings down truth that history

has let slip, but is oftener the wild babble of the time, such as was formerly spoken at the fireside and now

congeals in newspapers,tradition is responsible for all contrary averments. In Colonel Pyncheon's funeral

sermon, which was printed, and is still extant, the Rev. Mr. Higginson enumerates, among the many felicities

of his distinguished parishioner's earthly career, the happy seasonableness of his death. His duties all

performed, the highest prosperity attained,his race and future generations fixed on a stable basis, and

with a stately roof to shelter them for centuries to come,what other upward step remained for this good

man to take, save the final step from earth to the golden gate of heaven! The pious clergyman surely would

not have uttered words like these had he in the least suspected that the Colonel had been thrust into the other

The family of Colonel Pyncheon, at the epoch of his death, seemed destined to as fortunate a permanence as

can anywise consist with the inherent instability of human affairs. It might fairly be anticipated that the

progress of time would rather increase and ripen their prosperity, than wear away and destroy it. For, not only

had his son and heir come into immediate enjoyment of a rich estate, but there was a claim through an Indian

deed, confirmed by a subsequent grant of the General Court, to a vast and as yet unexplored and unmeasured

tract of Eastern lands. These possessionsfor as such they might almost certainly be reckonedcomprised

the greater part of what is now known as Waldo County, in the state of Maine, and were more extensive than

many a dukedom, or even a reigning prince's territory, on European soil. When the pathless forest that still

covered this wild principality should give placeas it inevitably must, though perhaps not till ages

henceto the golden fertility of human culture, it would be the source of incalculable wealth to the

Pyncheon blood. Had the Colonel survived only a few weeks longer, it is probable that his great political

influence, and powerful connections at home and abroad, would have consummated all that was necessary to

render the claim available. But, in spite of good Mr. Higginson's congratulatory eloquence, this appeared to

be the one thing which Colonel Pyncheon, provident and sagacious as he was, had allowed to go at loose

ends. So far as the prospective territory was concerned, he unquestionably died too soon. His son lacked not

merely the father's eminent position, but the talent and force of character to achieve it: he could, therefore,

effect nothing by dint of political interest; and the bare justice or legality of the claim was not so apparent,

after the Colonel's decease, as it had been pronounced in his lifetime. Some connecting link had slipped out

Efforts, it is true, were made by the Pyncheons, not only then, but at various periods for nearly a hundred

years afterwards, to obtain what they stubbornly persisted in deeming their right. But, in course of time, the

territory was partly regranted to more favored individuals, and partly cleared and occupied by actual settlers.

These last, if they ever heard of the Pyncheon title, would have laughed at the idea of any man's asserting a

righton the strength of mouldy parchments, signed with the faded autographs of governors and legislators

long dead and forgottento the lands which they or their fathers had wrested from the wild hand of nature

by their own sturdy toil. This impalpable claim, therefore, resulted in nothing more solid than to cherish,

from generation to generation, an absurd delusion of family importance, which all along characterized the

Pyncheons. It caused the poorest member of the race to feel as if he inherited a kind of nobility, and might yet

come into the possession of princely wealth to support it. In the better specimens of the breed, this peculiarity

threw an ideal grace over the hard material of human life, without stealing away any truly valuable quality. In

the baser sort, its effect was to increase the liability to sluggishness and dependence, and induce the victim of

a shadowy hope to remit all selfeffort, while awaiting the realization of his dreams. Years and years after

their claim had passed out of the public memory, the Pyncheons were accustomed to consult the Colonel's

ancient map, which had been projected while Waldo County was still an unbroken wilderness. Where the old

land surveyor had put down woods, lakes, and rivers, they marked out the cleared spaces, and dotted the

villages and towns, and calculated the progressively increasing value of the territory, as if there were yet a

In almost every generation, nevertheless, there happened to be some one descendant of the family gifted with

a portion of the hard, keen sense, and practical energy, that had so remarkably distinguished the original

founder. His character, indeed, might be traced all the way down, as distinctly as if the Colonel himself, a

little diluted, had been gifted with a sort of intermittent immortality on earth. At two or three epochs, when

the fortunes of the family were low, this representative of hereditary qualities had made his appearance, and

caused the traditionary gossips of the town to whisper among themselves, "Here is the old Pyncheon come

again! Now the Seven Gables will be newshingled!" From father to son, they clung to the ancestral house

with singular tenacity of home attachment. For various reasons, however, and from impressions often too

vaguely founded to be put on paper, the writer cherishes the belief that many, if not most, of the successive

proprietors of this estate were troubled with doubts as to their moral right to hold it. Of their legal tenure there

could be no question; but old Matthew Maule, it is to be feared, trode downward from his own age to a far

later one, planting a heavy footstep, all the way, on the conscience of a Pyncheon. If so, we are left to dispose

of the awful query, whether each inheritor of the propertyconscious of wrong, and failing to rectify itdid

not commit anew the great guilt of his ancestor, and incur all its original responsibilities. And supposing such

to be the case, would it not be a far truer mode of expression to say of the Pyncheon family, that they

We have already hinted that it is not our purpose to trace down the history of the Pyncheon family, in its

unbroken connection with the House of the Seven Gables; nor to show, as in a magic picture, how the

rustiness and infirmity of age gathered over the venerable house itself. As regards its interior life, a large, dim

lookingglass used to hang in one of the rooms, and was fabled to contain within its depths all the shapes that

had ever been reflected there,the old Colonel himself, and his many descendants, some in the garb of

antique babyhood, and others in the bloom of feminine beauty or manly prime, or saddened with the wrinkles

of frosty age. Had we the secret of that mirror, we would gladly sit down before it, and transfer its revelations

to our page. But there was a story, for which it is difficult to conceive any foundation, that the posterity of

Matthew Maule had some connection with the mystery of the lookingglass, and that, by what appears to

have been a sort of mesmeric process, they could make its inner region all alive with the departed Pyncheons;

not as they had shown themselves to the world, nor in their better and happier hours, but as doing over again

some deed of sin, or in the crisis of life's bitterest sorrow. The popular imagination, indeed, long kept itself

busy with the affair of the old Puritan Pyncheon and the wizard Maule; the curse which the latter flung from

his scaffold was remembered, with the very important addition, that it had become a part of the Pyncheon

inheritance. If one of the family did but gurgle in his throat, a bystander would be likely enough to whisper,

between jest and earnest,"He has Maule's blood to drink!" The sudden death of a Pyncheon, about a hundred

years ago, with circumstances very similar to what have been related of the Colonel's exit, was held as giving

additional probability to the received opinion on this topic. It was considered, moreover, an ugly and ominous

circumstance, that Colonel Pyncheon's picturein obedience, it was said, to a provision of his

willremained affixed to the wall of the room in which he died. Those stern, immitigable features seemed to

symbolize an evil influence, and so darkly to mingle the shadow of their presence with the sunshine of the

passing hour, that no good thoughts or purposes could ever spring up and blossom there. To the thoughtful

mind there will be no tinge of superstition in what we figuratively express, by affirming that the ghost of a

dead progenitorperhaps as a portion of his own punishmentis often doomed to become the Evil Genius

The Pyncheons, in brief, lived along, for the better part of two centuries, with perhaps less of outward

vicissitude than has attended most other New England families during the same period of time. Possessing

very distinctive traits of their own, they nevertheless took the general characteristics of the little community

in which they dwelt; a town noted for its frugal, discreet, wellordered, and homeloving inhabitants, as well

as for the somewhat confined scope of its sympathies; but in which, be it said, there are odder individuals,

and, now and then, stranger occurrences, than one meets with almost anywhere else. During the Revolution,

the Pyncheon of that epoch, adopting the royal side, became a refugee; but repented, and made his

reappearance, just at the point of time to preserve the House of the Seven Gables from confiscation. For the

last seventy years the most noted event in the Pyncheon annals had been likewise the heaviest calamity that

ever befell the race; no less than the violent deathfor so it was adjudgedof one member of the family by

the criminal act of another. Certain circumstances attending this fatal occurrence had brought the deed

irresistibly home to a nephew of the deceased Pyncheon. The young man was tried and convicted of the

crime; but either the circumstantial nature of the evidence, and possibly some lurking doubts in the breast of

the executive, or" lastlyan argument of greater weight in a republic than it could have been under a

monarchy,the high respectability and political influence of the criminal's connections, had availed to

mitigate his doom from death to perpetual imprisonment. This sad affair had chanced about thirty years

before the action of our story commences. Latterly, there were rumors (which few believed, and only one or

two felt greatly interested in) that this longburied man was likely, for some reason or other, to be summoned

It is essential to say a few words respecting the victim of this now almost forgotten murder. He was an old

bachelor, and possessed of great wealth, in addition to the house and real estate which constituted what

remained of the ancient Pyncheon property. Being of an eccentric and melancholy turn of mind, and greatly

given to rummaging old records and hearkening to old traditions, he had brought himself, it is averred, to the

conclusion that Matthew Maule, the wizard, had been foully wronged out of his homestead, if not out of his

life. Such being the case, and he, the old bachelor, in possession of the illgotten spoil,with the black stain

of blood sunken deep into it, and still to be scented by conscientious nostrils, the question occurred,

whether it were not imperative upon him, even at this late hour, to make restitution to Maule's posterity. To a

man living so much in the past, and so little in the present, as the secluded and antiquarian old bachelor, a

century and a half seemed not so vast a period as to obviate the propriety of substituting right for wrong. It

was the belief of those who knew him best, that he would positively have taken the very singular step of

giving up the House of the Seven Gables to the representative of Matthew Maule, but for the unspeakable

tumult which a suspicion of the old gentleman's project awakened among his Pyncheon relatives. Their

exertions had the effect of suspending his purpose; but it was feared that he would perform, after death, by

the operation of his last will, what he had so hardly been prevented from doing in his proper lifetime. But

there is no one thing which men so rarely do, whatever the provocation or inducement, as to bequeath

patrimonial property away from their own blood. They may love other individuals far better than their

relatives,they may even cherish dislike, or positive hatred, to the latter; but yet, in view of death, the strong

prejudice of propinquity revives, and impels the testator to send down his estate in the line marked out by

custom so immemorial that it looks like nature. In all the Pyncheons, this feeling had the energy of disease. It

was too powerful for the conscientious scruples of the old bachelor; at whose death, accordingly, the

mansionhouse, together with most of his other riches, passed into the possession of his next legal

This was a nephew, the cousin of the miserable young man who had been convicted of the uncle's murder.

The new heir, up to the period of his accession, was reckoned rather a dissipated youth, but had at once

reformed, and made himself an exceedingly respectable member of society. In fact, he showed more of the

Pyncheon quality, and had won higher eminence in the world, than any of his race since the time of the

original Puritan. Applying himself in earlier manhood to the study of the law, and having a natural tendency

towards office, he had attained, many years ago, to a judicial situation in some inferior court, which gave him

for life the very desirable and imposing title of judge. Later, he had engaged in politics, and served a part of

two terms in Congress, besides making a considerable figure in both branches of the State legislature. Judge

Pyncheon was unquestionably an honor to his race. He had built himself a countryseat within a few miles of

his native town, and there spent such portions of his time as could be spared from public service in the

display of every grace and virtueas a newspaper phrased it, on the eve of an electionbefitting the

There were few of the Pyncheons left to sun themselves in the glow of the Judge's prosperity. In respect to

natural increase, the breed had not thriven; it appeared rather to be dying out. The only members of the family

known to be extant were, first, the Judge himself, and a single surviving son, who was now travelling in

Europe; next, the thirty years' prisoner, already alluded to, and a sister of the latter, who occupied, in an

extremely retired manner, the House of the Seven Gables, in which she had a lifeestate by the will of the old

bachelor. She was understood to be wretchedly poor, and seemed to make it her choice to remain so;

inasmuch as her affluent cousin, the Judge, had repeatedly offered her all the comforts of life, either in the old

mansion or his own modern residence. The last and youngest Pyncheon was a little countrygirl of seventeen,

the daughter of another of the Judge's cousins, who had married a young woman of no family or property,

and died early and in poor circumstances. His widow had recently taken another husband.

As for Matthew Maule's posterity, it was supposed now to be extinct. For a very long period after the

witchcraft delusion, however, the Maules had continued to inhabit the town where their progenitor had

suffered so unjust a death. To all appearance, they were a quiet, honest, wellmeaning race of people,

cherishing no malice against individuals or the public for the wrong which had been done them; or if, at their

own fireside, they transmitted from father to child any hostile recollection of the wizard's fate and their lost

patrimony, it was never acted upon, nor openly expressed. Nor would it have been singular had they ceased to

remember that the House of the Seven Gables was resting its heavy framework on a foundation that was

rightfully their own. There is something so massive, stable, and almost irresistibly imposing in the exterior

presentment of established rank and great possessions, that their very existence seems to give them a right to

exist; at least, so excellent a counterfeit of right, that few poor and humble men have moral force enough to

question it, even in their secret minds. Such is the case now, after so many ancient prejudices have been

overthrown; and it was far more so in anteRevolutionary days, when the aristocracy could venture to be

proud, and the low were content to be abased. Thus the Maules, at all events, kept their resentments within

their own breasts. They were generally povertystricken; always plebeian and obscure; working with

unsuccessful diligence at handicrafts; laboring on the wharves, or following the sea, as sailors before the

mast; living here and there about the town, in hired tenements, and coming finally to the almshouse as the

natural home of their old age. At last, after creeping, as it were, for such a length of time along the utmost

verge of the opaque puddle of obscurity, they had taken that downright plunge which, sooner or later, is the

destiny of all families, whether princely or plebeian. For thirty years past, neither townrecord, nor

gravestone, nor the directory, nor the knowledge or memory of man, bore any trace of Matthew Maule's

descendants. His blood might possibly exist elsewhere; here, where its lowly current could be traced so far

So long as any of the race were to be found, they had been marked out from other mennot strikingly, nor

as with a sharp line, but with an effect that was felt rather than spoken ofby an hereditary character of

reserve. Their companions, or those who endeavored to become such, grew conscious of a circle round about

the Maules, within the sanctity or the spell of which, in spite of an exterior of sufficient frankness and

goodfellowship, it was impossible for any man to step. It was this indefinable peculiarity, perhaps, that, by

insulating them from human aid, kept them always so unfortunate in life. It certainly operated to prolong in

their case, and to confirm to them as their only inheritance, those feelings of repugnance and superstitious

terror with which the people of the town, even after awakening from their frenzy, continued to regard the

memory of the reputed witches. The mantle, or rather the ragged cloak, of old Matthew Maule had fallen

upon his children. They were half believed to inherit mysterious attributes; the family eye was said to possess

strange power. Among other goodfornothing properties and privileges, one was especially assigned

them,that of exercising an influence over people's dreams. The Pyncheons, if all stories were true,

haughtily as they bore themselves in the noonday streets of their native town, were no better than

bondservants to these plebeian Maules, on entering the topsyturvy commonwealth of sleep. Modern

psychology, it may be, will endeavor to reduce these alleged necromancies within a system, instead of

A descriptive paragraph or two, treating of the sevengabled mansion in its more recent aspect, will bring

this preliminary chapter to a close. The street in which it upreared its venerable peaks has long ceased to be a

fashionable quarter of the town; so that, though the old edifice was surrounded by habitations of modern date,

they were mostly small, built entirely of wood, and typical of the most plodding uniformity of common life.

Doubtless, however, the whole story of human existence may be latent in each of them, but with no

picturesqueness, externally, that can attract the imagination or sympathy to seek it there. But as for the old

structure of our story, its whiteoak frame, and its boards, shingles, and crumbling plaster, and even the huge,

clustered chimney in the midst, seemed to constitute only the least and meanest part of its reality. So much of

mankind's varied experience had passed there,so much had been suffered, and something, too,

enjoyed,that the very timbers were oozy, as with the moisture of a heart. It was itself like a great human

The deep projection of the second story gave the house such a meditative look, that you could not pass it

without the idea that it had secrets to keep, and an eventful history to moralize upon. In front, just on the edge

of the unpaved sidewalk, grew the Pyncheon Elm, which, in reference to such trees as one usually meets

with, might well be termed gigantic. It had been planted by a greatgrandson of the first Pyncheon, and,

though now fourscore years of age, or perhaps nearer a hundred, was still in its strong and broad maturity,

throwing its shadow from side to side of the street, overtopping the seven gables, and sweeping the whole

black roof with its pendant foliage. It gave beauty to the old edifice, and seemed to make it a part of nature.

The street having been widened about forty years ago, the front gable was now precisely on a line with it. On

either side extended a ruinous wooden fence of open latticework, through which could be seen a grassy

yard, and, especially in the angles of the building, an enormous fertility of burdocks, with leaves, it is hardly

an exaggeration to say, two or three feet long. Behind the house there appeared to be a garden, which

undoubtedly had once been extensive, but was now infringed upon by other enclosures, or shut in by

habitations and outbuildings that stood on another street. It would be an omission, trifling, indeed, but

unpardonable, were we to forget the green moss that had long since gathered over the projections of the

windows, and on the slopes of the roof nor must we fail to direct the reader's eye to a crop, not of weeds, but

flowershrubs, which were growing aloft in the air, not a great way from the chimney, in the nook between

two of the gables. They were called Alice's Posies. The tradition was, that a certain Alice Pyncheon had flung

up the seeds, in sport, and that the dust of the street and the decay of the roof gradually formed a kind of soil

for them, out of which they grew, when Alice had long been in her grave. However the flowers might have

come there, it was both sad and sweet to observe how Nature adopted to herself this desolate, decaying,

gusty, rusty old house of the Pyncheon family; and how the evenreturning summer did her best to gladden it

There is one other feature, very essential to be noticed, but which, we greatly fear, may damage any

picturesque and romantic impression which we have been willing to throw over our sketch of this respectable

edifice. In the front gable, under the impending brow of the second story, and contiguous to the street, was a

shopdoor, divided horizontally in the midst, and with a window for its upper segment, such as is often seen

in dwellings of a somewhat ancient date. This same shopdoor had been a subject of No slight mortification

to the present occupant of the august Pyncheon House, as well as to some of her predecessors. The matter is

disagreeably delicate to handle; but, since the reader must needs be let into the secret, he will please to

understand, that, about a century ago, the head of the Pyncheons found himself involved in serious financial

difficulties. The fellow (gentleman, as he styled himself) can hardly have been other than a spurious

interloper; for, instead of seeking office from the king or the royal governor, or urging his hereditary claim to

Eastern lands, he bethought himself of no better avenue to wealth than by cutting a shopdoor through the

side of his ancestral residence. It was the custom of the time, indeed, for merchants to store their goods and

transact business in their own dwellings. But there was something pitifully small in this old Pyncheon's mode

of setting about his commercial operations; it was whispered, that, with his own hands, all beruffled as they

were, he used to give change for a shilling, and would turn a halfpenny twice over, to make sure that it was

a good one. Beyond all question, he had the blood of a petty huckster in his veins, through whatever channel

Immediately on his death, the shopdoor had been locked, bolted, and barred, and, down to the period of our

story, had probably never once been opened. The old counter, shelves, and other fixtures of the little shop

remained just as he had left them. It used to be affirmed, that the dead shopkeeper, in a white wig, a faded

velvet coat, an apron at his waist, and his ruffles carefully turned back from his wrists, might be seen through

the chinks of the shutters, any night of the year, ransacking his till, or poring over the dingy pages of his

daybook. From the look of unutterable woe upon his face, it appeared to be his doom to spend eternity in a

IT still lacked half an hour of sunrise, when Miss Hepzibah Pyncheonwe will not say awoke, it being

doubtful whether the poor lady had so much as closed her eyes during the brief night of midsummerbut, at

all events, arose from her solitary pillow, and began what it would be mockery to term the adornment of her

person. Far from us be the indecorum of assisting, even in imagination, at a maiden lady's toilet! Our story

must therefore await Miss Hepzibah at the threshold of her chamber; only presuming, meanwhile, to note

some of the heavy sighs that labored from her bosom, with little restraint as to their lugubrious depth and

volume of sound, inasmuch as they could be audible to nobody save a disembodied listener like ourself. The

Old Maid was alone in the old house. Alone, except for a certain respectable and orderly young man, an artist

in the daguerreotype line, who, for about three months back, had been a lodger in a remote gable,quite a

house by itself, indeed,with locks, bolts, and oaken bars on all the intervening doors. Inaudible,

consequently, were poor Miss Hepzibah's gusty sighs. Inaudible the creaking joints of her stiffened knees, as

she knelt down by the bedside. And inaudible, too, by mortal ear, but heard with allcomprehending love and

pity in the farthest heaven, that almost agony of prayer now whispered, now a groan, now a struggling

silencewherewith she besought the Divine assistance through the day Evidently, this is to be a day of more

than ordinary trial to Miss Hepzibah, who, for above a quarter of a century gone by, has dwelt in strict

seclusion, taking no part in the business of life, and just as little in its intercourse and pleasures. Not with

such fervor prays the torpid recluse, looking forward to the cold, sunless, stagnant calm of a day that is to be

The maiden lady's devotions are concluded. Will she now issue forth over the threshold of our story? Not yet,

by many moments. First, every drawer in the tall, oldfashioned bureau is to be opened, with difficulty, and

with a succession of spasmodic jerks then, all must close again, with the same fidgety reluctance. There is a

rustling of stiff silks; a tread of backward and forward footsteps to and fro across the chamber. We suspect

Miss Hepzibah, moreover, of taking a step upward into a chair, in order to give heedful regard to her

appearance on all sides, and at full length, in the oval, dingyframed toiletglass, that hangs above her table.

Truly! well, indeed! who would have thought it! Is all this precious time to be lavished on the matutinal

repair and beautifying of an elderly person, who never goes abroad, whom nobody ever visits, and from

whom, when she shall have done her utmost, it were the best charity to turn one's eyes another way?

Now she is almost ready. Let us pardon her one other pause; for it is given to the sole sentiment, or, we might

better say, heightened and rendered intense, as it has been, by sorrow and seclusion,to the strong

passion of her life. We heard the turning of a key in a small lock; she has opened a secret drawer of an

escritoire, and is probably looking at a certain miniature, done in Malbone's most perfect style, and

representing a face worthy of no less delicate a pencil. It was once our good fortune to see this picture. It is a

likeness of a young man, in a silken dressinggown of an old fashion, the soft richness of which is well

adapted to the countenance of reverie, with its full, tender lips, and beautiful eyes, that seem to indicate not so

much capacity of thought, as gentle and voluptuous emotion. Of the possessor of such features we shall have

a right to ask nothing, except that he would take the rude world easily, and make himself happy in it. Can it

have been an early lover of Miss Hepzibah? No; she never had a loverpoor thing, how could she? nor

ever knew, by her own experience, what love technically means. And yet, her undying faith and trust, her

freshremembrance, and continual devotedness towards the original of that miniature, have been the only

She seems to have put aside the miniature, and is standing again before the toiletglass. There are tears to be

wiped off. A few more footsteps to and fro; and here, at last,with another pitiful sigh, like a gust of chill,

damp wind out of a longclosed vault, the door of which has accidentally been set, ajarhere comes Miss

Hepzibah Pyncheon! Forth she steps into the dusky, timedarkened passage; a tall figure, clad in black silk,

with a long and shrunken waist, feeling her way towards the stairs like a nearsighted person, as in truth she

The sun, meanwhile, if not already above the horizon, was ascending nearer and nearer to its verge. A few

clouds, floating high upward, caught some of the earliest light, and threw down its golden gleam on the

windows of all the houses in the street, not forgetting the House of the Seven Gables, whichmany such

sunrises as it had witnessedlooked cheerfully at the present one. The reflected radiance served to show,

pretty distinctly, the aspect and arrangement of the room which Hepzibah entered, after descending the stairs.

It was a lowstudded room, with a beam across the ceiling, panelled with dark wood, and having a large

chimneypiece, set round with pictured tiles, but now closed by an iron fireboard, through which ran the

funnel of a modern stove. There was a carpet on the floor, originally of rich texture, but so worn and faded in

these latter years that its once brilliant figure had quite vanished into one indistinguishable hue. In the way of

furniture, there were two tables: one, constructed with perplexing intricacy and exhibiting as many feet as a

centipede; the other, most delicately wrought, with four long and slender legs, so apparently frail that it was

almost incredible what a length of time the ancient teatable had stood upon them. Half a dozen chairs stood

about the room, straight and stiff, and so ingeniously contrived for the discomfort of the human person that

they were irksome even to sight, and conveyed the ugliest possible idea of the state of society to which they

could have been adapted. One exception there was, however, in a very antique elbowchair, with a high back,

carved elaborately in oak, and a roomy depth within its arms, that made up, by its spacious

comprehensiveness, for the lack of any of those artistic curves which abound in a modern chair.

As for ornamental articles of furniture, we recollect but two, if such they may be called. One was a map of

the Pyncheon territory at the eastward, not engraved, but the handiwork of some skilful old draughtsman, and

grotesquely illuminated with pictures of Indians and wild beasts, among which was seen a lion; the natural

history of the region being as little known as its geography, which was put down most fantastically awry. The

other adornment was the portrait of old Colonel Pyncheon, at two thirds length, representing the stern

features of a Puritaniclooking personage, in a skullcap, with a laced band and a grizzly beard; holding a

Bible with one hand, and in the other uplifting an iron swordhilt. The latter object, being more successfully

depicted by the artist, stood out in far greater prominence than the sacred volume. Face to face with this

picture, on entering the apartment, Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon came to a pause; regarding it with a singular

scowl, a strange contortion of the brow, which, by people who did not know her, would probably have been

interpreted as an expression of bitter anger and illwill. But it was no such thing. She, in fact, felt a reverence

for the pictured visage, of which only a fardescended and timestricken virgin could be susceptible; and this

forbidding scowl was the innocent result of her nearsightedness, and an effort so to concentrate her powers

We must linger a moment on this unfortunate expression of poor Hepzibah's brow. Her scowl,as the world,

or such part of it as sometimes caught a transitory glimpse of her at the window, wickedly persisted in calling

it,her scowl had done Miss Hepzibah a very ill office, in establishing her character as an illtempered old

maid; nor does it appear improbable that, by often gazing at herself in a dim lookingglass, and perpetually

encountering her own frown with its ghostly sphere, she had been led to interpret the expression almost as

unjustly as the world did. "How miserably cross I look!" she must often have whispered to herself; and

ultimately have fancied herself so, by a sense of inevitable doom. But her heart never frowned. It was

naturally tender, sensitive, and full of little tremors and palpitations; all of which weaknesses it retained,

while her visage was growing so perversely stern, and even fierce. Nor had Hepzibah ever any hardihood,

All this time, however, we are loitering faintheartedly on the threshold of our story. In very truth, we have an

It has already been observed, that, in the basement story of the gable fronting on the street, an unworthy

ancestor, nearly a century ago, had fitted up a shop. Ever since the old gentleman retired from trade, and fell

asleep under his coffinlid, not only the shopdoor, but the inner arrangements, had been suffered to remain

unchanged; while the dust of ages gathered inchdeep over the shelves and counter, and partly filled an old

pair of scales, as if it were of value enough to be weighed. It treasured itself up, too, in the halfopen till,

where there still lingered a base sixpence, worth neither more nor less than the hereditary pride which had

here been put to shame. Such had been the state and condition of the little shop in old Hepzibah's childhood,

when she and her brother used to play at hideandseek in its forsaken precincts. So it had remained, until

But Now, though the shopwindow was still closely curtained from the public gaze, a remarkable change had

taken place in its interior. The rich and heavy festoons of cobweb, which it had cost a long ancestral

succession of spiders their life's labor to spin and weave, had been carefully brushed away from the ceiling.

The counter, shelves, and floor had all been scoured, and the latter was overstrewn with fresh blue sand. The

brown scales, too, had evidently undergone rigid discipline, in an unavailing effort to rub off the rust, which,

alas! had eaten through and through their substance. Neither was the little old shop any longer empty of

merchantable goods. A curious eye, privileged to take an account of stock and investigate behind the counter,

would have discovered a barrel, yea, two or three barrels and half ditto,one containing flour, another

apples, and a third, perhaps, Indian meal. There was likewise a square box of pinewood, full of soap in bars;

also, another of the same size, in which were tallow candles, ten to the pound. A small stock of brown sugar,

some white beans and split peas, and a few other commodities of low price, and such as are constantly in

demand, made up the bulkier portion of the merchandise. It might have been taken for a ghostly or

phantasmagoric reflection of the old shopkeeper Pyncheon's shabbily provided shelves, save that some of the

articles were of a description and outward form which could hardly have been known in his day. For instance,

there was a glass picklejar, filled with fragments of Gibraltar rock; not, indeed, splinters of the veritable

stone foundation of the famous fortress, but bits of delectable candy, neatly done up in white paper. Jim

Crow, moreover, was seen executing his worldrenowned dance, in gingerbread. A party of leaden dragoons

were galloping along one of the shelves, in equipments and uniform of modern cut; and there were some

sugar figures, with no strong resemblance to the humanity of any epoch, but less unsatisfactorily representing

our own fashions than those of a hundred years ago. Another phenomenon, still more strikingly modern, was

a package of lucifer matches, which, in old times, would have been thought actually to borrow their

In short, to bring the matter at once to a point, it was incontrovertibly evident that somebody had taken the

shop and fixtures of the longretired and forgotten Mr. Pyncheon, and was about to renew the enterprise of

that departed worthy, with a different set of customers. Who could this bold adventurer be? And, of all places

in the world, why had he chosen the House of the Seven Gables as the scene of his commercial speculations?

We return to the elderly maiden. She at length withdrew her eyes from the dark countenance of the Colonel's

portrait, heaved a sigh, indeed, her breast was a very cave of Aolus that morning, and stept across the

room on tiptoe, as is the customary gait of elderly women. Passing through an intervening passage, she

opened a door that communicated with the shop, just now so elaborately described. Owing to the projection

of the upper storyand still more to the thick shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, which stood almost directly in

front of the gablethe twilight, here, was still as much akin to night as morning. Another heavy sigh from

Miss Hepzibah! After a moment's pause on the threshold, peering towards the window with her nearsighted

scowl, as if frowning down some bitter enemy, she suddenly projected herself into the shop. The haste, and,

Nervouslyin a sort of frenzy, we might almost sayshe began to busy herself in arranging some children's

playthings, and other little wares, on the shelves and at the shopwindow. In the aspect of this darkarrayed,

palefaced, ladylike old figure there was a deeply tragic character that contrasted irreconcilably with the

ludicrous pettiness of her employment. It seemed a queer anomaly, that so gaunt and dismal a personage

should take a toy in hand; a miracle, that the toy did not vanish in her grasp; a miserably absurd idea, that she

should go on perplexing her stiff and sombre intellect with the question how to tempt little boys into her

premises! Yet such is undoubtedly her object. Now she places a gingerbread elephant against the window, but

with so tremulous a touch that it tumbles upon the floor, with the dismemberment of three legs and its trunk;

it has ceased to be an elephant, and has become a few bits of musty gingerbread. There, again, she has upset a

tumbler of marbles, all of which roll different ways, and each individual marble, devildirected, into the most

difficult obscurity that it can find. Heaven help our poor old Hepzibah, and forgive us for taking a ludicrous

view of her position! As her rigid and rusty frame goes down upon its hands and knees, in quest of the

absconding marbles, we positively feel so much the more inclined to shed tears of sympathy, from the very

fact that we must needs turn aside and laugh at her. For here,and if we fail to impress it suitably upon the

reader, it is our own fault, not that of the theme, here is one of the truest points of melancholy interest that

occur in ordinary life. It was the final throe of what called itself old gentility. A, ladywho had fed herself

from childhood with the shadowy food of aristocratic reminiscences, and whose religion it was that a lady's

hand soils itself irremediably by doing aught for bread,this born lady, after sixty years of narrowing

means, is fain to step down from her pedestal of imaginary rank. Poverty, treading closely at her heels for a

lifetime, has come up with her at last. She must earn her own food, or starve! And we have stolen upon Miss

Hepzibah Pyncheon, too irreverently, at the instant of time when the patrician lady is to be transformed into

In this republican country, amid the fluctuating waves of our social life, somebody is always at the

drowningpoint. The tragedy is enacted with as continual a repetition as that of a popular drama on a holiday,

and, nevertheless, is felt as deeply, perhaps, as when an hereditary noble sinks below his order. More deeply;

since, with us, rank is the grosser substance of wealth and a splendid establishment, and has no spiritual

existence after the death of these, but dies hopelessly along with them. And, therefore, since we have been

unfortunate enough to introduce our heroine at so inauspicious a juncture, we would entreat for a mood of

due solemnity in the spectators of her fate. Let us behold, in poor Hepzibah, the immemorial, ladytwo

hundred years old, on this side of the water, and thrice as many on the other, with her antique portraits,

pedigrees, coats of arms, records and traditions, and her claim, as joint heiress, to that princely territory at the

eastward, no longer a wilderness, but a populous fertility,born, too, in Pyncheon Street, under the

Pyncheon Elm, and in the Pyncheon House, where she has spent all her days, reduced. Now, in that very

This business of setting up a petty shop is almost the only resource of women, in circumstances at all similar

to those of our unfortunate recluse. With her nearsightedness, and those tremulous fingers of hers, at once

inflexible and delicate, she could not be a seamstress; although her sampler, of fifty years gone by, exhibited

some of the most recondite specimens of ornamental needlework. A school for little children had been often

in her thoughts; and, at one time, she had begun a review of her early studies in the New England Primer,

with a view to prepare herself for the office of instructress. But the love of children had never been quickened

in Hepzibah's heart, and was now torpid, if not extinct; she watched the little people of the neighborhood

from her chamberwindow, and doubted whether she could tolerate a more intimate acquaintance with them.

Besides, in our day, the very A B C has become a science greatly too abstruse to be any longer taught by

pointing a pin from letter to letter. A modern child could teach old Hepzibah more than old Hepzibah could

teach the child. Sowith many a cold, deep heartquake at the idea of at last coming into sordid contact

with the world, from which she had so long kept aloof, while every added day of seclusion had rolled another

stone against the cavern door of her hermitagethe poor thing bethought herself of the ancient

shopwindow, the rusty scales, and dusty till. She might have held back a little longer; but another

circumstance, not yet hinted at, had somewhat hastened her decision. Her humble preparations, therefore,

were duly made, and the enterprise was now to be commenced. Nor was she entitled to complain of any

remarkable singularity in her fate; for, in the town of her nativity, we might point to several little shops of a

similar description, some of them in houses as ancient as that of the Seven Gables; and one or two, it may be,

where a decayed gentlewoman stands behind the counter, as grim an image of family pride as Miss Hepzibah

It was overpoweringly ridiculous,we must honestly confess it, the deportment of the maiden lady while

setting her shop in order for the public eye. She stole on tiptoe to the window, as cautiously as if she

conceived some bloodyminded villain to be watching behind the elmtree, with intent to take her life.

Stretching out her long, lank arm, she put a paper of pearl buttons, a jew'sharp, or whatever the small article

might be, in its destined place, and straightway vanished back into the dusk, as if the world need never hope

for another glimpse of her. It might have been fancied, indeed, that she expected to minister to the wants of

the community unseen, like a disembodied divinity or enchantress, holding forth her bargains to the

reverential and awestricken purchaser in an invisible hand. But Hepzibah had no such flattering dream. She

was well aware that she must ultimately come forward, and stand revealed in her proper individuality; but,

like other sensitive persons, she could not bear to be observed in the gradual process, and chose rather to flash

The inevitable moment was not much longer to be delayed. The sunshine might now be seen stealing down

the front of the opposite house, from the windows of which came a reflected gleam, struggling through the

boughs of the elmtree, and enlightening the interior of the shop more distinctly than heretofore. The town

appeared to be waking up. A baker's cart had already rattled through the street, chasing away the latest

vestige of night's sanctity with the jinglejangle of its dissonant bells. A milkman was distributing the

contents of his cans from door to door; and the harsh peal of a fisherman's conch shell was heard far off,

around the corner. None of these tokens escaped Hepzibah's notice. The moment had arrived. To delay longer

would be only to lengthen out her misery. Nothing remained, except to take down the bar from the

shopdoor, leaving the entrance freemore than freewelcome, as if all were household friendsto every

passerby, whose eyes might be attracted by the commodities at the window. This last act Hepzibah now

performed, letting the bar fall with what smote upon her excited nerves as a most astounding clatter.

Thenas if the only barrier betwixt herself and the world had been thrown down, and a flood of evil

consequences would come tumbling through the gapshe fled into the inner parlor, threw herself into the

Our miserable old Hepzibah! It is a heavy annoyance to a writer, who endeavors to represent nature, its

various attitudes and circumstances, in a reasonably correct outline and true coloring, that so much of the

mean and ludicrous should be hopelessly mixed up with the purest pathos which life anywhere supplies to

him. What tragic dignity, for example, can be wrought into a scene like this! How can we elevate our history

of retribution for the sin of long ago, when, as one of our most prominent figures, we are compelled to

introducenot a young and lovely woman, nor even the stately remains of beauty, stormshattered by

afflictionbut a gaunt, sallow, rustyjointed maiden, in a longwaisted silk gown, and with the strange

horror of a turban on her head! Her visage is not evenugly. It is redeemed from insignificance only by the

contraction of her eyebrows into a nearsighted scowl. And, finally, her great lifetrial seems to be, that,

after sixty years of idleness, she finds it convenient to earn comfortable bread by setting up a shop in a small

way. Nevertheless, if we look through all the heroic fortunes of mankind, we shall find this same

entanglement of something mean and trivial with whatever is noblest in joy or sorrow. Life is made up of

marble and mud. And, without all the deeper trust in a comprehensive sympathy above us, we might hence be

led to suspect the insult of a sneer, as well as an immitigable frown, on the iron countenance of fate. What is

called poetic insight is the gift of discerning, in this sphere of strangely mingled elements, the beauty and the

MISS HEPZIBAH PYNCHEON sat in the oaken elbowchair, with her hands over her face, giving way to

that heavy downsinking of the heart which most persons have experienced, when the image of hope itself

seems ponderously moulded of lead, on the eve of an enterprise at once doubtful and momentous. She was

suddenly startled by the tinkling alarumhigh, sharp, and irregularof a little bell. The maiden lady arose

upon her feet, as pale as a ghost at cockcrow; for she was an enslaved spirit, and this the talisman to which

she owed obedience. This little bell,to speak in plainer terms, being fastened over the shopdoor, was

so contrived as to vibrate by means of a steel spring, and thus convey notice to the inner regions of the house

when any customer should cross the threshold. Its ugly and spiteful little din (heard now for the first time,

perhaps, since Hepzibah's periwigged predecessor had retired from trade) at once set every nerve of her body

in responsive and tumultuous vibration. The crisis was upon her! Her first customer was at the door!

Without giving herself time for a second thought, she rushed into the shop, pale, wild, desperate in gesture

and expression, scowling portentously, and looking far better qualified to do fierce battle with a housebreaker

than to stand smiling behind the counter, bartering small wares for a copper recompense. Any ordinary

customer, indeed, would have turned his back and fled. And yet there was nothing fierce in Hepzibah's poor

old heart; nor had she, at the moment, a single bitter thought against the world at large, or one individual man

or woman. She wished them all well, but wished, too, that she herself were done with them, and in her quiet

The applicant, by this time, stood within the doorway. Coming freshly, as he did, out of the morning light, he

appeared to have brought some of its cheery influences into the shop along with him. It was a slender young

man, not more than one or two and twenty years old, with rather a grave and thoughtful expression for his

years, but likewise a springy alacrity and vigor. These qualities were not only perceptible, physically, in his

make and motions, but made themselves felt almost immediately in his character. A brown beard, not too

silken in its texture, fringed his chin, but as yet without completely hiding it; he wore a short mustache, too,

and his dark, highfeatured countenance looked all the better for these natural ornaments. As for his dress, it

was of the simplest kind; a summer sack of cheap and ordinary material, thin checkered pantaloons, and a

straw hat, by no means of the finest braid. Oak Hall might have supplied his entire equipment. He was chiefly

marked as a gentlemanif such, indeed, he made any claim to beby the rather remarkable whiteness and

He met the scowl of old Hepzibah without apparent alarm, as having heretofore encountered it and found it

"So, my dear Miss Pyncheon," said the daguerreotypist, for it was that sole other occupant of the

sevengabled mansion, "I am glad to see that you have not shrunk from your good purpose. I merely look

in to offer my best wishes, and to ask if I can assist you any further in your preparations."

People in difficulty and distress, or in any manner at odds with the world, can endure a vast amount of harsh

treatment, and perhaps be only the stronger for it; whereas they give way at once before the simplest

expression of what they perceive to be genuine sympathy. So it proved with poor Hepzibah; for, when she

saw the young man's smile,looking so much the brighter on a thoughtful face,and heard his kindly tone,

"Ah, Mr. Holgrave," cried she, as soon as she could speak, "I never can go through with it Never, never,

never I wish I were dead, and in the old family tomb, with all my forefathers! With my father, and my

mother, and my sister. Yes, and with my brother, who had far better find me there than here! The world is too

"Oh, believe me, Miss Hepzibah," said the young man quietly, "these feelings will not trouble you any

longer, after you are once fairly in the midst of your enterprise. They are unavoidable at this moment,

standing, as you do, on the outer verge of your long seclusion, and peopling the world with ugly shapes,

which you will soon find to be as unreal as the giants and ogres of a child's storybook. I find nothing so

singular in life, as that everything appears to lose its substance the instant one actually grapples with it. So it

"But I am a woman!" said Hepzibah piteously. "I was going to say, a lady,but I consider that as past."

"Well; no matter if it be past!" answered the artist, a strange gleam of halfhidden sarcasm flashing through

the kindliness of his manner. "Let it go You are the better without it. I speak frankly, my dear Miss

Pyncheon! for are we not friends? I look upon this as one of the fortunate days of your life. It ends an epoch

and begins one. Hitherto, the lifeblood has been gradually chilling in your veins as you sat aloof, within

your circle of gentility, while the rest of the world was fighting out its battle with one kind of necessity or

another. Henceforth, you will at least have the sense of healthy and natural effort for a purpose, and of

lending your strength be it great or smallto the united struggle of mankind. This is success,all the

"It is natural enough, Mr. Holgrave, that you should have ideas like these," rejoined Hepzibah, drawing up

her gaunt figure with slightly offended dignity. "You are a man, a young man, and brought up, I suppose, as

almost everybody is nowadays, with a view to seeking your fortune. But I was born a lady. and have always

"But I was not born a gentleman; neither have I lived like one," said Holgrave, slightly smiling; "so, my dear

madam, you will hardly expect me to sympathize with sensibilities of this kind; though, unless I deceive

myself, I have some imperfect comprehension of them. These names of gentleman and lady had a meaning,

in the past history of the world, and conferred privileges, desirable or otherwise, on those entitled to bear

them. In the presentand still more in the future condition of societythey imply, not privilege, but

"These are new notions," said the old gentlewoman, shaking her head. "I shall never understand them; neither

"We will cease to speak of them, then," replied the artist, with a friendlier smile than his last one, "and I will

leave you to feel whether it is not better to be a true woman than a lady. Do you really think, Miss Hepzibah,

that any lady of your family has ever done a more heroic thing, since this house was built, than you are

performing in it today? Never; and if the Pyncheons had always acted so nobly, I doubt whether an old

wizard Maule's anathema, of which you told me once, would have had much weight with Providence against

"Ah!no, no!" said Hepzibah, not displeased at this allusion to the sombre dignity of an inherited curse. "If

old Maule's ghost, or a descendant of his, could see me behind the counter today. he would call it the

fulfillment of his worst wishes. But I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Holgrave, and will do my utmost to be

"Pray do" said Holgrave, "and let me have the pleasure of being your first customer. I am about taking a walk

to the seashore, before going to my rooms, where I misuse Heaven's blessed sunshine by tracing out human

features through its agency. A few of those biscuits, dipt in seawater, will be just what I need for breakfast.

"Let me be a lady a moment longer," replied Hepzibah, with a manner of antique stateliness to which a

melancholy smile lent a kind of grace. She put the biscuits into his hand, but rejected the compensation. "A

Pyncheon must not, at all events under her forefathers' roof, receive money for a morsel of bread from her

Holgrave took his departure, leaving her, for the moment, with spirits not quite so much depressed. Soon,

however, they had subsided nearly to their former dead level. With a beating heart, she listened to the

footsteps of early passengers, which now began to be frequent along the street. Once or twice they seemed to

linger; these strangers, or neighbors, as the case might be, were looking at the display of toys and petty

commodities in Hepzibah's shopwindow. She was doubly tortured; in part, with a sense of overwhelming

shame that strange and unloving eyes should have the privilege of gazing, and partly because the idea

occurred to her, with ridiculous importunity, that the window was not arranged so skilfully, nor nearly to so

much advantage, as it might have been. It seemed as if the whole fortune or failure of her shop might depend

on the display of a different set of articles, or substituting a fairer apple for one which appeared to be

specked. So she made the change, and straightway fancied that everything was spoiled by it; not recognizing

that it was the nervousness of the juncture, and her own native squeamishness as an old maid, that wrought all

Anon, there was an encounter, just at the doorstep, betwixt two laboring men, as their rough voices denoted

them to be. After some slight talk about their own affairs, one of them chanced to notice the shopwindow,

"See here!" cried he; "what do you think of this? Trade seems to be looking up in Pyncheon Street!"

"Well, well, this is a sight, to be sure!" exclaimed the other. "In the old Pyncheon House, and underneath the

Pyncheon Elm! Who would have thought it? Old Maid Pyncheon is setting up a centshop!"

"Will she make it go, think you, Dixey;" said his friend. "I don't call it a very good stand. There's another

"Make it go!" cried Dixey, with a most contemptuous expression, as if the very idea were impossible to be

conceived. "Not a bit of it! Why, her faceI've seen it, for I dug her garden for her one yearher face is

enough to frighten the Old Nick himself, if he had ever so great a mind to trade with her. People can't stand it,

I tell you! She scowls dreadfully, reason or none, out of pure ugliness of temper."

"Well, that's not so much matter," remarked the other man. "These sourtempered folks are mostly handy at

business, and know pretty well what they are about. But, as you say, I don't think she'll do much. This

business of keeping centshops is overdone, like all other kinds of trade, handicraft, and bodily labor. I know

it, to my cost! My wife kept a centshop three months, and lost five dollars on her outlay."

"Poor business!" responded Dixey, in a tone as if he were shaking his head,"poor business."

For some reason or other, not very easy to analyze, there had hardly been so bitter a pang in all her previous

misery about the matter as what thrilled Hepzibah's heart on overhearing the above conversation. The

testimony in regard to her scowl was frightfully important; it seemed to hold up her image wholly relieved

from the false light of her selfpartialities, and so hideous that she dared not look at it. She was absurdly hurt,

moreover, by the slight and idle effect that her setting up shopan event of such breathless interest to

herselfappeared to have upon the public, of which these two men were the nearest representatives. A

glance; a passing word or two; a coarse laugh; and she was doubtless forgotten before they turned the corner.

They cared nothing for her dignity, and just as little for her degradation. Then, also, the augury of illsuccess,

uttered from the sure wisdom of experience, fell upon her halfdead hope like a clod into a grave. The man's

wife had already tried the same experiment, and failed! How could the born, lady the recluse of half a

lifetime, utterly unpractised in the world, at sixty years of age,how could she ever dream of succeeding,

when the hard, vulgar, keen, busy, hackneyed New England woman had lost five dollars on her little outlay!

Success presented itself as an impossibility, and the hope of it as a wild hallucination.

Some malevolent spirit, doing his utmost to drive Hepzibah mad, unrolled before her imagination a kind of

panorama, representing the great thoroughfare of a city all astir with customers. So many and so magnificent

shops as there were! Groceries, toyshops, drygoods stores, with their immense panes of plateglass, their

gorgeous fixtures, their vast and complete assortments of merchandise, in which fortunes had been invested;

and those noble mirrors at the farther end of each establishment, doubling all this wealth by a brightly

burnished vista of unrealities! On one side of the street this splendid bazaar, with a multitude of perfumed and

glossy salesmen, smirking, smiling, bowing, and measuring out the goods. On the other, the dusky old House

of the Seven Gables, with the antiquated shopwindow under its projecting story, and Hepzibah herself, in a

gown of rusty black silk, behind the counter, scowling at the world as it went by! This mighty contrast thrust

itself forward as a fair expression of the odds against which she was to begin her struggle for a subsistence.

Success? Preposterous! She would never think of it again! The house might just as well be buried in an

eternal fog while all other houses had the sunshine on them; for not a foot would ever cross the threshold, nor

But, at this instant, the shopbell, right over her head, tinkled as if it were bewitched. The old gentlewoman's

heart seemed to be attached to the same steel spring, for it went through a series of sharp jerks, in unison with

the sound. The door was thrust open, although no human form was perceptible on the other side of the

halfwindow. Hepzibah, nevertheless, stood at a gaze, with her hands clasped, looking very much as if she

had summoned up an evil spirit, and were afraid, yet resolved, to hazard the encounter.

The door, which moved with difficulty on its creaking and rusty hinges, being forced quite open, a square and

sturdy little urchin became apparent, with cheeks as red as an apple. He was clad rather shabbily (but, as it

seemed, more owing to his mother's carelessness than his father's poverty), in a blue apron, very wide and

short trousers, shoes somewhat out at the toes, and a chip hat, with the frizzles of his curly hair sticking

through its crevices. A book and a small slate, under his arm, indicated that he was on his way to school. He

stared at Hepzibah a moment, as an elder customer than himself would have been likely enough to do, not

knowing what to make of the tragic attitude and queer scowl wherewith she regarded him.

"Well, child," said she, taking heart at sight of a personage so little formidable,"well, my child, what did

"That Jim Crow there in the window," answered the urchin, holding out a cent, and pointing to the

gingerbread figure that had attracted his notice, as he loitered along to school; "the one that has not a broken

So Hepzibah put forth her lank arm, and, taking the effigy from the shopwindow, delivered it to her first

"No matter for the money," said she, giving him a little push towards the door; for her old gentility was

contumaciously squeamish at sight of the copper coin, and, besides, it seemed such pitiful meanness to take

the child's pocketmoney in exchange for a bit of stale gingerbread. "No matter for the cent. You are

The child, staring with round eyes at this instance of liberality, wholly unprecedented in his large experience

of centshops, took the man of gingerbread, and quitted the premises. No sooner had he reached the sidewalk

(little cannibal that he was!) than Jim Crow's head was in his mouth. As he had not been careful to shut the

door, Hepzibah was at the pains of closing it after him, with a pettish ejaculation or two about the

troublesomeness of young people, and particularly of small boys. She had just placed another representative

of the renowned Jim Crow at the window, when again the shopbell tinkled clamorously, and again the door

being thrust open, with its characteristic jerk and jar, disclosed the same sturdy little urchin who, precisely

two minutes ago, had made his exit. The crumbs and discoloration of the cannibal feast, as yet hardly

"What is it now, child?" asked the maiden lady rather impatiently; "did you Come back to shut the door?"

"No," answered the urchin, pointing to the figure that had just been put up; "I want that other Jim. Crow"

"Well, here it is for you," said Hepzibah, reaching it down; but recognizing that this pertinacious customer

would not quit her On any other terms, so long as she had a gingerbread figure in her shop, she partly drew

The little boy had the cent ready, but, like a trueborn Yankee, would have preferred the better bargain to the

worse. Looking somewhat chagrined, he put the coin into Hepzibah's hand, and departed, sending the second

Jim Crow in quest of the former one. The new shopkeeper dropped the first solid result of her commercial

enterprise into the till. It was done! The sordid stain of that copper coin could never be washed away from her

palm. The little schoolboy, aided by the impish figure of the negro dancer, had wrought an irreparable ruin.

The structure of ancient aristocracy had been demolished by him, even as if his childish gripe had torn down

the sevengabled mansion. Now let Hepzibah turn the old Pyncheon portraits with their faces to the wall, and

take the map of her Eastern territory to kindle the kitchen fire, and blow up the flame with the empty breath

of her ancestral traditions! What had she to do with ancestry? Nothing; no more than with posterity! No lady,

now, but simply Hepzibah Pyncheon, a forlorn old maid, and keeper of a centshop!

Nevertheless, even while she paraded these ideas somewhat ostentatiously through her mind, it is altogether

surprising what a calmness had come over her. The anxiety and misgivings which had tormented her, whether

asleep or in melancholy daydreams, ever since her project began to take an aspect of solidity, had now

vanished quite away. She felt the novelty of her position, indeed, but no longer with disturbance or affright.

Now and then, there came a thrill of almost youthful enjoyment. It was the invigorating breath of a fresh

outward atmosphere, after the long torpor and monotonous seclusion of her life. So wholesome is effort! So

miraculous the strength that we do not know of! The healthiest glow that Hepzibah had known for years had

come now in the dreaded crisis, when, for the first time, she had put forth her hand to help herself. The little

circlet of the schoolboy's copper coindim and lustreless though it was, with the small services which it had

been doing here and there about the world had proved a talisman, fragrant with good, and deserving to be

set in gold and worn next her heart. It was as potent, and perhaps endowed with the same kind of efficacy, as

a galvanic ring! Hepzibah, at all events, was indebted to its subtile operation both in body and spirit; so much

the more, as it inspired her with energy to get some breakfast, at which, still the better to keep up her courage,

Her introductory day of shopkeeping did not run on, however, without many and serious interruptions of

this mood of cheerful vigor. As a general rule, Providence seldom vouchsafes to mortals any more than just

that degree of encouragement which suffices to keep them at a reasonably full exertion of their powers. In the

case of our old gentlewoman, after the excitement of new effort had subsided, the despondency of her whole

life threatened, ever and anon, to return. It was like the heavy mass of clouds which we may often see

obscuring the sky, and making a gray twilight everywhere, until, towards nightfall, it yields temporarily to a

glimpse of sunshine. But, always, the envious cloud strives to gather again across the streak of celestial azure.

Customers came in, as the forenoon advanced, but rather slowly; in some cases, too, it must be owned, with

little satisfaction either to themselves or Miss Hepzibah; nor, on the whole, with an aggregate of very rich

emolument to the till. A little girl, sent by her mother to match a skein of cotton thread, of a peculiar hue,

took one that the nearsighted old lady pronounced extremely like, but soon came running back, with a blunt

and cross message, that it would not do, and, besides, was very rotten! Then, there was a pale, carewrinkled

woman, not old but haggard, and already with streaks of gray among her hair, like silver ribbons; one of those

women, naturally delicate, whom you at once recognize as worn to death by a bruteprobably a drunken

bruteof a husband, and at least nine children. She wanted a few pounds of flour, and offered the money,

which the decayed gentlewoman silently rejected, and gave the poor soul better measure than if she had taken

it. Shortly afterwards, a man in a blue cotton frock, much soiled, came in and bought a pipe, filling the whole

shop, meanwhile, with the hot odor of strong drink, not only exhaled in the torrid atmosphere of his breath,

but oozing out of his entire system, like an inflammable gas. It was impressed on Hepzibah's mind that this

was the husband of the carewrinkled woman. He asked for a paper of tobacco; and as she had neglected to

provide herself with the article, her brutal customer dashed down his newlybought pipe and left the shop,

muttering some unintelligible words, which had the tone and bitterness of a curse. Hereupon Hepzibah threw

No less than five persons, during the forenoon, inquired for gingerbeer, or rootbeer, or any drink of a

similar brewage, and, obtaining nothing of the kind, went off in an exceedingly bad humor. Three of them left

the door open, and the other two pulled it so spitefully in going out that the little bell played the very deuce

with Hepzibah's nerves. A round, bustling, fireruddy housewife of the neighborhood burst breathless into

the shop, fiercely demanding yeast; and when the poor gentlewoman, with her cold shyness of manner, gave

her hot customer to understand that she did not keep the article, this very capable housewife took upon herself

"A centshop, and No yeast!" quoth she; "that will never do! Who ever heard of such a thing? Your loaf will

Several times, moreover, besides the above instance, her ladylike sensibilities were seriously infringed upon

by the familiar, if not rude, tone with which people addressed her. They evidently considered themselves not

merely her equals, but her patrons and superiors. Now, Hepzibah had unconsciously flattered herself with the

idea that there would be a gleam or halo, of some kind or other, about her person, which would insure an

obeisance to her sterling gentility, or, at least, a tacit recognition of it. On the other hand, nothing tortured her

more intolerably than when this recognition was too prominently expressed. To one or two rather officious

offers of sympathy, her responses were little short of acrimonious; and, we regret to say, Hepzibah was

thrown into a positively unchristian state of mind by the suspicion that one of her customers was drawn to the

shop, not by any real need of the article which she pretended to seek, but by a wicked wish to stare at her.

The vulgar creature was determined to see for herself what sort of a figure a mildewed piece of aristocracy,

after wasting all the bloom and much of the decline of her life apart from the world, would cut behind a

counter. In this particular case, however mechanical and innocuous it might be at other times, Hepzibah's

"I never was so frightened in my life!" said the curious customer, in describing the incident to one of her

acquaintances. "She's a real old vixen, take my word of it! She says little, to be sure; but if you could only see

On the whole, therefore, her new experience led our decayed gentlewoman to very disagreeable conclusions

as to the temper and manners of what she termed the lower classes, whom heretofore she had looked down

upon with a gentle and pitying complaisance, as herself occupying a sphere of unquestionable superiority.

But, unfortunately, she had likewise to struggle against a bitter emotion of a directly opposite kind: a

sentiment of virulence, we mean, towards the idle aristocracy to which it had so recently been her pride to

belong. When a lady, in a delicate and costly summer garb, with a floating veil and gracefully swaying gown,

and, altogether, an ethereal lightness that made you look at her beautifully slippered feet, to see whether she

trod on the dust or floated in the air,when such a vision happened to pass through this retired street,

leaving it tenderly and delusively fragrant with her passage, as if a bouquet of tearoses had been borne

along, then again, it is to be feared, old Hepzibah's scowl could no longer vindicate itself entirely on the

"For what end," thought she, giving vent to that feeling of hostility which is the only real abasement of the

poor in presence of the rich,"for what good end, in the wisdom of Providence, does that woman live? Must

the whole world toil, that the palms of her hands may be kept white and delicate?"

Doubtless, God did forgive her. But, taking the inward and outward history of the first halfday into

consideration, Hepzibah began to fear that the shop would prove her ruin in a moral and religious point of

TOWARDS noon, Hepzibah saw an elderly gentleman, large and portly, and of remarkably dignified

demeanor, passing slowly along on the opposite side of the white and dusty street. On coming within the

shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, he stopt, and (taking off his hat, meanwhile, to wipe the perspiration from his

brow) seemed to scrutinize, with especial interest, the dilapidated and rustyvisaged House of the Seven

Gables. He himself, in a very different style, was as well worth looking at as the house. No better model need

be sought, nor could have been found, of a very high order of respectability, which, by some indescribable

magic, not merely expressed itself in his looks and gestures, but even governed the fashion of his garments,

and rendered them all proper and essential to the man. Without appearing to differ, in any tangible way, from

other people's clothes, there was yet a wide and rich gravity about them that must have been a characteristic

of the wearer, since it could not be defined as pertaining either to the cut or material. His goldheaded cane,

too,a serviceable staff, of dark polished wood,had similar traits, and, had it chosen to take a walk by

itself, would have been recognized anywhere as a tolerably adequate representative of its master. This

character which showed itself so strikingly in everything about him, and the effect of which we seek to

convey to the readerwent no deeper than his station, habits of life, and external circumstances. One

perceived him to be a personage of marked influence and authority; and, especially, you could feel just as

certain that he was opulent as if he had exhibited his bank account, or as if you had seen him touching the

In his youth, he had probably been considered a handsome man; at his present age, his brow was too heavy,

his temples too bare, his remaining hair too gray, his eye too cold, his lips too closely compressed, to bear

any relation to mere personal beauty. He would have made a good and massive portrait; better now, perhaps,

than at any previous period of his life, although his look might grow positively harsh in the process of being

fixed upon the canvas. The artist would have found it desirable to study his face, and prove its capacity for

While the elderly gentleman stood looking at the Pyncheon House, both the frown and the smile passed

successively over his countenance. His eye rested on the shopwindow, and putting up a pair of goldbowed

spectacles, which he held in his hand, he minutely surveyed Hepzibah's little arrangement of toys and

commodities. At first it seemed not to please him,nay, to cause him exceeding displeasure,and yet, the

very next moment, he smiled. While the latter expression was yet on his lips, he caught a glimpse of

Hepzibah, who had involuntarily bent forward to the window; and then the smile changed from acrid and

disagreeable to the sunniest complacency and benevolence. He bowed, with a happy mixture of dignity and

"There he is!" said Hepzibah to herself, gulping down a very bitter emotion, and, since she could not rid

herself of it, trying to drive it back into her heart. "What does he think of it, I wonder? Does it please him?

The gentleman had paused in the street, and turned himself half about, still with his eyes fixed on the

shopwindow. In fact, he wheeled wholly round, and commenced a step or two, as if designing to enter the

shop; but, as it chanced, his purpose was anticipated by Hepzibah's first customer, the little cannibal of Jim

Crow, who, staring up at the window, was irresistibly attracted by an elephant of gingerbread. What a grand

appetite had this small urchin! Two Jim Crows immediately after breakfast!and now an elephant, as a

preliminary whet before dinner. By the time this latter purchase was completed, the elderly gentleman had

"Take it as you like, Cousin Jaffrey." muttered the maiden lady, as she drew back, after cautiously thrusting

out her head, and looking up and down the street,"Take it as you like! You have seen my little

shopwindow. Well!what have you to say?is not the Pyncheon House my own, while I'm alive?"

After this incident, Hepzibah retreated to the back parlor, where she at first caught up a halffinished

stocking, and began knitting at it with nervous and irregular jerks; but quickly finding herself at odds with the

stitches, she threw it aside, and walked hurriedly about the room. At length she paused before the portrait of

the stern old Puritan, her ancestor, and the founder of the house. In one sense, this picture had almost faded

into the canvas, and hidden itself behind the duskiness of age; in another, she could not but fancy that it had

been growing more prominent and strikingly expressive, ever since her earliest familiarity with it as a child.

For, while the physical outline and substance were darkening away from the beholder's eye, the bold, hard,

and, at the same time, indirect character of the man seemed to be brought out in a kind of spiritual relief.

Such an effect may occasionally be observed in pictures of antique date. They acquire a look which an artist

(if he have anything like the complacency of artists nowadays) would never dream of presenting to a patron

as his own characteristic expression, but which, nevertheless, we at once recognize as reflecting the unlovely

truth of a human soul. In such cases, the painter's deep conception of his subject's inward traits has wrought

itself into the essence of the picture, and is seen after the superficial coloring has been rubbed off by time.

While gazing at the portrait, Hepzibah trembled under its eye. Her hereditary reverence made her afraid to

judge the character of the original so harshly as a perception of the truth compelled her to do. But still she

gazed, because the face of the picture enabled herat least, she fancied soto read more accurately, and to

"This is the very man!" murmured she to herself. "Let Jaffrey Pyncheon smile as he will, there is that look

beneath! Put on him a skullcap, and a band, and a black cloak, and a Bible in one hand and a sword in the

other,then let Jaffrey smile as he might,nobody would doubt that it was the old Pyncheon come again.

He has proved himself the very man to build up a new house! Perhaps, too, to draw down a new curse!"

Thus did Hepzibah bewilder herself with these fantasies of the old time. She had dwelt too much alone,too

long in the Pyncheon House, until her very brain was impregnated with the dryrot of its timbers. She

By the spell of contrast, another portrait rose up before her, painted with more daring flattery than any artist

would have ventured upon, but yet so delicately touched that the likeness remained perfect. Malbone's

miniature, though from the same original, was far inferior to Hepzibah's airdrawn picture, at which affection

and sorrowful remembrance wrought together. Soft, mildly, and cheerfully contemplative, with full, red lips,

just on the verge of a smile, which the eyes seemed to herald by a gentle kindlingup of their orbs! Feminine

traits, moulded inseparably with those of the other sex! The miniature, likewise, had this last peculiarity; so

that you inevitably thought of the original as resembling his mother, and she a lovely and lovable woman,

with perhaps some beautiful infirmity of character, that made it all the pleasanter to know and easier to love

"Yes," thought Hepzibah, with grief of which it was only the more tolerable portion that welled up from her

heart to her eyelids, "they persecuted his mother in him! He never was a Pyncheon!"

But here the shopbell rang; it was like a sound from a remote distance,so far had Hepzibah descended

into the sepulchral depths of her reminiscences. On entering the shop, she found an old man there, a humble

resident of Pyncheon Street, and whom, for a great many years past, she had suffered to be a kind of familiar

of the house. He was an immemorial personage, who seemed always to have had a white head and wrinkles,

and never to have possessed but a single tooth, and that a halfdecayed one, in the front of the upper jaw.

Well advanced as Hepzibah was, she could not remember when Uncle Venner, as the neighborhood called

him, had not gone up and down the street, stooping a little and drawing his feet heavily over the gravel or

pavement. But still there was something tough and vigorous about him, that not only kept him in daily breath,

but enabled him to fill a place which would else have been vacant in the apparently crowded world. To go of

errands with his slow and shuffling gait, which made you doubt how he ever was to arrive anywhere; to saw a

small household's foot or two of firewood, or knock to pieces an old barrel, or split up a pine board for

kindlingstuff; in summer, to dig the few yards of garden ground appertaining to a lowrented tenement, and

share the produce of his labor at the halves; in winter, to shovel away the snow from the sidewalk, or open

paths to the woodshed, or along the clothesline; such were some of the essential offices which Uncle Venner

performed among at least a score of families. Within that circle, he claimed the same sort of privilege, and

probably felt as much warmth of interest, as a clergyman does in the range of his parishioners. Not that he

laid claim to the tithe pig; but, as an analogous mode of reverence, he went his rounds, every morning, to

gather up the crumbs of the table and overflowings of the dinnerpot, as food for a pig of his own.

In his younger daysfor, after all, there was a dim tradition that he had been, not young, but

youngerUncle Venner was commonly regarded as rather deficient, than otherwise, in his wits. In truth he

had virtually pleaded guilty to the charge, by scarcely aiming at such success as other men seek, and by

taking only that humble and modest part in the intercourse of life which belongs to the alleged deficiency.

But now, in his extreme old age,whether it were that his long and hard experience had actually brightened

him, or that his decaying judgment rendered him less capable of fairly measuring himself,the venerable

man made pretensions to no little wisdom, and really enjoyed the credit of it. There was likewise, at times, a

vein of something like poetry in him; it was the moss or wallflower of his mind in its small dilapidation, and

gave a charm to what might have been vulgar and commonplace in his earlier and middle life. Hepzibah had

a regard for him, because his name was ancient in the town and had formerly been respectable. It was a still

better reason for awarding him a species of familiar reverence that Uncle Venner was himself the most

ancient existence, whether of man or thing, in Pyncheon Street, except the House of the Seven Gables, and

This patriarch now presented himself before Hepzibah, clad in an old blue coat, which had a fashionable air,

and must have accrued to him from the castoff wardrobe of some dashing clerk. As for his trousers, they

were of towcloth, very short in the legs, and bagging down strangely in the rear, but yet having a

suitableness to his figure which his other garment entirely lacked. His hat had relation to no other part of his

dress, and but very little to the head that wore it. Thus Uncle Venner was a miscellaneous old gentleman,

partly himself, but, in good measure, somebody else; patched together, too, of different epochs; an epitome of

"So, you have really begun trade," said he," really begun trade! Well, I'm glad to see it. Young people

should never live idle in the world, nor old ones neither, unless when the rheumatize gets hold of them. It has

given me warning already; and in two or three years longer, I shall think of putting aside business and retiring

to my farm. That's yonder,the great brick house, you know,the workhouse, most folks call it; but I mean

to do my work first, and go there to be idle and enjoy myself. And I'm glad to see you beginning to do your

"Thank you, Uncle Venner" said Hepzibah, smiling; for she always felt kindly towards the simple and

talkative old man. Had he been an old woman, she might probably have repelled the freedom, which she now

took in good part. "It is time for me to begin work, indeed! Or, to speak the truth, I have just begun when I

"Oh, never say that, Miss Hepzibah!" answered the old man. "You are a young woman yet. Why, I hardly

thought myself younger than I am now, it seems so little while ago since I used to see you playing about the

door of the old house, quite a small child! Oftener, though, you used to be sitting at the threshold, and looking

gravely into the street; for you had always a grave kind of way with you,a grownup air, when you were

only the height of my knee. It seems as if I saw you now; and your grandfather with his red cloak, and his

white wig, and his cocked hat, and his cane, coming out of the house, and stepping so grandly up the street!

Those old gentlemen that grew up before the Revolution used to put on grand airs. In my young days, the

great man of the town was commonly called King; and his wife, not Queen to be sure, but Lady. Nowadays, a

man would not dare to be called King; and if he feels himself a little above common folks, he only stoops so

much the lower to them. I met your cousin, the Judge, ten minutes ago; and, in my old towcloth trousers, as

you see, the Judge raised his hat to me, I do believe! At any rate, the Judge bowed and smiled!"

"Yes," said Hepzibah, with something bitter stealing unawares into her tone; "my cousin Jaffrey is thought to

"And so he has" replied Uncle Venner. "And that's rather remarkable in a Pyncheon; for, begging your

pardon, Miss Hepzibah, they never had the name of being an easy and agreeable set of folks. There was no

getting close to them. But Now, Miss Hepzibah, if an old man may be bold to ask, why don't Judge

Pyncheon, with his great means, step forward, and tell his cousin to shut up her little shop at once? It's for

your credit to be doing something, but it's not for the Judge's credit to let you!"

"We won't talk of this, if you please, Uncle Venner," said Hepzibah coldly. "I ought to say, however, that, if I

choose to earn bread for myself, it is not Judge Pyncheon's fault. Neither will he deserve the blame," added

she more kindly, remembering Uncle Venner's privileges of age and humble familiarity, "if I should, by and

"And it's no bad place, either, that farm of mine!" cried the old man cheerily, as if there were something

positively delightful in the prospect. "No bad place is the great brick farmhouse, especially for them that

will find a good many old cronies there, as will be my case. I quite long to be among them, sometimes, of the

winter evenings; for it is but dull business for a lonesome elderly man, like me, to be nodding, by the hour

together, with no company but his airtight stove. Summer or winter, there's a great deal to be said in favor of

my farm! And, take it in the autumn, what can be pleasanter than to spend a whole day on the sunny side of a

barn or a woodpile, chatting with somebody as old as one's self; or, perhaps, idling away the time with a

naturalborn simpleton, who knows how to be idle, because even our busy Yankees never have found out

how to put him to any use? Upon my word, Miss Hepzibah, I doubt whether I've ever been so comfortable as

I mean to be at my farm, which most folks call the workhouse. But you,you're a young woman yet,you

never need go there! Something still better will turn up for you. I'm sure of it!"

Hepzibah fancied that there was something peculiar in her venerable friend's look and tone; insomuch, that

she gazed into his face with considerable earnestness, endeavoring to discover what secret meaning, if any,

might be lurking there. Individuals whose affairs have reached an utterly desperate crisis almost invariably

keep themselves alive with hopes, so much the more airily magnificent as they have the less of solid matter

within their grasp whereof to mould any judicious and moderate expectation of good. Thus, all the while

Hepzibah was perfecting the scheme of her little shop, she had cherished an unacknowledged idea that some

harlequin trick of fortune would intervene in her favor. For example, an unclewho had sailed for India fifty

years before, and never been heard of sincemight yet return, and adopt her to be the comfort of his very

extreme and decrepit age, and adorn her with pearls, diamonds, and Oriental shawls and turbans, and make

her the ultimate heiress of his unreckonable riches. Or the member of Parliament, now at the head of the

English branch of the family, with which the elder stock, on this side of the Atlantic, had held little or no

intercourse for the last two centuries,this eminent gentleman might invite Hepzibah to quit the ruinous

House of the Seven Gables, and come over to dwell with her kindred at Pyncheon Hall. But, for reasons the

most imperative, she could not yield to his request. It was more probable, therefore, that the descendants of a

Pyncheon who had emigrated to Virginia, in some past generation, and became a great planter

there,hearing of Hepzibah's destitution, and impelled by the splendid generosity of character with which

their Virginian mixture must have enriched the New England blood,would send her a remittance of a

thousand dollars, with a hint of repeating the favor annually. Or,and, surely, anything so undeniably just

could not be beyond the limits of reasonable anticipation,the great claim to the heritage of Waldo County

might finally be decided in favor of the Pyncheons; so that, instead of keeping a centshop, Hepzibah would

build a palace, and look down from its highest tower on hill, dale, forest, field, and town, as her own share of

These were some of the fantasies which she had long dreamed about; and, aided by these, Uncle Venner's

casual attempt at encouragement kindled a strange festal glory in the poor, bare, melancholy chambers of her

brain, as if that inner world were suddenly lighted up with gas. But either he knew nothing of her castles in

the air,as how should he? or else her earnest scowl disturbed his recollection, as it might a more

courageous man's. Instead of pursuing any weightier topic, Uncle Venner was pleased to favor Hepzibah with

"Give no credit!"these were some of his goldenmxims,"Never take papermoney. Look well to your

change! Ring the silver on the fourpound weight! Shove back all English halfpence and base copper

tokens, such as are very plenty about town! At your leisure hours, knit children's woollen socks and mittens!

And while Hepzibah was doing her utmost to digest the hard little pellets of his already uttered wisdom, he

gave vent to his final, and what he declared to be his allimportant advice, as follows:

"Put on a bright face for your customers, and smile pleasantly as you hand them what they ask for! A stale

article, if you dip it in a good, warm, sunny smile, will go off better than a fresh one that you've scowled

To this last apothegm poor Hepzibah responded with a sigh so deep and heavy that it almost rustled Uncle

Venner quite away, like a withered leaf,as he was,before an autumnal gale. Recovering himself,

however, he bent forward, and, with a good deal of feeling in his ancient visage, beckoned her nearer to him.

"Ah? you don't love to talk about it," said Uncle Venner. "Well, well! we'll say no more, though there's word

During the remainder of the day, poor Hepzibah acquitted herself even less creditably, as a shopkeeper, than

in her earlier efforts. She appeared to be walking in a dream; or, more truly, the vivid life and reality assumed

by her emotions made all outward occurrences unsubstantial, like the teasing phantasms of a halfconscious

slumber. She still responded, mechanically, to the frequent summons of the shopbell, and, at the demand of

her customers, went prying with vague eyes about the shop, proffering them one article after another, and

thrusting aside perversely, as most of them supposedthe identical thing they asked for. There is sad

confusion, indeed, when the spirit thus flits away into the past, or into the more awful future, or, in any

manner, steps across the spaceless boundary betwixt its own region and the actual world; where the body

remains to guide itself as best it may, with little more than the mechanism of animal life. It is like death,

without death's quiet privilege, its freedom from mortal care. Worst of all, when the actual duties are

comprised in such petty details as now vexed the brooding soul of the old gentlewoman. As the animosity of

fate would have it, there was a great influx of custom in the course of the afternoon. Hepzibah blundered to

and fro about her small place of business, committing the most unheardof errors: now stringing up twelve,

and now seven, tallowcandles, instead of ten to the pound; selling ginger for Scotch snuff, pins for needles,

and needles for pins; misreckoning her change, sometimes to the public detriment, and much oftener to her

own; and thus she went on, doing her utmost to bring chaos back again, until, at the close of the day's labor,

to her inexplicable astonishment, she found the moneydrawer almost destitute of coin. After all her painful

traffic, the whole proceeds were perhaps half a dozen coppers, and a questionable ninepence which ultimately

At this price, or at whatever price, she rejoiced that the day had reached its end. Never before had she had

such a sense of the intolerable length of time that creeps between dawn and sunset, and of the miserable

irksomeness of having aught to do, and of the better wisdom that it would be to lie down at once, in sullen

resignation, and let life, and its toils and vexations, trample over one's prostrate body as they may! Hepzibah's

final operation was with the little devourer of Jim Crow and the elephant, who now proposed to eat a camel.

In her bewilderment, she offered him first a wooden dragoon, and next a handful of marbles; neither of which

being adapted to his else omnivorous appetite, she hastily held out her whole remaining stock of natural

history in gingerbread, and huddled the small customer out of the shop. She then muffled the bell in an

During the latter process, an omnibus came to a standstill under the branches of the elmtree. Hepzibah's

heart was in her mouth. Remote and dusky, and with no sunshine on all the intervening space, was that region

of the Past whence her only guest might be expected to arrive! Was she to meet him. now?

Somebody, at all events, was passing from the farthest interior of the omnibus towards its entrance. A

gentleman alighted; but it was only to offer his hand to a young girl whose slender figure, nowise needing

such assistance, now lightly descended the steps, and made an airy little jump from the final one to the

sidewalk. She rewarded her cavalier with a smile, the cheery glow of which was seen reflected on his own

face as he reentered the vehicle. The girl then turned towards the House of the Seven Gables, to the door of

which, meanwhile,not the shopdoor, but the antique portal,the omnibusman had carried a light trunk

and a bandbox. First giving a sharp rap of the old iron knocker, he left his passenger and her luggage at the

"Who can it be?" thought Hepzibah, who had been screwing her visual organs into the acutest focus of which

they were capable. "The girl must have mistaken the house." She stole softly into the hall, and, herself

invisible, gazed through the dusty sidelights of the portal at the young, blooming, and very cheerful face

which presented itself for admittance into the gloomy old mansion. It was a face to which almost any door

The young girl, so fresh, so unconventional, and yet so orderly and obedient to common rules, as you at once

recognized her to be, was widely in contrast, at that moment, with everything about her. The sordid and ugly

luxuriance of gigantic weeds that grew in the angle of the house, and the heavy projection that overshadowed

her, and the timeworn framework of the door,none of these things belonged to her sphere. But, even as a

ray of sunshine, fall into what dismal place it may, instantaneously creates for itself a propriety in being there,

so did it seem altogether fit that the girl should be standing at the threshold. It was no less evidently proper

that the door should swing open to admit her. The maiden lady herself, sternly inhospitable in her first

purposes, soon began to feel that the door ought to be shoved back, and the rusty key be turned in the

"Can it be Phoebe?" questioned she within herself. "It must be little Phoebe; for it can be nobody else,and

there is a look of her father about her, too! But what does she want here? And how like a country cousin, to

come down upon a poor body in this way, without so much as a day's notice, or asking whether she would be

welcome! Well; she must have a night's lodging, I suppose; and tomorrow the child shall go back to her

Phoebe, it must be understood, was that one little offshoot of the Pyncheon race to whom we have already

referred, as a native of a rural part of New England, where the old fashions and feelings of relationship are

still partially kept up. In her own circle, it was regarded as by no means improper for kinsfolk to visit one

another without invitation, or preliminary and ceremonious warning. Yet, in consideration of Miss Hepzibah's

recluse way of life, a letter had actually been written and despatched, conveying information of Phoebe's

projected visit. This epistle, for three or four days past, had been in the pocket of the pennypostman, who,

happening to have no other business in Pyncheon Street, had not yet made it convenient to call at the House

"Noshe can stay only one night," said Hepzibah, unbolting the door. "If Clifford were to find her here, it

PHOEBE PYNCHEON slept, on the night of her arrival, in a chamber that looked down on the garden of the

old house. It fronted towards the east, so that at a very seasonable hour a glow of crimson light came flooding

through the window, and bathed the dingy ceiling and paperhangings in its own hue. There were curtains to

Phoebe's bed; a dark, antique canopy, and ponderous festoons of a stuff which had been rich, and even

magnificent, in its time; but which now brooded over the girl like a cloud, making a night in that one corner,

while elsewhere it was beginning to be day. The morning light, however, soon stole into the aperture at the

foot of the bed, betwixt those faded curtains. Finding the new guest there,with a bloom on her cheeks like

the morning's own, and a gentle stir of departing slumber in her limbs, as when an early breeze moves the

foliage, the dawn kissed her brow. It was the caress which a dewy maidensuch as the Dawn is,

immortallygives to her sleeping sister, partly from the impulse of irresistible fondness, and partly as a

At the touch of those lips of light, Phoebe quietly awoke, and, for a moment, did not recognize where she

was, nor how those heavy curtains chanced to be festooned around her. Nothing, indeed, was absolutely plain

to her, except that it was now early morning, and that, whatever might happen next, it was proper, first of all,

to get up and say her prayers. She was the more inclined to devotion from the grim aspect of the chamber and

its furniture, especially the tall, stiff chairs; one of which stood close by her bedside, and looked as if some

oldfashioned personage had been sitting there all night, and had vanished only just in season to escape

When Phoebe was quite dressed, she peeped out of the window, and saw a rosebush in the garden. Being a

very tall one, and of luxuriant growth, it had been propped up against the side of the house, and was literally

covered with a rare and very beautiful species of white rose. A large portion of them, as the girl afterwards

discovered, had blight or mildew at their hearts; but, viewed at a fair distance, the whole rosebush looked as

if it had been brought from Eden that very summer, together with the mould in which it grew. The truth was,

nevertheless, that it had been planted by Alice Pyncheon,she was Phoebe's greatgreatgrandaunt, in

soil which, reckoning only its cultivation as a gardenplat, was now unctuous with nearly two hundred years

of vegetable decay. Growing as they did, however, out of the old earth, the flowers still sent a fresh and sweet

incense up to their Creator; nor could it have been the less pure and acceptable because Phoebe's young

breath mingled with it, as the fragrance floated past the window. Hastening down the creaking and carpetless

staircase, she found her way into the garden, gathered some of the most perfect of the roses, and brought

Little Phoebe was one of those persons who possess, as their exclusive patrimony, the gift of practical

arrangement. It is a kind of natural magic that enables these favored ones to bring out the hidden capabilities

of things around them; and particularly to give a look of comfort and habitableness to any place which, for

however brief a period, may happen to be their home. A wild hut of underbrush, tossed together by wayfarers

through the primitive forest, would acquire the home aspect by one night's lodging of such a woman, and

would retain it long after her quiet figure had disappeared into the surrounding shade. No less a portion of

such homely witchcraft was requisite to reclaim, as it were, Phoebe's waste, cheerless, and dusky chamber,

which had been untenanted so longexcept by spiders, and mice, and rats, and ghoststhat it was all

overgrown with the desolation which watches to obliterate every trace of man's happier hours. What was

precisely Phoebe's process we find it impossible to say. She appeared to have no preliminary design, but gave

a touch here and another there; brought some articles of furniture to light and dragged others into the shadow;

looped up or let down a windowcurtain; and, in the course of half an hour, had fully succeeded in throwing

a kindly and hospitable smile over the apartment. N o longer ago than the night before, it had resembled

nothing so much as the old maid's heart; for there was neither sunshine nor household fire in one nor the

other, and, Save for ghosts and ghostly reminiscences, not a guest, for many years gone by, had entered the

There was still another peculiarity of this inscrutable charm. The bedchamber, No doubt, was a chamber of

very great and varied experience, as a scene of human life: the joy of bridal nights had throbbed itself away

here; new immortals had first drawn earthly breath here; and here old people had died. Butwhether it were

the white roses, or whatever the subtile influence might bea person of delicate instinct would have known

at once that it was now a maiden's bedchamber, and had been purified of all former evil and sorrow by her

sweet breath and happy thoughts. Her dreams of the past night, being such cheerful ones, had exorcised the

After arranging matters to her satisfaction, Phoebe emerged from her chamber, with a purpose to descend

again into the garden. Besides the rosebush, she had observed several other species of flowers growing there

in a wilderness of neglect, and obstructing one another's development (as is often the parallel case in human

society) by their uneducated entanglement and confusion. At the head of the stairs, however, she met

Hepzibah, who, it being still early, invited her into a room which she would probably have called her boudoir,

had her education embraced any such French phrase. It was strewn about with a few old books, and a

workbasket, and a dusty writingdesk; and had, on one side, a large black article of furniture, of very

strange appearance, which the old gentlewoman told Phoebe was a harpsichord. It looked more like a coffin

than anything else; and, indeed,not having been played upon, or opened, for years,there must have been

a vast deal of dead music in it, stifled for want of air. Human finger was hardly known to have touched its

chords since the days of Alice Pyncheon, who had learned the sweet accomplishment of melody in Europe.

Hepzibah bade her young guest sit down, and, herself taking a chair near by, looked as earnestly at Phoebe's

trim little figure as if she expected to see right into its springs and motive secrets.

"Cousin Phoebe," said she, at last, "I really can't see my way clear to keep you with me."

These words, however, had not the inhospitable bluntness with which they may strike the reader; for the two

relatives, in a talk before bedtime, had arrived at a certain degree of mutual understanding. Hepzibah knew

enough to enable her to appreciate the circumstances (resulting from the second marriage of the girl's mother)

which made it desirable for Phoebe to establish herself in another home. Nor did she misinterpret Phoebe's

character, and the genial activity pervading it,one of the most valuable traits of the true New England

woman,which had impelled her forth, as might be said, to seek her fortune, but with a selfrespecting

purpose to confer as much benefit as she could anywise receive. As one of her nearest kindred, she had

naturally betaken herself to Hepzibah, with no idea of forcing herself on her cousin's protection, but only for

a visit of a week or two, which might be indefinitely extended, should it prove for the happiness of both.

To Hepzibah's blunt observation, therefore, Phoebe replied as frankly, and more cheerfully.

"Dear cousin, I cannot tell how it will be," said she. "But I really think we may suit one another much better

"You are a nice girl,I see it plainly," continued Hepzibah; "and it is not any question as to that point which

makes me hesitate. But, Phoebe, this house of mine is but a melancholy place for a young person to be in. It

lets in the wind and rain, and the Snow, too, in the garret and upper chambers, in wintertime, but it never

lets in the sunshine. And as for myself, you see what I am,a dismal and lonesome old woman (for I begin

to call myself old, Phoebe), whose temper, I am afraid, is none of the best, and whose spirits are as bad as can

be I cannot make your life pleasant, Cousin Phoebe, neither can I so much as give you bread to eat."

"You will find me a cheerful little, body" answered Phoebe, smiling, and yet with a kind of gentle dignity.

"and I mean to earn my bread. You know I have not been brought up a Pyncheon. A girl learns many things

"Ah! Phoebe," said Hepzibah, sighing, "your knowledge would do but little for you here! And then it is a

wretched thought that you should fling away your young days in a place like this. Those cheeks would not be

so rosy after a month or two. Look at my face!"and, indeed, the contrast was very striking,"you see how

pale I am! It is my idea that the dust and continual decay of these old houses are unwholesome for the lungs."

"There is the garden,the flowers to be taken care of," observed Phoebe. "I should keep myself healthy with

"And, after all, child," exclaimed Hepzibah, suddenly rising, as if to dismiss the subject, "it is not for me to

say who shall be a guest or inhabitant of the old Pyncheon House. Its master is coming."

"Judge Pyncheon!" answered her cousin angrily. "He will hardly cross the threshold while I live! No, no! But,

She went in quest of the miniature already described, and returned with it in her hand. Giving it to Phoebe,

she watched her features narrowly, and with a certain jealousy as to the mode in which the girl would show

"It is handsome!it is very beautiful!" said Phoebe admiringly. "It is as sweet a face as a man's can be, or

ought to be. It has something of a child's expression,and yet not childish,only one feels so very kindly

towards him! He ought never to suffer anything. One would bear much for the sake of sparing him toil or

"Did you never hear," whispered her cousin, bending towards her, "of Clifford Pyncheon?"

"Never. I thought there were no Pyncheons left, except yourself and our cousin Jaffrey," answered Phoebe.

"And yet I seem to have heard the name of Clifford Pyncheon. Yes!from my father or my mother. but has

"Well, well, child, perhaps he has!" said Hepzibah with a sad, hollow laugh; "but, in old houses like this, you

know, dead people are very apt to come back again! We shall see. And, Cousin Phoebe, since, after all that I

have said, your courage does not fail you, we will not part so soon. You are welcome, my child, for the

With this measured, but not exactly cold assurance of a hospitable purpose, Hepzibah kissed her cheek.

They now went below stairs, where Phoebenot so much assuming the office as attracting it to herself, by

the magnetism of innate fitnesstook the most active part in preparing breakfast. The mistress of the house,

meanwhile, as is usual with persons of her stiff and unmalleable cast, stood mostly aside; willing to lend her

aid, yet conscious that her natural inaptitude would be likely to impede the business in hand. Phoebe and the

fire that boiled the teakettle were equally bright, cheerful, and efficient, in their respective offices. Hepzibah

gazed forth from her habitual sluggishness, the necessary result of long solitude, as from another sphere. She

could not help being interested, however, and even amused, at the readiness with which her new inmate

adapted herself to the circumstances, and brought the house, moreover, and all its rusty old appliances, into a

suitableness for her purposes. Whatever she did, too, was done without conscious effort, and with frequent

outbreaks of song, which were exceedingly pleasant to the ear. This natural tunefulness made Phoebe seem

like a bird in a shadowy tree; or conveyed the idea that the stream of life warbled through her heart as a brook

sometimes warbles through a pleasant little dell. It betokened the cheeriness of an active temperament,

finding joy in its activity, and, therefore, rendering it beautiful; it was a New England trait,the stern old

Hepzibah brought out Some old silver spoons with the family crest upon them, and a china teaset painted

over with grotesque figures of man, bird, and beast, in as grotesque a landscape. These pictured people were

odd humorists, in a world of their own,a world of vivid brilliancy, so far as color went, and still unfaded,

although the teapot and small cups were as ancient as the custom itself of teadrinking.

"Your greatgreatgreatgreatgrandmother had these cups, when she was married," said Hepzibah to

Phoebe."She was a Davenport, of a good family. They were almost the first teacups ever seen in the colony;

and if one of them were to be broken, my heart would break with it. But it is Nonsense to speak so about a

brittle teacup, when I remember what my heart has gone through without breaking."

The cupsnot having been used, perhaps, since Hepzibah's youthhad contracted no small burden of dust,

which Phoebe washed away with so much care and delicacy as to satisfy even the proprietor of this

"What a nice little housewife you. are" exclaimed the latter, smiling, and at the Same time frowning so

prodigiously that the smile was sunshine under a thundercloud. "Do you do other things as well? Are you as

"Not quite, I am afraid," said Phoebe, laughing at the form of Hepzibah's question. "But I was schoolmistress

for the little children in our district last summer, and might have been so still."

"Ah! 'tis all very well!" observed the maiden lady, drawing herself up. "But these things must have come to

you with your mother's blood. I never knew a Pyncheon that had any turn for them."

It is very queer, but not the less true, that people are generally quite as vain, or even more so, of their

deficiencies than of their available gifts; as was Hepzibah of this native inapplicability, so to speak, of the

Pyncheons to any useful purpose. She regarded it as an hereditary trait; and so, perhaps, it was, but

unfortunately a morbid one, such as is often generated in families that remain long above the surface of

Before they left the breakfasttable, the shopbell rang sharply, and Hepzibah set down the remnant of her

final cup of tea, with a look of sallow despair that was truly piteous to behold. In cases of distasteful

occupation, the second day is generally worse than the first. we return to the rack with all the soreness of the

preceding torture in our limbs. At all events, Hepzibah had fully satisfied herself of the impossibility of ever

becoming wonted to this peevishly obstreperous little bell. Ring as often as it might, the sound always smote

upon her nervous system rudely and suddenly. And especially now, while, with her crested teaspoons and

antique china, she was flattering herself with ideas of gentility, she felt an unspeakable disinclination to

"Do not trouble yourself, dear cousin!" cried Phoebe, starting lightly up. "I am shopkeeper today."

"You, child!" exclaimed Hepzibah. "What can a little country girl know of such matters?"

"Oh, I have done all the shopping for the family at our village store," said Phoebe. "And I have had a table at

a fancy fair, and made better sales than anybody. These things are not to be learnt; they depend upon a knack

that comes, I suppose," added she, smiling, "with one's mother's blood. You shall see that I am as nice a little

The old gentlewoman stole behind Phoebe, and peeped from the passageway into the shop, to note how she

would manage her undertaking. It was a case of some intricacy. A very ancient woman, in a white short gown

and a green petticoat, with a string of gold beads about her neck, and what looked like a nightcap on her head,

had brought a quantity of yarn to barter for the commodities of the shop. She was probably the very last

person in town who still kept the timehonored spinningwheel in constant revolution. It was worth while to

hear the croaking and hollow tones of the old lady, and the pleasant voice of Phoebe, mingling in one twisted

thread of talk; and still better to contrast their figures,so light and bloomy,so decrepit and dusky,with

only the counter betwixt them, in one sense, but more than threescore years, in another. As for the bargain, it

"Nicely done, indeed, child!" answered Hepzibah."I could not have gone through with it nearly so well. As

It is a very genuine admiration, that with which persons too shy or too awkward to take a due part in the

bustling world regard the real actors in life's stirring scenes; so genuine, in fact, that the former are usually

fain to make it palatable to their selflove, by assuming that these active and forcible qualities are

incompatible with others, which they choose to deem higher and more important. Thus, Hepzibah was well

content to acknowledge Phoebe's vastly superior gifts as a shopkeeper'she listened, with compliant ear, to

her suggestion of various methods whereby the influx of trade might be increased, and rendered profitable,

without a hazardous outlay of capital. She consented that the village maiden should manufacture yeast, both

liquid and in cakes; and should brew a certain kind of beer, nectareous to the palate, and of rare stomachic

virtues; and, moreover, should bake and exhibit for sale some little spicecakes, which whosoever tasted

would longingly desire to taste again. All such proofs of a ready mind and skilful handiwork were highly

acceptable to the aristocratic hucksteress, so long as she could murmur to herself with a grim smile, and a

"What a nice little body she is! If she only could be a lady; toobut that's impossible! Phoebe is no

As to Phoebe's not being a lady, or whether she were a lady or no, it was a point, perhaps, difficult to decide,

but which could hardly have come up for judgment at all in any fair and healthy mind. Out of New England,

it would be impossible to meet with a person combining so many ladylike attributes with so many others that

form no necessary (if compatible) part of the character. She shocked no canon of taste; she was admirably in

keeping with herself, and never jarred against surrounding circumstances. Her figure, to be sure,so small

as to be almost childlike, and so elastic that motion seemed as easy or easier to it than rest,would hardly have

suited one's idea of a countess. Neither did her facewith the brown ringlets on either side, and the slightly

piquant nose, and the wholesome bloom, and the clear shade of tan, and the half dozen freckles, friendly

remembrances of the April sun and breezeprecisely give us a right to call her beautiful. But there was both

lustre and depth in her eyes. She was very pretty; as graceful as a bird, and graceful much in the same way; as

pleasant about the house as a gleam of sunshine falling on the floor through a shadow of twinkling leaves, or

as a ray of firelight that dances on the wall while evening is drawing nigh. Instead of discussing her claim to

rank among ladies, it would be preferable to regard Phoebe as the example of feminine grace and availability

combined, in a state of society, if there were any such, where ladies did not exist. There it should be woman's

office to move in the midst of practical affairs, and to gild them all, the very homeliest,were it even the

Such was the sphere of Phoebe. To find the born and educated lady, on the other hand, we need look no

farther than Hepzibah, our forlorn old maid, in her rustling and rusty silks, with her deeply cherished and

ridiculous consciousness of long descent, her shadowy claims to princely territory, and, in the way of

accomplishment, her recollections, it may be, of having formerly thrummed on a harpsichord, and walked a

minuet, and worked an antique tapestrystitch on her sampler. It was a fair parallel between new Plebeianism

It really seemed as if the battered visage of the House of the Seven Gables, black and heavybrowed as it still

certainly looked, must have shown a kind of cheerfulness glimmering through its dusky windows as Phoebe

passed to and fro in the interior. Otherwise, it is impossible to explain how the people of the neighborhood so

soon became aware of the girl's presence. There was a great run of custom, setting steadily in, from about ten

o' clock until towards noon,relaxing, somewhat, at dinnertime, but recommencing in the afternoon, and,

finally, dying away a half an hour or so before the long day's sunset. One of the stanchest patrons was little

Ned Higgins, the devourer of Jim Crow and the elephant, who today signalized his omnivorous prowess by

swallowing two dromedaries and a locomotive. Phoebe laughed, as she summed up her aggregate of sales

upon the slate; while Hepzibah, first drawing on a pair of silk gloves, reckoned over the sordid accumulation

"We must renew our stock, Cousin Hepzibah!" cried the little saleswoman. "The gingerbread figures are all

gone, and so are those Dutch wooden milkmaids, and most of our other playthings. There has been constant

inquiry for cheap raisins, and a great cry for whistles, and trumpets, and jew'sharps; and at least a dozen

little boys have asked for molassescandy. And we must contrive to get a peck of russet apples, late in the

season as it is. But, dear cousin, what an enormous heap of copper! Positively a copper mountain!"

"Well done! well done! well done!" quoth Uncle Venner, who had taken occasion to shuffle in and out of the

shop several times in the course of the day. "Here's a girl that will never end her days at my farm! Bless my

"Yes, Phoebe is a nice girl!" said Hepzibah, with a scowl of austere approbation. "But, Uncle Venner, you

have known the family a great many years. Can you tell me whether there ever was a Pyncheon whom she

"I don't believe there ever was," answered the venerable man. "At any rate, it never was my luck to see her

like among them, nor, for that matter, anywhere else. I've seen a great deal of the world, not only in people's

kitchens and backyards but at the streetcorners, and on the wharves, and in other places where my business

calls me; and I'm free to say, Miss Hepzibah, that I never knew a human creature do her work so much like

Uncle Venner's eulogium, if it appear rather too highstrained for the person and occasion, had, nevertheless,

a sense in which it was both subtile and true. There was a spiritual quality in Phoebe's activity. The life of the

long and busy dayspent in occupations that might so easily have taken a squalid and ugly aspecthad

been made pleasant, and even lovely, by the spontaneous grace with which these homely duties seemed to

bloom out of her character; so that labor, while she dealt with it, had the easy and flexible charm of play.

Angels do not toil, but let their good works grow out of them; and so did Phoebe.

The two relativesthe young maid and the old onefound time before nightfall, in the intervals of trade, to

make rapid advances towards affection and confidence. A recluse, like Hepzibah, usually displays remarkable

frankness, and at least temporary affability, on being absolutely cornered, and brought to the point of personal

intercourse; like the angel whom Jacob wrestled with, she is ready to bless you when once overcome.

The old gentlewoman took a dreary and proud satisfaction in leading Phoebe from room to room of the

house, and recounting the traditions with which, as we may say, the walls were lugubriously frescoed. She

showed the indentations made by the lieutenantgovernor's swordhilt in the doorpanels of the apartment

where old Colonel Pyncheon, a dead host, had received his affrighted visitors with an awful frown. The

dusky terror of that frown, Hepzibah observed, was thought to be lingering ever since in the passageway. She

bade Phoebe step into one of the tall chairs, and inspect the ancient map of the Pyncheon territory at the

eastward. In a tract of land on which she laid her finger, there existed a silver mine, the locality of which was

precisely pointed out in some memoranda of Colonel Pyncheon himself, but only to be made known when the

family claim should be recognized by government. Thus it was for the interest of all New England that the

Pyncheons should have justice done them. She told, too, how that there was undoubtedly an immense

treasure of English guineas hidden somewhere about the house, or in the cellar, or possibly in the garden.

"If you should happen to find it, Phoebe," said Hepzibah, glancing aside at her with a grim yet kindly smile,

"Yes, dear cousin," answered Phoebe; "but, in the mean time, I hear somebody ringing it!"

When the customer was gone, Hepzibah talked rather vaguely, and at great length, about a certain Alice

Pyncheon, who had been exceedingly beautiful and accomplished in her lifetime, a hundred years ago. The

fragrance of her rich and delightful character still lingered about the place where she had lived, as a dried

rosebud scents the drawer where it has withered and perished. This lovely Alice had met with some great and

mysterious calamity, and had grown thin and white, and gradually faded out of the world. But, even now, she

was supposed to haunt the House of the Seven Gables, and, a great many times, especially when one of the

Pyncheons was to die,she had been heard playing sadly and beautifully on the harpsichord. One of these

tunes, just as it had sounded from her spiritual touch, had been written down by an amateur of music; it was

so exquisitely mournful that nobody, to this day, could bear to hear it played, unless when a great sorrow had

"The very same," said Hepzibah. "It was Alice Pyncheon's harpsichord. When I was learning music, my

father would never let me open it. So, as I could only play on my teacher's instrument, I have forgotten all my

Leaving these antique themes, the old lady began to talk about the daguerreotypist, whom, as he seemed to be

a wellmeaning and orderly young man, and in narrow circumstances, she had permitted to take up his

residence in one of the seven gables. But, on seeing more of Mr. Holgrave, she hardly knew what to make of

him. He had the strangest companions imaginable; men with long beards, and dressed in linen blouses, and

other such newfangled and illfitting garments; reformers, temperance lecturers, and all manner of

crosslooking philanthropists; communitymen, and comeouters, as Hepzibah believed, who acknowledged

no law, and ate no solid food, but lived on the scent of other people's cookery, and turned up their noses at the

fare. As for the daguerreotypist, she had read a paragraph in a penny paper, the other day, accusing him of

making a speech full of wild and disorganizing matter, at a meeting of his bandittilike associates. For her

own part, she had reason to believe that he practised animal magnetism, and, if such things were in fashion

nowadays, should be apt to suspect him of studying the Black Art up there in his lonesome chamber.

"But, dear cousin," said Phoebe, "if the young man is so dangerous, why do you let him stay? If he does

"Why, sometimes," answered Hepzibah, "I have seriously made it a question, whether I ought not to send him

away. But, with all his oddities, he is a quiet kind of a person, and has such a way of taking hold of one's

mind, that, without exactly liking him (for I don't know enough of the young man), I should be sorry to lose

sight of him entirely. A woman clings to slight acquaintances when she lives so much alone as I do."

"But if Mr. Holgrave is a lawless person!" remonstrated Phoebe, a part of whose essence it was to keep

"Oh!" said Hepzibah carelessly,for, formal as she was, still, in her life's experience, she had gnashed her

AFTER an early tea, the little countrygirl strayed into the garden. The enclosure had formerly been very

extensive, but was now contracted within small compass, and hemmed about, partly by high wooden fences,

and partly by the outbuildings of houses that stood on another street. In its centre was a grassplat,

surrounding a ruinous little structure, which showed just enough of its original design to indicate that it had

once been a summerhouse. A hopvine, springing from last year's root, was beginning to clamber over it,

but would be long in covering the roof with its green mantle. Three of the seven gables either fronted or

The black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of a long period of time; such as fallen leaves, the petals of

flowers, and the stalks and seedvessels of vagrant and lawless plants, more useful after their death than

ever while flaunting in the sun. The evil of these departed years would naturally have sprung up again, in

such rank weeds (symbolic of the transmitted vices of society) as are always prone to root themselves about

human dwellings. Phoebe Saw, however, that their growth must have been checked by a degree of careful

labor, bestowed daily and systematically on the garden. The white double rosebush had evidently been

propped up anew against the house since the commencement of the season; and a peartree and three

damsontrees, which, except a row of currantbushes, constituted the only varieties of fruit, bore marks of

the recent amputation of several superfluous or defective limbs. There were also a few species of antique and

hereditary flowers, in no very flourishing condition, but scrupulously weeded; as if some person, either out of

love or curiosity, had been anxious to bring them to such perfection as they were capable of attaining. The

remainder of the garden presented a wellselected assortment of esculent vegetables, in a praiseworthy state

of advancement. Summer squashes almost in their golden blossom; cucumbers, now evincing a tendency to

spread away from the main stock, and ramble far and wide; two or three rows of stringbeans and as many

more that were about to festoon themselves on poles; tomatoes, occupying a site so sheltered and sunny that

Phoebe wondered whose care and toil it could have been that had planted these vegetables, and kept the soil

so clean and orderly. Not surely her cousin Hepzibah's, who had no taste nor spirits for the ladylike

employment of cultivating flowers, andwith her recluse habits, and tendency to shelter herself within the

dismal shadow of the housewould hardly have come forth under the speck of open sky to weed and hoe

It being her first day of complete estrangement from rural objects, Phoebe found an unexpected charm in this

little nook of grass, and foliage, and aristocratic flowers, and plebeian vegetables. The eye of Heaven seemed

to look down into it pleasantly, and with a peculiar smile, as if glad to perceive that nature, elsewhere

overwhelmed, and driven out of the dusty town, had here been able to retain a breathingplace. The spot

acquired a somewhat wilder grace, and yet a very gentle one, from the fact that a pair of robins had built their

nest in the peartree, and were making themselves exceed ingly busy and happy in the dark intricacy of its

boughs. Bees, too,strange to say, had thought it worth their while to come hither, possibly from the

range of hives beside some farmhouse miles away. How many aerial voyages might they have made, in

quest of honey, or honeyladen, betwixt dawn and sunset! Yet, late as it now was, there still arose a pleasant

hum out of one or two of the squashblossoms, in the depths ofwich these bees were plying their golden

labor. There was one other object in the garden which Nature might fairly claim as her inalienable property,

in spite of whatever man could do to render it his own. This was a fountain, set round with a rim of old mossy

stones, and paved, in its bed, with what appeared to be a sort of mosaicwork of variously colored pebbles.

The play and slight agitation of the water, in its upward gush, wrought magically with these variegated

pebbles, and made a continually shifting apparition of quaint figures, vanishing too suddenly to be definable.

Thence, swelling over the rim of mossgrown stones, the water stole away under the fence, through what we

regret to call a gutter, rather than a channel. Nor must we forget to mention a hencoop of very reverend

antiquity that stood in the farther corner of the garden, not a great way from the fountain. It now contained

only Chanticleer, his two wives, and a solitary chicken. All of them were pure specimens of a breed which

had been transmitted down as an heirloom in the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their prime, to

have attained almost the size of turkeys, and, on the score of delicate flesh, to be fit for a prince's table. In

proof of the authenticity of this legendary renown, Hepzibah could have exhibited the shell of a great egg,

which an ostrich need hardly have been ashamed of. Be that as it might, the hens were now scarcely larger

than pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect, and a gouty kind of movement, and a sleepy and

melancholy tone throughout all the variations of their clucking and cackling. It was evident that the race had

degenerated, like many a noble race besides, in consequence of too strict a watchfulness to keep it pure.

These feathered people had existed too long in their distinct variety; a fact of which the present

representatives, judging by their lugubrious deportment, seemed to be aware. They kept themselves alive,

unquestionably, and laid now and then an egg, and hatched a chicken; not for any pleasure of their own, but

that the world might not absolutely lose what had once been so admirable a breed of fowls. The

distinguishing mark of the hens was a crest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddly

and wickedly analogous to Hepzibah's turban, that Phoebeto the poignant distress of her conscience, but

inevitably was led to fancy a general resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectable relative.

The girl ran into the house to get some crumbs of bread, cold potatoes, and other such scraps as were suitable

to the accommodating appetite of fowls. Returning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed to recognize.

The chicken crept through the pales of the coop and ran, with some show of liveliness, to her feet; while

Chanticleer and the ladies of his household regarded her with queer, sidelong glances, and then croaked one

to another, as if communicating their sage opinions of her character. So wise, as well as antique, was their

aspect, as to give color to the idea, not merely that they were the descendants of a timehonored race, but that

they had existed, in their individual capacity, ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded, and

were somehow mixed up with its destiny. They were a species of tutelary sprite, or Banshee; although winged

"Here, you odd little chicken!" said Phoebe; "here are some nice crumbs for you!"

The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as its, motherpossessing, indeed, the

whole antiquity of its progenitors in miniature,mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on

Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who had found access into the garden by a door

opening out of another gable than that whence she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and, while Phoebe

was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himself with drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the

"The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance," continued he in a quiet way, while a smile made his

face pleasanter than Phoebe at first fancied it. "Those venerable personages in the coop, too, seem very

affably disposed. You are lucky to be in their good graces so soon! They have known me much longer, but

never honor me with any familiarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food. Miss

Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the fact with her other traditions, and set it down that the fowls know

"The secret is," said Phoebe, smiling, "that I have learned how to talk with hens and chickens."

"Ah, but these hens," answered the young man,"these hens of aristocratic lineage would scorn to

understand the vulgar language of a barnyard fowl. I prefer to thinkand so would Miss Hepzibah that

"My name is Phoebe Pyncheon," said the girl, with a manner of some reserve; for she was aware that her new

acquaintance could be no other than the daguerreotypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maid had

given her a disagreeable idea. "I did not know that my cousin Hepzibah's garden was under another person's

"Yes," said Holgrave, "I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old earth, for the sake of refreshing myself with

what little nature and simplicity may be left in it, after men have so long sown and reaped here. I turn up the

earth by way of pastime. My sober occupation, so far as I have any, is with a lighter material. In short, I make

pictures out of sunshine; and, not to be too much dazzled with my own trade, I have prevailed with Miss

Hepzibah to let me lodge in one of these dusky gables. It is like a bandage over one's eyes, to come into it.

"A daguerreotype likeness, do you mean?" asked Phoebe with less reserve; for, in spite of prejudice, her own

youthfulness sprang forward to meet his. "I don't much like pictures of that sort,they are so hard and stern;

besides dodging away from the eye, and trying to escape altogether. They are conscious of looking very

"If you would permit me," said the artist, looking at Phoebe, "I should like to try whether the daguerreotype

can bring out disagreeable traits on a perfectly amiable face. But there certainly is truth in what you have

said. Most of my likenesses do look unamiable; but the very sufficient reason, I fancy, is, because the

originals are so. There is a wonderful insight in Heaven's broad and simple sunshine. While we give it credit

only for depicting the merest surface, it actually brings out the secret character with a truth that no painter

would ever venture upon, even could he detect it. There is, at least, no flattery in my humble line of art. Now,

here is a likeness which I have taken over and over again, and still with no better result. Yet the original

wears, to common eyes, a very different expression. It would gratify me to have your judgment on this

He exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a morocco case. Phoebe merely glanced at it, and gave it back.

"I know the face," she replied; "for its stern eye has been following me about all day. It is my Puritan

ancestor, who hangs yonder in the parlor. To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait

without its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him a modern coat and satin cravat, instead of his

"You would have seen other differences had you looked a little longer," said Holgrave, laughing, yet

apparently much struck. "I can assure you that this is a modern face, and one which you will very probably

meet. Now, the remarkable point is, that the original wears, to the world's eye,and, for aught I know, to his

most intimate friends,an exceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, openness of heart,

sunny goodhumor, and other praiseworthy qualities of that cast. The sun, as you see, tells quite another

story, and will not be coaxed out of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part. Here we have the man,

sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold as ice. Look at that eye! Would you like to be at its mercy? At

that mouth! Could it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the benign smile of the original! It is so much

the More unfortunate, as he is a public character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to be

"Well, I don't wish to see it any more," observed Phoebe, turning away her eyes. "It is certainly very like the

old portrait. But my cousin Hepzibah has another picture,a miniature. If the original is still in the world, I

"You have seen that picture, then!" exclaimed the artist, with an expression of much interest. "I never did, but

"There never was a sweeter one," said Phoebe. "It is almost too soft and gentle for a man's."

"Is there nothing wild in the eye?" continued Holgrave, so earnestly that it embarrassed Phoebe, as did also

the quiet freedom with which he presumed on their so recent acquaintance. "Is there nothing dark or sinister

anywhere? Could you not conceive the original to have been guilty of a great crime?"

"It is nonsense," said Phoebe a little impatiently, "for us to talk about a picture which you have never seen.

You mistake it for some other. A crime, indeed! Since you are a friend of my cousin Hepzibah's, you should

"It will suit my purpose still better to see the original," replied the daguerreotypist coolly. "As to his

character, we need not discuss its points; they have already been settled by a competent tribunal, or one

which called itself competent. But, stay! Do not go yet, if you please! I have a proposition to make you."

Phoebe was on the point of retreating, but turned back, with some hesitation; for she did not exactly

comprehend his manner, although, on better observation, its feature seemed rather to be lack of ceremony

than any approach to offensive rudeness. There was an odd kind of authority, too, in what he now proceeded

to say, rather as if the garden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely by Hepzibah's

"If agreeable to you," he observed, "it would give me pleasure to turn over these flowers, and those ancient

and respectable fowls, to your care. Coming fresh from country air and occupations, you will soon feel the

need of some such outofdoor employment. My own sphere does not so much lie among flowers. You can

trim and tend them, therefore, as you please; and I will ask only the least trifle of a blossom, now and then, in

exchange for all the good, honest kitchen vegetables with which I propose to enrich Miss Hepzibah's table.

Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phoebe accordingly betook herself to weeding a

flowerbed, but busied herself still more with cogitations respecting this young man, with whom she so

unexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to familiarity. She did not altogether like him. His character

perplexed the little countrygirl, as it might a more practised observer; for, while the tone of his conversation

had generally been playful, the impression left on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth

modified it, almost sternness. She rebelled, as it were, against a certain magnetic element in the artist's nature,

After a little while, the twilight, deepened by the shadows of the fruittrees and the surrounding buildings,

"There," said Holgrave, "it is time to give over work! That last stroke of the hoe has cut off a beanstalk.

Goodnight, Miss Phoebe Pyncheon! Any bright day, if you will put one of those rosebuds in your hair, and

come to my rooms in Central Street, I will seize the purest ray of sunshine, and make a picture of the flower

and its wearer." He retired towards his own solitary gable, but turned his head, on reaching the door, and

called to Phoebe, with a tone which certainly had laughter in it, yet which seemed to be more than half in

"Be careful not to drink at Maule's well!" said he. "Neither drink nor bathe your face in it!"

"Maule's well!" answered Phoebe. "Is that it with the rim of mossy stones? I have no thought of drinking

"Oh," rejoined the daguerreotypist, "because, like an old lady's cup of tea, it is water bewitched!"

He vanished; and Phoebe, lingering a moment, saw a glimmering light, and then the steady beam of a lamp,

in a chamber of the gable. On returning into Hepzibah's apartment of the house, she found the lowstudded

parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could not penetrate the interior. She was indistinctly aware, however,

that the gaunt figure of the old gentlewoman was sitting in one of the straightbacked chairs, a little

withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of which showed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned

"Do, if you please, my dear child," answered Hepzibah. "But put it on the table in the corner of the passage.

What an instrument is the human voice! How wonderfully responsive to every emotion of the human soul! In

Hepzibah's tone, at that moment, there was a certain rich depth and moisture, as if the words, commonplace

as they were, had been steeped in the warmth of her heart. Again, while lighting the lamp in the kitchen,

"In a moment, cousin!" answered the girl. "These matches just glimmer, and go out."

But, instead of a response from Hepzibah, she seemed to hear the murmur of an unknown voice. It was

strangely indistinct, however, and less like articulate words than an unshaped sound, such as would be the

utterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect. So vague was it, that its impression or echo in

Phoebe's mind was that of unreality. She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound for that of

She set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again entered the parlor. Hepzibah's form, though its sable

outline mingled with the dusk, was now less imperfectly visible. In the remoter parts of the room, however,

its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there was nearly the same obscurity as before.

Fewer words than before, but with the same mysterious music in them! Mellow, melancholy, yet not

mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out of the deep well of Hepzibah's heart, all steeped in its profoundest

emotion. There was a tremor in it, too, that as all strong feeling is electricpartly communicated itself to

Phoebe. The girl sat silently for a moment. But soon, her senses being very acute, she became conscious of an

irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room. Her physical organization, moreover, being at once

delicate and healthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of a spiritual medium, that

"My dear cousin," asked she, overcoming an indefinable reluctance, "is there not some one in the room with

"Phoebe, my dear little girl," said Hepzibah, after a moment's pause,"you were up betimes, and have been

busy all day. Pray go to bed; for I am sure you must need rest. I will sit in the parlor awhile, and collect my

thoughts. It has been my custom for more years, child, than you have lived!" While thus dismissing her, the

maiden lady stept forward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart, which beat against the girl's bosom

with a strong, high, and tumultuous swell. How came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart, that

"Goodnight, cousin," said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepzibah's manner. "If you begin to love me, I am

She retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall asleep, nor then very profoundly. At some uncertain period

in the depths of night, and, as it were, through the thin veil of a dream, she was conscious of a footstep

mounting the stairs heavily, but not with force and decision. The voice of Hepzibah, with a hush through it,

was going up along with the footsteps; and, again, responsive to her cousin's voice, Phoebe heard that

strange, vague murmur, which might be likened to an indistinct shadow of human utterance.

WHEN Phoebe awoke,which she did with the early twittering of the conjugal couple of robins in the

peartree,she heard movements below stairs, and, hastening down, found Hepzibah already in the kitchen.

She stood by a window, holding a book in close contiguity to her nose, as if with the hope of gaining an

olfactory acquaintance with its contents, since her imperfect vision made it not very easy to read them. If any

volume could have manifested its essential wisdom in the mode suggested, it would certainly have been the

one now in Hepzibah's hand; and the kitchen, in such an event, would forthwith have streamed with the

fragrance of venison, turkeys, capons, larded partridges, puddings, cakes, and Christmas pies, in all manner

of elaborate mixture and concoction. It was a cookery book, full of innumerable old fashions of English

dishes, and illustrated with engravings, which represented the arrangements of the table at such banquets as it

might have befitted a nobleman to give in the great hall of his castle. And, amid these rich and potent devices

of the culinary art (not one of which, probably, had been tested, within the memory of any man's

grandfather), poor Hepzibah was seeking for some nimble little titbit, which, with what skill she had, and

Soon, with a deep sigh, she put aside the savory volume, and inquired of Phoebe whether old Speckle, as she

called one of the hens, had laid an egg the preceding day. Phoebe ran to see, but returned without the

expected treasure in her hand. At that instant, however, the blast of a fishdealer's conch was heard,

announcing his approach along the street. With energetic raps at the shopwindow, Hepzibah summoned the

man in, and made purchase of what he warranted as the finest mackerel in his cart, and as fat a one as ever he

felt with his finger so early in the season. Requesting Phoebe to roast some coffee,which she casually

observed was the real Mocha, and so long kept that each of the small berries ought to be worth its weight in

gold,the maiden lady heaped fuel into the vast receptacle of the ancient fireplace in such quantity as soon

to drive the lingering dusk out of the kitchen. The countrygirl, willing to give her utmost assistance,

proposed to make an Indian cake, after her mother's peculiar method, of easy manufacture, and which she

could vouch for as possessing a richness, and, if rightly prepared, a delicacy, unequalled by any other mode

of breakfastcake. Hepzibah gladly assenting, the kitchen was soon the scene of savory preparation.

Perchance, amid their proper element of smoke, which eddied forth from the illconstructed chimney, the

ghosts of departed cookmaids looked wonderingly on, or peeped down the great breadth of the flue,

despising the simplicity of the projected meal, yet ineffectually pining to thrust their shadowy hands into each

inchoate dish. The halfstarved rats, at any rate, stole visibly out of their hidingplaces, and sat on their

hindlegs, snuffing the fumy atmosphere, and wistfully awaiting an opportunity to nibble.

Hepzibah had no natural turn for cookery, and, to say the truth, had fairly incurred her present meagreness by

often choosing to go without her dinner rather than be attendant on the rotation of the spit, or ebullition of the

pot. Her zeal over the fire, therefore, was quite an heroic test of sentiment. It was touching, and positively

worthy of tears (if Phoebe, the only spectator, except the rats and ghosts aforesaid, had not been better

employed than in shedding them), to see her rake out a bed of fresh and glowing coals, and proceed to broil

the mackerel. Her usually pale cheeks were all ablaze with heat and hurry. She watched the fish with as much

tender care and minuteness of attention as if,we know not how to express it otherwise,as if her own

heart were on the gridiron, and her immortal happiness were involved in its being done precisely to a turn!

Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and wellprovisioned breakfasttable.

We come to it freshly, in the dewy youth of the day, and when our spiritual and sensual elements are in better

accord than at a later period; so that the material delights of the morning meal are capable of being fully

enjoyed, without any very grievous reproaches, whether gastric or conscientious, for yielding even a trifle

overmuch to the animal department of our nature. The thoughts, too, that run around the ring of familiar

guests have a piquancy and mirthfulness, and oftentimes a vivid truth, which more rarely find their way into

the elaborate intercourse of dinner. Hepzibah's small and ancient table, supported on its slender and graceful

legs, and covered with a cloth of the richest damask, looked worthy to be the scene and centre of one of the

cheerfullest of parties. The vapor of the broiled fish arose like incense from the shrine of a barbarian idol,

while the fragrance of the Mocha might have gratified the nostrils of a tutelary Lar, or whatever power has

scope over a modern breakfasttable. Phoebe's Indian cakes were the sweetest offering of all,in their hue

befitting the rustic altars of the innocent and golden age,or, so brightly yellow were they, resembling some

of the bread which was changed to glistening gold when Midas tried to eat it. The butter must not be

forgotten,butter which Phoebe herself had churned, in her own rural home, and brought it to her cousin as

a propitiatory gift,smelling of cloverblossoms, and diffusing the charm of pastoral scenery through the

darkpanelled parlor. All this, with the quaint gorgeousness of the old china cups and saucers, and the crested

spoons, and a silver creamjug (Hepzibah's only other article of plate, and shaped like the rudest porringer),

set out a board at which the stateliest of old Colonel Pyncheon's guests need not have scorned to take his

place. But the Puritan's face scowled down out of the picture, as if nothing on the table pleased his appetite.

By way of contributing what grace she could, Phoebe gathered some roses and a few other flowers,

possessing either scent or beauty, and arranged them in a glass pitcher, which, having long ago lost its handle,

was so much the fitter for a flowervase. The early sunshineas fresh as that which peeped into Eve's bower

while she and Adam sat at breakfast therecame twinkling through the branches of the peartree, and fell

quite across the table. All was now ready. There were chairs and plates for three. A chair and plate for

Throughout this preparation there had been a constant tremor in Hepzibah's frame; an agitation so powerful

that Phoebe could see the quivering of her gaunt shadow, as thrown by the firelight on the kitchen wall, or by

the sunshine on the parlor floor. Its manifestations were so various, and agreed so little with one another, that

the girl knew not what to make of it. Sometimes it seemed an ecstasy of delight and happiness. At such

moments, Hepzibah would fling out her arms, and infold Phoebe in them, and kiss her cheek as tenderly as

ever her mother had; she appeared to do so by an inevitable impulse, and as if her bosom were oppressed with

tenderness, of which she must needs pour out a little, in order to gain breathingroom. The next moment,

without any visible cause for the change, her unwonted joy shrank back, appalled, as it were, and clothed

itself in mourning; or it ran and hid itself, so to speak, in the dungeon of her heart, where it had long lain

chained, while a cold, spectral sorrow took the place of the imprisoned joy, that was afraid to be

enfranchised, a sorrow as black as that was bright. She often broke into a little, nervous, hysteric laugh,

more touching than any tears could be; and forthwith, as if to try which was the most touching, a gush of tears

would follow; or perhaps the laughter and tears came both at once, and surrounded our poor Hepzibah, in a

moral sense, with a kind of pale, dim rainbow. Towards Phoebe, as we have said, she was affectionate, far

tenderer than ever before, in their brief acquaintance, except for that one kiss on the preceding night,yet

with a Continually recurring pettishness and irritability. She would speak sharply to her; then, throwing aside

all the starched reserve of her ordinary manner, ask pardon, and the next instant renew the justforgiven

At last, when their mutual labor was all finished, she took Phoebe's hand in her own trembling one.

"Bear with me, my dear child," she cried; "for truly my heart is full to the brim! Bear with me; for I love you,

Phoebe, though I speak so roughly. Think nothing of it, dearest child! By and by, I shall be kind, and only

"My dearest cousin, cannot you tell me what has happened?" asked Phoebe, with a sunny and tearful

"Hush! hush! He is coming!" whispered Hepzibah, hastily wiping her eyes. "Let him see you first, Phoebe;

for you are young and rosy, and cannot help letting a smile break out whether or no. He always liked bright

faces! And mine is old now, and the tears are hardly dry on it. He never could abide tears. There; draw the

curtain a little, so that the shadow may fall across his side of the table! But let there be a good deal of

sunshine, too; for he never was fond of gloom, as some people are. He has had but little sunshine in his

Thus murmuring in an undertone, as if speaking rather to her own heart than to Phoebe, the old gentlewoman

stepped on tiptoe about the room, making such arrangements as suggested themselves at the crisis.

Meanwhile there was a step in the passageway, above stairs. Phoebe recognized it as the same which had

passed upward, as through her dream, in the nighttime. The approaching guest, whoever it might be,

appeared to pause at the head of the staircase; he paused twice or thrice in the descent; he paused again at the

foot. Each time, the delay seemed to be without purpose, but rather from a forgetfulness of the purpose which

had set him in motion, or as if the person's feet came involuntarily to a standstill because the motivepower

was too feeble to sustain his progress. Finally, he made a long pause at the threshold of the parlor. He took

hold of the knob of the door; then loosened his grasp without opening it. Hepzibah, her hands convulsively

"Dear Cousin Hepzibah, pray don't look so!" said Phoebe, trembling; for her cousin's emotion, and this

mysteriously reluctant step, made her feel as if a ghost were coming into the room. "You really frighten me!

"Hush!" whispered Hepzibah. "Be cheerful! whatever may happen, be nothing but cheerful!"

The final pause at the threshold proved so long, that Hepzibah, unable to endure the suspense, rushed

forward, threw open the door, and led in the stranger by the hand. At the first glance, Phoebe saw an elderly

personage, in an oldfashioned dressinggown of faded damask, and wearing his gray or almost white hair of

an unusual length. It quite overshadowed his forehead, except when he thrust it back, and stared vaguely

about the room. After a very brief inspection of his face, it was easy to conceive that his footstep must

necessarily be such an one as that which, slowly and with as indefinite an aim as a child's first journey across

a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet there were no tokens that his physical strength might not have

sufficed for a free and determined gait. It was the spirit of the man that could not walk. The expression of his

countenancewhile, notwithstanding it had the light of reason in it seemed to waver, and glimmer, and

nearly to die away, and feebly to recover itself again. It was like a flame which we see twinkling among

halfextinguished embers; we gaze at it more intently than if it were a positive blaze, gushing vividly

upward,more intently, but with a certain impatience, as if it ought either to kindle itself into satisfactory

For an instant after entering the room, the guest stood still, retaining Hepzibah's hand instinctively, as a child

does that of the grown person who guides it. He saw Phoebe, however, and caught an illumination from her

youthful and pleasant aspect, which, indeed, threw a cheerfulness about the parlor, like the circle of reflected

brilliancy around the glass vase of flowers that was standing in the sunshine. He made a salutation, or, to

speak nearer the truth, an illdefined, abortive attempt at curtsy. Imperfect as it was, however, it conveyed an

idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of indescribable grace, such as no practised art of external manners could have

attained. It was too slight to seize upon at the instant; yet, as recollected afterwards, seemed to transfigure the

"Dear Clifford," said Hepzibah, in the tone with which one soothes a wayward infant, "this is our cousin

Phoebe,little Phoebe Pyncheon,Arthur's only child, you know. She has come from the country to stay

"PhoebePhoebe Pyncheon?Phoebe?" repeated the guest, with a strange, sluggish, illdefined utterance.

"Come, dear Clifford, take this chair," said Hepzibah, leading him to his place. "Pray, Phoebe, lower the

The guest seated himself in the place assigned him, and looked strangely around. He was evidently trying to

grapple with the present scene, and bring it home to his mind with a more satisfactory distinctness. He

desired to be certain, at least, that he was here, in the lowstudded, crossbeamed, oakenpanelled parlor,

and not in some other spot, which had stereotyped itself into his senses. But the effort was too great to be

sustained with more than a fragmentary success. Continually, as we may express it, he faded away out of his

place; or, in other words, his mind and consciousness took their departure, leaving his wasted, gray, and

melancholy figurea substantial emptiness, a material ghostto occupy his seat at table. Again, after a

blank moment, there would be a flickering tapergleam in his eyeballs. It betokened that his spiritual part had

returned, and was doing its best to kindle the heart's household fire, and light up intellectual lamps in the dark

At one of these moments of less torpid, yet still imperfect animation, Phoebe became convinced of what she

had at first rejected as too extravagant and startling an idea. She saw that the person before her must have

been the original of the beautiful miniature in her cousin Hepzibah's possession. Indeed, with a feminine eye

for costume, she had at once identified the damask dressinggown, which enveloped him, as the same in

figure, material, and fashion, with that so elaborately represented in the picture. This old, faded garment, with

all its pristine brilliancy extinct, seemed, in some indescribable way, to translate the wearer's untold

misfortune, and make it perceptible to the beholder's eye. It was the better to be discerned, by this exterior

type, how worn and old were the soul's more immediate garments; that form and countenance, the beauty and

grace of which had almost transcended the skill of the most exquisite of artists. It could the more adequately

be known that the soul of the man must have suffered some miserable wrong, from its earthly experience.

There he seemed to sit, with a dim veil of decay and ruin betwixt him and the world, but through which, at

flitting intervals, might be caught the same expression, so refined, so softly imaginative, which

Malboneventuring a happy touch, with suspended breath had imparted to the miniature! There had been

something so innately characteristic in this look, that all the dusky years, and the burden of unfit calamity

Hepzibah had now poured out a cup of deliciously fragrant coffee, and presented it to her guest. As his eyes

"Is this you, Hepzibah?" he murmured sadly. then, more apart, and perhaps unconscious that he was

overheard, "How changed! how changed! And is she angry with me? Why does she bend her brow so?"

Poor Hepzibah! It was that wretched scowl which time and her nearsightedness, and the fret of inward

discomfort, had rendered so habitual that any vehemence of mood invariably evoked it. But at the indistinct

murmur of his words her whole face grew tender, and even lovely, with sorrowful affection; the harshness of

Her tone, as she uttered the exclamation, had a plaintive and really exquisite melody thrilling through it, yet

without subduing a certain something which an obtuse auditor might still have mistaken for asperity. It was

as if some transcendent musician should draw a soulthrilling sweetness out of a cracked instrument, which

makes its physical imperfection heard in the midst of ethereal harmony,so deep was the sensibility that

"There is nothing but love, here, Clifford," she added,"nothing but love! You are at home!"

The guest responded to her tone by a smile, which did not half light up his face. Feeble as it was, however,

and gone in a moment, it had a charm of wonderful beauty. It was followed by a coarser expression; or one

that had the effect of coarseness on the fine mould and outline of his countenance, because there was nothing

intellectual to temper it. It was a look of appetite. He ate food with what might almost be termed voracity;

and seemed to forget himself, Hepzibah, the young girl, and everything else around him, in the sensual

enjoyment which the bountifully spread table afforded. In his natural system, though highwrought and

delicately refined, a sensibility to the delights of the palate was probably inherent. It would have been kept in

check, however, and even converted into an accomplishment, and one of the thousand modes of intellectual

culture, had his more ethereal characteristics retained their vigor. But as it existed now, the effect was painful

In a little while the guest became sensible of the fragrance of the yet untasted coffee. He quaffed it eagerly.

The subtle essence acted on him like a charmed draught, and caused the opaque substance of his animal being

to grow transparent, or, at least, translucent; so that a spiritual gleam was transmitted through it, with a

"More, more!" he cried, with nervous haste in his utterance, as if anxious to retain his grasp of what sought to

Under this delicate and powerful influence he sat more erect, and looked out from his eyes with a glance that

took note of what it rested on. It was not so much that his expression grew more intellectual; this, though it

had its share, was not the most peculiar effect. Neither was what we call the moral nature so forcibly

awakened as to present itself in remarkable prominence. But a certain fine temper of being was now not

brought out in full relief, but changeably and imperfectly betrayed, of which it was the function to deal with

all beautiful and enjoyable things. In a character where it should exist as the chief attribute, it would bestow

on its possessor an exquisite taste, and an enviable susceptibility of happiness. Beauty would be his life; his

aspirations would all tend toward it; and, allowing his frame and physical organs to be in consonance, his

own developments would likewise be beautiful. Such a man should have nothing to do with sorrow; nothing

with strife; nothing with the martyrdom which, in an infinite variety of shapes, awaits those who have the

heart, and will, and conscience, to fight a battle with the world. To these heroic tempers, such martyrdom is

the richest meed in the world's gift. To the individual before us, it could only be a grief, intense in due

proportion with the severity of the infliction. He had no right to be a martyr; and, beholding him so fit to be

happy and so feeble for all other purposes, a generous, strong, and noble spirit would, methinks, have been

ready to sacrifice what little enjoyment it might have planned for itself, it would have flung down the

hopes, so paltry in its regard,if thereby the wintry blasts of our rude sphere might come tempered to such a

Not to speak it harshly or scornfully, it seemed Clifford's nature to be a Sybarite. It was perceptible, even

there, in the dark old parlor, in the inevitable polarity with which his eyes were attracted towards the

quivering play of sunbeams through the shadowy foliage. It was seen in his appreciating notice of the vase of

flowers, the scent of which he inhaled with a zest almost peculiar to a physical organization so refined that

spiritual ingredients are moulded in with it. It was betrayed in the unconscious smile with which he regarded

Phoebe, whose fresh and maidenly figure was both sunshine and flowers,their essence, in a prettier and

more agreeable mode of manifestation. Not less evident was this love and necessity for the Beautiful, in the

instinctive caution with which, even so soon, his eyes turned away from his hostess, and wandered to any

quarter rather than come back. It was Hepzibah's misfortune,not Clifford's fault. How could he,so

yellow as she was, so wrinkled, so sad of mien, with that odd uncouthness of a turban on her head, and that

most perverse of scowls contorting her brow,how could he love to gaze at her? But, did he owe her no

affection for so much as she had silently given? He owed her nothing. A nature like Clifford's can contract no

debts of that kind. It iswe say it without censure, nor in diminution of the claim which it indefeasibly

possesses on beings of another mouldit is always selfish in its essence; and we must give it leave to be so,

and heap up our heroic and disinterested love upon it so much the more, without a recompense. Poor

Hepzibah knew this truth, or, at least, acted on the instinct of it. So long estranged from what was lovely as

Clifford had been, she rejoicedrejoiced, though with a present sigh, and a secret purpose to shed tears in

her own chamber that he had brighter objects now before his eyes than her aged and uncomely features. They

never possessed a charm; and if they had, the canker of her grief for him would long since have destroyed it.

The guest leaned back in his chair. Mingled in his countenance with a dreamy delight, there was a troubled

look of effort and unrest. He was seeking to make himself more fully sensible of the scene around him; or,

perhaps, dreading it to be a dream, or a play of imagination, was vexing the fair moment with a struggle for

"How pleasant!How delightful!" he murmured, but not as if addressing any one. "Will it last? How balmy

the atmosphere through that open window! An open window! How beautiful that play of sunshine! Those

flowers, how very fragrant! That young girl's face, how cheerful, how blooming!a flower with the dew on

it, and sunbeams in the dewdrops! Ah! this must be all a dream! A dream! A dream! But it has quite hidden

Then his face darkened, as if the shadow of a cavern or a dungeon had come over it; there was no more light

in its expression than might have come through the iron grates of a prison windowstill lessening, too, as if

he were sinking farther into the depths. Phoebe (being of that quickness and activity of temperament that she

seldom long refrained from taking a part, and generally a good one, in what was going forward) now felt

"Here is a new kind of rose, which I found this morning in the garden," said she, choosing a small crimson

one from among the flowers in the vase. "There will be but five or six on the bush this season. This is the

most perfect of them all; not a speck of blight or mildew in it. And how sweet it is!sweet like no other

"Ah!let me see!let me hold it!" cried the guest, eagerly seizing the flower, which, by the spell peculiar

to remembered odors, brought innumerable associations along with the fragrance that it exhaled. "Thank you!

This has done me good. I remember how I used to prize this flower,long ago, I suppose, very long

ago!or was it only yesterday? It makes me feel young again! Am I young? Either this remembrance is

singularly distinct, or this consciousness strangely dim! But how kind of the fair young girl! Thank you!

The favorable excitement derived from this little crimson rose afforded Clifford the brightest moment which

he enjoyed at the breakfasttable. It might have lasted longer, but that his eyes happened, soon afterwards, to

rest on the face of the old Puritan, who, out of his dingy frame and lustreless canvas, was looking down on

the scene like a ghost, and a most illtempered and ungenial one. The guest made an impatient gesture of the

hand, and addressed Hepzibah with what might easily be recognized as the licensed irritability of a petted

"Hepzibah!Hepzibah!" cried he with no little force and distinctness, "why do you keep that odious picture

on the wall? Yes, yes!that is precisely your taste! I have told you, a thousand times, that it was the evil

"Then, at all events," continued he, still speaking with some energy,"pray cover it with a crimson curtain,

broad enough to hang in folds, and with a golden border and tassels. I cannot bear it! It must not stare me in

"Yes, dear Clifford, the picture shall be covered," said Hepzibah soothingly. "There is a crimson curtain in a

trunk above stairs,a little faded and motheaten, I'm afraid,but Phoebe and I will do wonders with it."

"This very day, remember" said he; and then added, in a low, selfcommuning voice, "Why should we live in

this dismal house at all? Why not go to the South of France?to Italy?Paris, Naples, Venice, Rome?

He smiled to himself, and threw a glance of fine sarcastic meaning towards Hepzibah.

But the several moods of feeling, faintly as they were marked, through which he had passed, occurring in so

brief an interval of time, had evidently wearied the stranger. He was probably accustomed to a sad monotony

of life, not so much flowing in a stream, however sluggish, as stagnating in a pool around his feet. A

slumberous veil diffused itself over his countenance, and had an effect, morally speaking, on its naturally

delicate and elegant outline, like that which a brooding mist, with no sunshine in it, throws over the features

of a landscape. He appeared to become grosser,almost cloddish. If aught of interest or beautyeven

ruined beautyhad heretofore been visible in this man, the beholder might now begin to doubt it, and to

accuse his own imagination of deluding him with whatever grace had flickered over that visage, and whatever

Before he had quite sunken away, however, the sharp and peevish tinkle of the shopbell made itself audible.

Striking most disagreeably on Clifford's auditory organs and the characteristic sensibility of his nerves, it

"Good heavens, Hepzibah! what horrible disturbance have we now in the house?" cried he, wreaking his

resentful impatience as a matter of course, and a custom of oldon the one person in the world that loved

him." I have never heard such a hateful clamor! Why do you permit it? In the name of all dissonance, what

It was very remarkable into what prominent reliefeven as if a dim picture should leap suddenly from its

canvasClifford's character was thrown by this apparently trifling annoyance. The secret was, that an

individual of his temper can always be pricked more acutely through his sense of the beautiful and

harmonious than through his heart. It is even possiblefor similar cases have often happenedthat if

Clifford, in his foregoing life, had enjoyed the means of cultivating his taste to its utmost perfectibility, that

subtile attribute might, before this period, have completely eaten out or filed away his affections. Shall we

venture to pronounce, therefore, that his long and black calamity may not have had a redeeming drop of

"Dear Clifford, I wish I could keep the sound from your ears," said Hepzibah, patiently, but reddening with a

painful suffusion of shame. "It is very disagreeable even to me. But, do you know, Clifford, I have something

to tell you? This ugly noise,pray run, Phoebe, and see who is there!this naughty little tinkle is nothing

"Yes, our shopbell," said Hepzibah, a certain natural dignity, mingled with deep emotion, now asserting

itself in her manner. "For you must know, dearest Clifford, that we are very poor. And there was no other

resource, but either to accept assistance from a hand that I would push aside (and so would you!) were it to

offer bread when we were dying for it,no help, save from him, or else to earn our subsistence with my own

hands! Alone, I might have been content to starve. But you were to be given back to me! Do you think, then,

dear Clifford," added she, with a wretched smile, "that I have brought an irretrievable disgrace on the old

house, by opening a little shop in the front gable? Our greatgreatgrandfather did the same, when there was

"Shame! Disgrace! Do you speak these words to me, Hepzibah?" said Clifford,not angrily, however; for

when a man's spirit has been thoroughly crushed, he may be peevish at small offences, but never resentful of

great ones. So he spoke with only a grieved emotion. "It was not kind to say so, Hepzibah! What shame can

And then the unnerved manhe that had been born for enjoyment, but had met a doom so very

wretchedburst into a woman's passion of tears. It was but of brief continuance, however; soon leaving him

in a quiescent, and, to judge by his countenance, not an uncomfortable state. From this mood, too, he partially

rallied for an instant, and looked at Hepzibah with a smile, the keen, halfderisory purport of which was a

Finally, his chair being deep and softly cushioned, Clifford fell asleep. Hearing the more regular rise and fall

of his breath (which, however, even then, instead of being strong and full, had a feeble kind of tremor,

corresponding with the lack of vigor in his character), hearing these tokens of settled slumber, Hepzibah

seized the opportunity to peruse his face more attentively than she had yet dared to do. Her heart melted away

in tears; her profoundest spirit sent forth a moaning voice, low, gentle, but inexpressibly sad. In this depth of

grief and pity she felt that there was no irreverence in gazing at his altered, aged, faded, ruined face. But no

sooner was she a little relieved than her conscience smote her for gazing curiously at him, now that he was so

changed; and, turning hastily away, Hepzibah let down the curtain over the sunny window, and left Clifford

PHOEBE, on entering the shop, beheld there the already familiar face of the little devourerif we can

reckon his mighty deeds arightof Jim Crow, the elephant, the camel, the dromedaries, and the locomotive.

Having expended his private fortune, on the two preceding days, in the purchase of the above unheardof

luxuries, the young gentleman's present errand was on the part of his mother, in quest of three eggs and half a

pound of raisins. These articles Phoebe accordingly supplied, and, as a mark of gratitude for his previous

patronage, and a slight superadded morsel after breakfast, put likewise into his hand a whale! The great fish,

reversing his experience with the prophet of Nineveh, immediately began his progress down the same red

pathway of fate whither so varied a caravan had preceded him. This remarkable urchin, in truth, was the very

emblem of old Father Time, both in respect of his alldevouring appetite for men and things, and because he,

as well as Time, after ingulfing thus much of creation, looked almost as youthful as if he had been just that

After partly closing the door, the child turned back, and mumbled something to Phoebe, which, as the whale

"Mother wants to know" repeated Ned Higgins more distinctly, "how Old Maid Pyncheon's brother does?

"My cousin Hepzibah's brother?" exclaimed Phoebe, surprised at this sudden explanation of the relationship

The little boy only put his thumb to his broad snubnose, with that look of shrewdness which a child,

spending much of his time in the street. so soon learns to throw over his features, however unintelligent in

themselves. Then as Phoebe continued to gaze at him, without answering his mother's message, he took his

As the child went down the steps, a gentleman ascended them, and made his entrance into the shop. It was the

portly, and, had it possessed the advantage of a little more height, would have been the stately figure of a man

considerably in the decline of life, dressed in a black suit of some thin stuff, resembling broadcloth as closely

as possible. A goldheaded cane, of rare Oriental wood, added materially to the high respectability of his

aspect, as did also a neckcloth of the utmost snowy purity, and the conscientious polish of his boots. His dark,

square countenance, with its almost shaggy depth of eyebrows, was naturally impressive, and would, perhaps,

have been rather stern, had not the gentleman considerately taken upon himself to mitigate the harsh effect by

a look of exceeding goodhumor and benevolence. Owing, however, to a somewhat massive accumulation of

animal substance about the lower region of his face, the look was, perhaps, unctuous rather than spiritual, and

had, so to speak, a kind of fleshly effulgence, not altogether so satisfactory as he doubtless intended it to be.

A susceptible observer, at any rate, might have regarded it as affording very little evidence of the general

benignity of soul whereof it purported to be the outward reflection. And if the observer chanced to be

illnatured, as well as acute and susceptible, he would probably suspect that the smile on the gentleman's face

was a good deal akin to the shine on his boots, and that each must have cost him and his bootblack,

As the stranger entered the little shop, where the projection of the second story and the thick foliage of the

elmtree, as well as the commodities at the window, created a sort of gray medium, his smile grew as intense

as if he had set his heart on counteracting the whole gloom of the atmosphere (besides any moral gloom

pertaining to Hepzibah and her inmates) by the unassisted light of his countenance. On perceiving a young

rosebud of a girl, instead of the gaunt presence of the old maid, a look of surprise was manifest. He at first

"Ah, I see how it is!" said he in a deep voice,a voice which, had it come from the throat of an uncultivated

man, would have been gruff, but, by dint of careful training, was now sufficiently agreeable,"I was not

aware that Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon had commenced business under such favorable auspices. You are her

"I certainly am," answered Phoebe, and added, with a little air of ladylike assumption (for, civil as the

gentleman was, he evidently took her to be a young person serving for wages), "I am a cousin of Miss

"Her cousin?and from the country? Pray pardon me, then," said the gentleman, bowing and smiling, as

Phoebe never had been bowed to nor smiled on before; "in that case, we must be better acquainted; for,

see,Mary?Dolly?Phoebe? yes, Phoebe is the name! Is it possible that you are Phoebe Pyncheon,

only child of my dear cousin and classmate, Arthur? Ah, I see your father now, about your mouth! Yes, yes!

we must be better acquainted! I am your kinsman, my dear. Surely you must have heard of Judge Pyncheon?"

As Phoebe curtsied in reply, the Judge bent forward, with the pardonable and even praiseworthy

purposeconsidering the nearness of blood and the difference of ageof bestowing on his young relative a

kiss of acknowledged kindred and natural affection. Unfortunately (without design, or only with such

instinctive design as gives no account of itself to the intellect) Phoebe, just at the critical moment, drew back;

so that her highly respectable kinsman, with his body bent over the counter and his lips protruded, was

betrayed into the rather absurd predicament of kissing the empty air. It was a modern parallel to the case of

Ixion embracing a cloud, and was so much the more ridiculous as the Judge prided himself on eschewing all

airy matter, and never mistaking a shadow for a substance. The truth was,and it is Phoebe's only

excuse,that, although Judge Pyncheon's glowing benignity might not be absolutely unpleasant to the

feminine beholder, with the width of a street, or even an ordinarysized room, interposed between, yet it

became quite too intense, when this dark, fullfed physiognomy (so roughly bearded, too, that no razor could

ever make it smooth) sought to bring itself into actual contact with the object of its regards. The man, the sex,

somehow or other, was entirely too prominent in the Judge's demonstrations of that sort. Phoebe's eyes sank,

and, without knowing why, she felt herself blushing deeply under his look. Yet she had been kissed before,

and without any particular squeamishness, by perhaps half a dozen different cousins, younger as well as older

than this darkbrowned, grislybearded, whiteneckclothed, and unctuouslybenevolent Judge! Then, why

On raising her eyes, Phoebe was startled by the change in Judge Pyncheon's face. It was quite as striking,

allowing for the difference of scale, as that betwixt a landscape under a broad sunshine and just before a

thunderstorm; not that it had the passionate intensity of the latter aspect, but was cold, hard, immitigable,

"Dear me! what is to be done now?" thought the countrygirl to herself." He looks as if there were nothing

softer in him than a rock, nor milder than the east wind! I meant no harm! Since he is really my cousin, I

Then, all at once, it struck Phoebe that this very Judge Pyncheon was the original of the miniature which the

daguerreotypist had shown her in the garden, and that the hard, stern, relentless look, now on his face, was

the same that the sun had so inflexibly persisted in bringing out. Was it, therefore, no momentary mood, but,

however skilfully concealed, the settled temper of his life? And not merely so, but was it hereditary in him,

and transmitted down, as a precious heirloom, from that bearded ancestor, in whose picture both the

expression and, to a singular degree, the features of the modern Judge were shown as by a kind of prophecy?

A deeper philosopher than Phoebe might have found something very terrible in this idea. It implied that the

weaknesses and defects, the bad passions, the mean tendencies, and the moral diseases which lead to crime

are handed down from one generation to another, by a far surer process of transmission than human law has

been able to establish in respect to the riches and honors which it seeks to entail upon posterity.

But, as it happened, scarcely had Phoebe's eyes rested again on the Judge's countenance than all its ugly

sternness vanished; and she found herself quite overpowered by the sultry, dogday heat, as it were, of

benevolence, which this excellent man diffused out of his great heart into the surrounding atmosphere,very

much like a serpent, which, as a preliminary to fascination, is said to fill the air with his peculiar odor.

"I like that, Cousin Phoebe!" cried he, with an emphatic nod of approbation. "I like it much, my little cousin!

You are a good child, and know how to take care of yourself. A young girlespecially if she be a very pretty

"Indeed, sir," said Phoebe, trying to laugh the matter off, "I did not mean to be unkind."

Nevertheless, whether or no it were entirely owing to the inauspicious commencement of their acquaintance,

she still acted under a certain reserve, which was by no means customary to her frank and genial nature. The

fantasy would not quit her, that the original Puritan, of whom she had heard so many sombre traditions, the

progenitor of the whole race of New England Pyncheons, the founder of the House of the Seven Gables, and

who had died so strangely in it,had now stept into the shop. In these days of offhand equipment, the

matter was easily enough arranged. On his arrival from the other world, he had merely found it necessary to

spend a quarter of an hour at a barber's, who had trimmed down the Puritan's full beard into a pair of grizzled

whiskers, then, patronizing a readymade clothing establishment, he had exchanged his velvet doublet and

sable cloak, with the richly worked band under his chin, for a white collar and cravat, coat, vest, and

pantaloons; and lastly, putting aside his steelhilted broadsword to take up a goldheaded cane, the Colonel

Of course, Phoebe was far too sensible a girl to entertain this idea in any other way than as matter for a smile.

Possibly, also, could the two personages have stood together before her eye, many points of difference would

have been perceptible, and perhaps only a general resemblance. The long lapse of intervening years, in a

climate so unlike that which had fostered the ancestral Englishman, must inevitably have wrought important

changes in the physical system of his descendant. The Judge's volume of muscle could hardly be the same as

the Colonel's; there was undoubtedly less beef in him. Though looked upon as a weighty man among his

contemporaries in respect of animal substance, and as favored with a remarkable degree of fundamental

development, well adapting him for the judicial bench, we conceive that the modern Judge Pyncheon, if

weighed in the same balance with his ancestor, would have required at least an oldfashioned fiftysix to

keep the scale in equilibrio. Then the Judge's face had lost the ruddy English hue that showed its warmth

through all the duskiness of the Colonel's weatherbeaten cheek, and had taken a sallow shade, the

established complexion of his countrymen. If we mistake not, moreover, a certain quality of nervousness had

become more or less manifest, even in so solid a specimen of Puritan descent as the gentleman now under

discussion. As one of its effects, it bestowed on his countenance a quicker mobility than the old Englishman's

had possessed, and keener vivacity, but at the expense of a sturdier something, on which these acute

endowments seemed to act like dissolving acids. This process, for aught we know, may belong to the great

system of human progress, which, with every ascending footstep, as it diminishes the necessity for animal

force, may be destined gradually to spiritualize us, by refining away our grosser attributes of body. If so,

Judge Pyncheon could endure a century or two more of such refinement as well as most other men.

The similarity, intellectual and moral, between the Judge and his ancestor appears to have been at least as

strong as the resemblance of mien and feature would afford reason to anticipate. In old Colonel Pyncheon's

funeral discourse the clergyman absolutely canonized his deceased parishioner, and opening, as it were, a

vista through the roof of the church, and thence through the firmament above, showed him seated, harp in

hand, among the crowned choristers of the spiritual world. On his tombstone, too, the record is highly

eulogistic; nor does history, so far as he holds a place upon its page, assail the consistency and uprightness of

his character. So also, as regards the Judge Pyncheon of today, neither clergyman, nor legal critic, nor

inscriber of tombstones, nor historian of general or local politics, would venture a word against this eminent

person's sincerity as a Christian, or respectability as a man, or integrity as a judge, or courage and faithfulness

as the oftentried representative of his political party. But, besides these cold, formal, and empty words of the

chisel that inscribes, the voice that speaks, and the pen that writes, for the public eye and for distant

time,and which inevitably lose much of their truth and freedom by the fatal consciousness of so

doing,there were traditions about the ancestor, and private diurnal gossip about the Judge, remarkably

accordant in their testimony. It is often instructive to take the woman's, the private and domestic, view of a

public man; nor can anything be more curious than the vast discrepancy between portraits intended for

engraving and the pencilsketches that pass from hand to hand behind the original's back.

For example: tradition affirmed that the Puritan had been greedy of wealth; the Judge, too, with all the show

of liberal expenditure, was said to be as closefisted as if his gripe were of iron. The ancestor had clothed

himself in a grim assumption of kindliness, a rough heartiness of word and manner, which most people took

to be the genuine warmth of nature, making its way through the thick and inflexible hide of a manly

character. His descendant, in compliance with the requirements of a nicer age, had etherealized this rude

benevolence into that broad benignity of smile wherewith he shone like a noonday sun along the streets, or

glowed like a household fire in the drawingrooms of his private acquaintance. The Puritan if not belied

by some singular stories, murmured, even at this day, under the narrator's breathhad fallen into certain

transgressions to which men of his great animal development, whatever their faith or principles, must

continue liable, until they put off impurity, along with the gross earthly substance that involves it. We must

not stain our page with any contemporary scandal, to a similar purport, that may have been whispered against

the Judge. The Puritan, again, an autocrat in his own household, had worn out three wives, and, merely by the

remorseless weight and hardness of his character in the conjugal relation, had sent them, one after another,

brokenhearted, to their graves. Here the parallel, in some sort, fails. The Judge had wedded but a single

wife, and lost her in the third or fourth year of their marriage. There was a fable, however,for such we

choose to consider it, though, not impossibly, typical of Judge Pyncheon's marital deportment,that the lady

got her deathblow in the honeymoon, and never smiled again, because her husband compelled her to serve

him with coffee every morning at his bedside, in token of fealty to her liegelord and master.

But it is too fruitful a subject, this of hereditary resemblances, the frequent recurrence of which, in a direct

line, is truly unaccountable, when we consider how large an accumulation of ancestry lies behind every man

at the distance of one or two centuries. We shall only add, therefore, that the Puritanso, at least, says

chimneycorner tradition, which often preserves traits of character with marvellous fidelitywas bold,

imperious, relentless, crafty; laying his purposes deep, and following them out with an inveteracy of pursuit

that knew neither rest nor conscience; trampling on the weak, and, when essential to his ends, doing his

utmost to beat down the strong. Whether the Judge in any degree resembled him, the further progress of our

Scarcely any of the items in the abovedrawn parallel occurred to Phoebe, whose country birth and residence,

in truth, had left her pitifully ignorant of most of the family traditions, which lingered, like cobwebs and

incrustations of smoke, about the rooms and chimneycorners of the House of the Seven Gables. Yet there

was a circumstance, very trifling in itself, which impressed her with an odd degree of horror. She had heard

of the anathema flung by Maule, the executed wizard, against Colonel Pyncheon and his posterity,that God

would give them blood to drink,and likewise of the popular notion, that this miraculous blood might now

and then be heard gurgling in their throats. The latter scandal as became a person of sense, and, more

especially, a member of the Pyncheon familyPhoebe had set down for the absurdity which it

unquestionably was. But ancient superstitions, after being steeped in human hearts and embodied in human

breath, and passing from lip to ear in manifold repetition, through a series of generations, become imbued

with an effect of homely truth. The smoke of the domestic hearth has scented them through and through. By

long transmission among household facts, they grow to look like them, and have such a familiar way of

making themselves at home that their influence is usually greater than we suspect. Thus it happened, that

when Phoebe heard a certain noise in Judge Pyncheon's throat, rather habitual with him, not altogether

voluntary, yet indicative of nothing, unless it were a slight bronchial complaint, or, as some people hinted, an

apoplectic symptom,when the girl heard this queer and awkward ingurgitation (which the writer never did

hear, and therefore cannot describe), she very foolishly started, and clasped her hands.

Of course, it was exceedingly ridiculous in Phoebe to be discomposed by such a trifle, and still more

unpardonable to show her discomposure to the individual most concerned in it. But the incident chimed in so

oddly with her previous fancies about the Colonel and the Judge, that, for the moment, it seemed quite to

"What is the matter with you, young woman?" said Judge Pyncheon, giving her one of his harsh looks. "Are

"Oh, nothing" sirnothing in the world!" answered Phoebe, with a little laugh of vexation at herself. "But

"Stay a moment, if you please," said the Judge, again beaming sunshine out of his face. "You seem to be a

little nervous this morning. The town air, Cousin Phoebe, does not agree with your good, wholesome country

habits. Or has anything happened to disturb you?anything remarkable in Cousin Hepzibah's family? An

arrival, eh? I thought so! No wonder you are out of sorts, my little cousin. To be an inmate with such a guest

"You quite puzzle me, sir," replied Phoebe, gazing inquiringly at the Judge. "There is no frightful guest in the

house, but only a poor, gentle, childlike man, whom I believe to be Cousin Hepzibah's brother. I am afraid

(but you, sir, will know better than I) that he is not quite in his sound senses; but so mild and quiet he seems

to be, that a mother might trust her baby with him; and I think he would play with the baby as if he were only

"I rejoice to hear so favorable and so ingenuous an account of my cousin Clifford," said the benevolent

Judge. "Many years ago, when we were boys and young men together, I had a great affection for him, and

still feel a tender interest in all his concerns. You say, Cousin Phoebe, he appears to be weak minded. Heaven

"And is it possible, my dear" rejoined the Judge, with a commiserating look," that you have never heard of

Clifford Pyncheon?that you know nothing of his history? Well, it is all right; and your mother has shown a

very proper regard for the good name of the family with which she connected herself. Believe the best you

can of this unfortunate person, and hope the best! It is a rule which Christians should always follow, in their

judgments of one another; and especially is it right and wise among near relatives, whose characters have

necessarily a degree of mutual dependence. But is Clifford in the parlor? I will just step in and see."

"Perhaps, sir, I had better call my cousin Hepzibah," said Phoebe; hardly knowing, however, whether she

ought to obstruct the entrance of so affectionate a kinsman into the private regions of the house. "Her brother

seemed to be just falling asleep after breakfast; and I am sure she would not like him to be disturbed. Pray,

But the Judge showed a singular determination to enter unannounced; and as Phoebe, with the vivacity of a

person whose movements unconsciously answer to her thoughts, had stepped towards the door, he used little

"No, no, Miss Phoebe!" said Judge Pyncheon in a voice as deep as a thundergrowl, and with a frown as

black as the cloud whence it issues." Stay you here! I know the house, and know my cousin Hepzibah, and

know her brother Clifford likewise.nor need my little country cousin put herself to the trouble of

announcing me!"in these latter words, by the bye, there were symptoms of a change from his sudden

harshness into his previous benignity of manner. "I am at home here, Phoebe, you must recollect, and you are

the stranger. I will just step in, therefore, and see for myself how Clifford is, and assure him and Hepzibah of

my kindly feelings and best wishes. It is right, at this juncture, that they should both hear from my own lips

Such was the case. The vibrations of the Judge's voice had reached the old gentlewoman in the parlor, where

she sat, with face averted, waiting on her brother's slumber. She now issued forth, as would appear, to defend

the entrance, looking, we must needs say, amazingly like the dragon which, in fairy tales, is wont to be the

guardian over an enchanted beauty. The habitual scowl of her brow was undeniably too fierce, at this

moment, to pass itself off on the innocent score of nearsightedness; and it was bent on Judge Pyncheon in a

way that seemed to confound, if not alarm him, so inadequately had he estimated the moral force of a deeply

grounded antipathy. She made a repelling gesture with her hand, and stood a perfect picture of prohibition, at

full length, in the dark frame of the doorway. But we must betray Hepzibah's secret, and confess that the

native timorousness of her character even now developed itself in a quick tremor, which, to her own

Possibly, the Judge was aware how little true hardihood lay behind Hepzibah's formidable front. At any rate,

being a gentleman of steady nerves, he soon recovered himself, and failed not to approach his cousin with

outstretched hand; adopting the sensible precaution, however, to cover his advance with a smile, so broad and

sultry, that, had it been only half as warm as it looked, a trellis of grapes might at once have turned purple

under its summerlike exposure. It may have been his purpose, indeed, to melt poor Hepzibah on the spot, as

"Hepzibah, my beloved cousin, I am rejoiced!" exclaimed the Judge most emphatically. "Now, at length, you

have something to live for. Yes, and all of us, let me say, your friends and kindred, have more to live for than

we had yesterday. I have lost no time in hastening to offer any assistance in my power towards making

Clifford comfortable. He belongs to us all. I know how much he requires,how much he used to

require,with his delicate taste, and his love of the beautiful. Anything in my house, pictures, books,

wine, luxuries of the table, he may command them all! It would afford me most heartfelt gratification to

"No," replied Hepzibah, her voice quivering too painfully to allow of many words. "He cannot see visitors!"

"A visitor, my dear cousin!do you call me so?" cried the Judge, whose sensibility, it seems, was hurt by

the coldness of the phrase. "Nay, then, let me be Clifford's host, and your own likewise. Come at once to my

house. The country air, and all the conveniences, I may say luxuries,that I have gathered about me, will

do wonders for him. And you and I, dear Hepzibah, will consult together, and watch together, and labor

together, to make our dear Clifford happy. Come! why should we make more words about what is both a duty

On hearing these so hospitable offers, and such generous recognition of the claims of kindred, Phoebe felt

very much in the mood of running up to Judge Pyncheon, and giving him, of her own accord, the kiss from

which she had so recently shrunk away. It was quite otherwise with Hepzibah; the Judge's smile seemed to

operate on her acerbity of heart like sunshine upon vinegar, making it ten times sourer than ever.

"Clifford," said she,still too agitated to utter more than an abrupt sentence,"Clifford has a home here!"

"May Heaven forgive you, Hepzibah," said Judge Pyncheon, reverently lifting his eyes towards that high

court of equity to which he appealed,"if you suffer any ancient prejudice or animosity to weigh with you in

this matter. I stand here with an open heart, willing and anxious to receive yourself and Clifford into it. Do

not refuse my good offices,my earnest propositions for your welfare! They are such, in all respects, as it

behooves your nearest kinsman to make. It will be a heavy responsibility, cousin, if you confine your brother

to this dismal house and stifled air, when the delightful freedom of my countryseat is at his command."

"Woman!" broke forth the Judge, giving way to his resentment, "what is the meaning of all this? Have you

other resources? Nay, I suspected as much! Take care, Hepzibah, take care! Clifford is on the brink of as

black a ruin as ever befell him yet! But why do I talk with you, woman as you are? Make way!I must see

Hepzibah spread out her gaunt figure across the door, and seemed really to increase in bulk; looking the more

terrible, also, because there was so much terror and agitation in her heart. But Judge Pyncheon's evident

purpose of forcing a passage was interrupted by a voice from the inner room; a weak, tremulous, wailing

voice, indicating helpless alarm, with no more energy for selfdefence than belongs to a frightened infant.

"Hepzibah, Hepzibah!" cried the voice; "go down on your knees to him! Kiss his feet! Entreat him not to

For the instant, it appeared doubtful whether it were not the Judge's resolute purpose to set Hepzibah aside,

and step across the threshold into the parlor, whence issued that broken and miserable murmur of entreaty. It

was not pity that restrained him, for, at the first sound of the enfeebled voice, a red fire kindled in his eyes,

and he made a quick pace forward, with something inexpressibly fierce and grim darkening forth, as it were,

out of the whole man. To know Judge Pyncheon was to see him at that moment. After such a revelation, let

him smile with what sultriness he would, he could much sooner turn grapes purple, or pumpkins yellow, than

melt the ironbranded impression out of the beholder's memory. And it rendered his aspect not the less, but

more frightful, that it seemed not to express wrath or hatred, but a certain hot fellness of purpose, which

Yet, after all, are we not slandering an excellent and amiable man? Look at the Judge now! He is apparently

conscious of having erred, in too energetically pressing his deeds of lovingkindness on persons unable to

appreciate them. He will await their better mood, and hold himself as ready to assist them then as at this

moment. As he draws back from the door, an allcomprehensive benignity blazes from his visage, indicating

that he gathers Hepzibah, little Phoebe, and the invisible Clifford, all three, together with the whole world

besides, into his immense heart, and gives them a warm bath in its flood of affection.

"You do me great wrong, dear Cousin Hepzibah!" said he, first kindly offering her his hand, and then

drawing on his glove preparatory to departure. "Very great wrong! But I forgive it, and will study to make

you think better of me. Of course, our poor Clifford being in so unhappy a state of mind, I cannot think of

urging an interview at present. But I shall watch over his welfare as if he were my own beloved brother; nor

do I at all despair, my dear cousin, of constraining both him and you to acknowledge your injustice. When

that shall happen, I desire no other revenge than your acceptance of the best offices in my power to do you."

With a bow to Hepzibah, and a degree of paternal benevolence in his parting nod to Phoebe, the Judge left the

shop, and went smiling along the street. As is customary with the rich, when they aim at the honors of a

republic, he apologized, as it were, to the people, for his wealth, prosperity, and elevated station, by a free

and hearty manner towards those who knew him; putting off the more of his dignity in due proportion with

the humbleness of the man whom he saluted, and thereby proving a haughty consciousness of his advantages

as irrefragably as if he had marched forth preceded by a troop of lackeys to clear the way. On this particular

forenoon, so excessive was the warmth of Judge Pyncheon's kindly aspect, that (such, at least, was the rumor

about town) an extra passage of the watercarts was found essential, in order to lay the dust occasioned by so

No sooner had he disappeared than Hepzibah grew deadly white, and, staggering towards Phoebe, let her

"O Phoebe!" murmured she, "that man has been the horror of my life! Shall I never, never have the

courage,will my voice never cease from trembling long enough to let me tell him what he is?"

"Do not speak of them,he has a heart of iron!" rejoined Hepzibah. "Go, now, and talk to Clifford! Amuse

and keep him quiet! It would disturb him wretchedly to see me so agitated as I am. There, go, dear child, and

Phoebe went accordingly, but perplexed herself, meanwhile, with queries as to the purport of the scene which

she had just witnessed, and also whether judges, clergymen, and other characters of that eminent stamp and

respectability, could really, in any single instance, be otherwise than just and upright men. A doubt of this

nature has a most disturbing influence, and, if shown to be a fact, comes with fearful and startling effect on

minds of the trim, orderly, and limitloving class, in which we find our little countrygirl. Dispositions more

boldly speculative may derive a stern enjoyment from the discovery, since there must be evil in the world,

that a high man is as likely to grasp his share of it as a low one. A wider scope of view, and a deeper insight,

may see rank, dignity, and station, all proved illusory, so far as regards their claim to human reverence, and

yet not feel as if the universe were thereby tumbled headlong into chaos. But Phoebe, in order to keep the

universe in its old place, was fain to smother, in some degree, her own intuitions as to Judge Pyncheon's

character. And as for her cousin's testimony in disparagement of it, she concluded that Hepzibah's judgment

was embittered by one of those family feuds which render hatred the more deadly by the dead and corrupted

TRULY was there something high, generous, and noble in the native composition of our poor old Hepzibah!

Or else,and it was quite as probably the case,she had been enriched by poverty, developed by sorrow,

elevated by the strong and solitary affection of her life, and thus endowed with heroism, which never could

have characterized her in what are called happier circumstances. Through dreary years Hepzibah had looked

forwardfor the most part despairingly, never with any confidence of hope, but always with the feeling that

it was her brightest possibilityto the very position in which she now found herself. In her own behalf, she

had asked nothing of Providence but the opportunity of devoting herself to this brother, whom she had so

loved,so admired for what he was, or might have been, and to whom she had kept her faith, alone of all

the world, wholly, unfalteringly, at every instant, and throughout life. And here, in his late decline, the lost

one had come back out of his long and strange misfortune, and was thrown on her sympathy, as it seemed,

not merely for the bread of his physical existence, but for everything that should keep him morally alive. She

had responded to the call. She had come forward,our poor, gaunt Hepzibah, in her rusty silks, with her

rigid joints, and the sad perversity of her scowl, ready to do her utmost; and with affection enough, if that

were all, to do a hundred times as much! There could be few more tearful sights,and Heaven forgive us if a

smile insist on mingling with our conception of it!few sights with truer pathos in them, than Hepzibah

How patiently did she endeavor to wrap Clifford up in her great, warm love, and make it all the world to him,

so that he should retain no torturing sense of the coldness and dreariness without! Her little efforts to amuse

Remembering his early love of poetry and fiction, she unlocked a bookcase, and took down several books

that had been excellent reading in their day. There was a volume of Pope, with the Rape of the Lock in it, and

another of the Tatler, and an odd one of Dryden's Miscellanies, all with tarnished gilding on their covers, and

thoughts of tarnished brilliancy inside. They had no success with Clifford. These, and all such writers of

society, whose new works glow like the rich texture of a justwoven carpet, must be content to relinquish

their charm, for every reader, after an age or two, and could hardly be supposed to retain any portion of it for

a mind that had utterly lost its estimate of modes and manners. Hepzibah then took up Rasselas, and began to

read of the Happy Valley, with a vague idea that some secret of a contented life had there been elaborated,

which might at least serve Clifford and herself for this one day. But the Happy Valley had a cloud over it.

Hepzibah troubled her auditor, moreover, by innumerable sins of emphasis, which he seemed to detect,

without any reference to the meaning; nor, in fact, did he appear to take much note of the sense of what she

read, but evidently felt the tedium of the lecture, without harvesting its profit. His sister's voice, too, naturally

harsh, had, in the course of her sorrowful lifetime, contracted a kind of croak, which, when it once gets into

the human throat, is as ineradicable as sin. In both sexes, occasionally, this lifelong croak, accompanying

each word of joy or sorrow, is one of the symptoms of a settled melancholy; and wherever it occurs, the

whole history of misfortune is conveyed in its slightest accent. The effect is as if the voice had been dyed

black; or,if we must use a more moderate simile,this miserable croak, running through all the variations

of the voice, is like a black silken thread, on which the crystal beads of speech are strung, and whence they

take their hue. Such voices have put on mourning for dead hopes; and they ought to die and be buried along

Discerning that Clifford was not gladdened by her efforts, Hepzibah searched about the house for the means

of more exhilarating pastime. At one time, her eyes chanced to rest on Alice Pyncheon's harpsichord. It was a

moment of great peril; for,despite the traditionary awe that had gathered over this instrument of music, and

the dirges which spiritual fingers were said to play on it,the devoted sister had solemn thoughts of

thrumming on its chords for Clifford's benefit, and accompanying the performance with her voice. Poor

Clifford! Poor Hepzibah! Poor harpsichord! All three would have been miserable together. By some good

agency,possibly, by the unrecognized interposition of the longburied Alice herself,the threatening

But the worst of allthe hardest stroke of fate for Hepzibah to endure, and perhaps for Clifford, too was his

invincible distaste for her appearance. Her features, never the most agreeable, and now harsh with age and

grief, and resentment against the world for his sake; her dress, and especially her turban; the queer and quaint

manners, which had unconsciously grown upon her in solitude,such being the poor gentlewoman's outward

characteristics, it is no great marvel, although the mournfullest of pities, that the instinctive lover of the

Beautiful was fain to turn away his eyes. There was no help for it. It would be the latest impulse to die within

him. In his last extremity, the expiring breath stealing faintly through Clifford's lips, he would doubtless press

Hepzibah's hand, in fervent recognition of all her lavished love, and close his eyes, but not so much to die,

as to be constrained to look no longer on her face! Poor Hepzibah! She took counsel with herself what might

be done, and thought of putting ribbons on her turban; but, by the instant rush of several guardian angels, was

withheld from an experiment that could hardly have proved less than fatal to the beloved object of her

To be brief, besides Hepzibah's disadvantages of person, there was an uncouthness pervading all her deeds; a

clumsy something, that could but ill adapt itself for use, and not at all for ornament. She was a grief to

Clifford, and she knew it. In this extremity, the antiquated virgin turned to Phoebe. No grovelling jealousy

was in her heart. Had it pleased Heaven to crown the heroic fidelity of her life by making her personally the

medium of Clifford's happiness, it would have rewarded her for all the past, by a joy with no bright tints,

indeed, but deep and true, and worth a thousand gayer ecstasies. This could not be. She therefore turned to

Phoebe, and resigned the task into the young girl's hands. The latter took it up cheerfully, as she did

everything, but with no sense of a mission to perform, and succeeding all the better for that same simplicity.

By the involuntary effect of a genial temperament, Phoebe soon grew to be absolutely essential to the daily

comfort, if not the daily life, of her two forlorn companions. The grime and sordidness of the House of the

Seven Gables seemed to have vanished since her appearance there; the gnawing tooth of the dryrot was

stayed among the old timbers of its skeleton frame; the dust had ceased to settle down so densely, from the

antique ceilings, upon the floors and furniture of the rooms below,or, at any rate, there was a little

housewife, as lightfooted as the breeze that sweeps a garden walk, gliding hither and thither to brush it all

away. The shadows of gloomy events that haunted the else lonely and desolate apartments; the heavy,

breathless scent which death had left in more than one of the bedchambers, ever since his visits of long

ago,these were less powerful than the purifying influence scattered throughout the atmosphere of the

household by the presence of one youthful, fresh, and thoroughly wholesome heart. There was no morbidness

in Phoebe; if there had been, the old Pyncheon House was the very locality to ripen it into incurable disease.

But now her spirit resembled, in its potency, a minute quantity of ottar of rose in one of Hepzibah's huge,

ironbound trunks, diffusing its fragrance through the various articles of linen and wroughtlace, kerchiefs,

caps, stockings, folded dresses, gloves, and whatever else was treasured there. As every article in the great

trunk was the sweeter for the rosescent, so did all the thoughts and emotions of Hepzibah and Clifford,

sombre as they might seem, acquire a subtle attribute of happiness from Phoebe's intermixture with them. Her

activity of body, intellect, and heart impelled her continually to perform the ordinary little toils that offered

themselves around her, and to think the thought proper for the moment, and to sympathize,now with the

twittering gayety of the robins in the peartree, and now to such a depth as she could with Hepzibah's dark

anxiety, or the vague moan of her brother. This facile adaptation was at once the symptom of perfect health

A nature like Phoebe's has invariably its due influence, but is seldom regarded with due honor. Its spiritual

force, however, may be partially estimated by the fact of her having found a place for herself, amid

circumstances so stern as those which surrounded the mistress of the house; and also by the effect which she

produced on a character of so much more mass than her own. For the gaunt, bony frame and limbs of

Hepzibah, as compared with the tiny lightsomeness of Phoebe's figure, were perhaps in some fit proportion

To the guest,to Hepzibah's brother,or Cousin Clifford, as Phoebe now began to call him,she was

especially necessary. Not that he could ever be said to converse with her, or often manifest, in any other very

definite mode, his sense of a charm in her society. But if she were a long while absent he became pettish and

nervously restless, pacing the room to and fro with the uncertainty that characterized all his movements; or

else would sit broodingly in his great chair, resting his head on his hands, and evincing life only by an electric

sparkle of illhumor, whenever Hepzibah endeavored to arouse him. Phoebe's presence, and the contiguity of

her fresh life to his blighted one, was usually all that he required. Indeed, such was the native gush and play

of her spirit, that she was seldom perfectly quiet and undemonstrative, any more than a fountain ever ceases

to dimple and warble with its flow. She possessed the gift of song, and that, too, so naturally, that you would

as little think of inquiring whence she had caught it, or what master had taught her, as of asking the same

questions about a bird, in whose small strain of music we recognize the voice of the Creator as distinctly as in

the loudest accents of his thunder. So long as Phoebe sang, she might stray at her own will about the house.

Clifford was content, whether the sweet, airy homeliness of her tones came down from the upper chambers,

or along the passageway from the shop, or was sprinkled through the foliage of the peartree, inward from

the garden, with the twinkling sunbeams. He would sit quietly, with a gentle pleasure gleaming over his face,

brighter now, and now a little dimmer, as the song happened to float near him, or was more remotely heard. It

It is perhaps remarkable, considering her temperament, that Phoebe oftener chose a strain of pathos than of

gayety. But the young and happy are not ill pleased to temper their life with a transparent shadow. The

deepest pathos of Phoebe's voice and song, moreover, came sifted through the golden texture of a cheery

spirit, and was somehow so interfused with the quality thence acquired, that one's heart felt all the lighter for

having wept at it. Broad mirth, in the sacred presence of dark misfortune, would have jarred harshly and

irreverently with the solemn symphony that rolled its undertone through Hepzibah's and her brother's life.

Therefore, it was well that Phoebe so often chose sad themes, and not amiss that they ceased to be so sad

Becoming habituated to her companionship, Clifford readily showed how capable of imbibing pleasant tints

and gleams of cheerful light from all quarters his nature must originally have been. He grew youthful while

she sat by him. A beauty,not precisely real, even in its utmost manifestation, and which a painter would

have watched long to seize and fix upon his canvas, and, after all, in vain,beauty, nevertheless, that was

not a mere dream, would sometimes play upon and illuminate his face. It did more than to illuminate; it

transfigured him with an expression that could only be interpreted as the glow of an exquisite and happy

spirit. That gray hair, and those furrows, with their record of infinite sorrow so deeply written across his

brow, and so compressed, as with a futile effort to crowd in all the tale, that the whole inscription was made

illegible, these, for the moment, vanished. An eye at once tender and acute might have beheld in the man

some shadow of what he was meant to be. Anon, as age came stealing, like a sad twilight, back over his

figure, you would have felt tempted to hold an argument with Destiny, and affirm, that either this being

should not have been made mortal, or mortal existence should have been tempered to his qualities. There

seemed no necessity for his having drawn breath at all; the world never wanted him; but, as he had breathed,

it ought always to have been the balmiest of summer air. The same perplexity will invariably haunt us with

regard to natures that tend to feed exclusively upon the Beautiful, let their earthly fate be as lenient as it may.

Phoebe, it is probable, had but a very imperfect comprehension of the character over which she had thrown so

beneficent a spell. Nor was it necessary. The fire upon the hearth can gladden a whole semicircle of faces

round about it, but need not know the individuality of one among them all. Indeed, there was something too

fine and delicate in Clifford's traits to be perfectly appreciated by one whose sphere lay so much in the Actual

as Phoebe's did. For Clifford, however, the reality, and simplicity, and thorough homeliness of the girl's

nature were as powerful a charm as any that she possessed. Beauty, it is true, and beauty almost perfect in its

own style, was indispensable. Had Phoebe been coarse in feature, shaped clumsily, of a harsh voice, and

uncouthly mannered, she might have been rich with all good gifts, beneath this unfortunate exterior, and still,

so long as she wore the guise of woman, she would have shocked Clifford, and depressed him by her lack of

beauty. But nothing more beautiful nothing prettier, at leastwas ever made than Phoebe. And, therefore,

to this man,whose whole poor and impalpable enjoyment of existence heretofore, and until both his heart

and fancy died within him, had been a dream,whose images of women had more and more lost their

warmth and substance, and been frozen, like the pictures of secluded artists, into the chillest ideality,to

him, this little figure of the cheeriest household life was just what he required to bring him back into the

breathing world. Persons who have wandered, or been expelled, out of the common track of things, even were

it for a better system, desire nothing so much as to be led back. They shiver in their loneliness, be it on a

mountaintop or in a dungeon. Now, Phoebe's presence made a home about her,that very sphere which the

outcast, the prisoner, the potentate,the wretch beneath mankind, the wretch aside from it, or the wretch

above it, instinctively pines after,a home! She was real! Holding her hand, you felt something; a tender

something; a substance, and a warm one: and so long as you should feel its grasp, soft as it was, you might be

certain that your place was good in the whole sympathetic chain of human nature. The world was no longer a

By looking a little further in this direction, we might suggest an explanation of an oftensuggested mystery.

Why are poets so apt to choose their mates, not for any similarity of poetic endowment, but for qualities

which might make the happiness of the rudest handicraftsman as well as that of the ideal craftsman of the

spirit? Because, probably, at his highest elevation, the poet needs no human intercourse; but he finds it dreary

There was something very beautiful in the relation that grew up between this pair, so closely and constantly

linked together, yet with such a waste of gloomy and mysterious years from his birthday to hers. On

Clifford's part it was the feeling of a man naturally endowed with the liveliest sensibility to feminine

influence, but who had never quaffed the cup of passionate love, and knew that it was now too late. He knew

it, with the instinctive delicacy that had survived his intellectual decay. Thus, his sentiment for Phoebe,

without being paternal, was not less chaste than if she had been his daughter. He was a man, it is true, and

recognized her as a woman. She was his only representative of womankind. He took unfailing note of every

charm that appertained to her sex, and saw the ripeness of her lips, and the virginal development of her

bosom. All her little womanly ways, budding out of her like blossoms on a young fruittree, had their effect

on him, and sometimes caused his very heart to tingle with the keenest thrills of pleasure. At such

moments,for the effect was seldom more than momentary,the halftorpid man would be full of

harmonious life, just as a longsilent harp is full of sound, when the musician's fingers sweep across it. But,

after all, it seemed rather a perception, or a sympathy, than a sentiment belonging to himself as an individual.

He read Phoebe as he would a sweet and simple story; he listened to her as if she were a verse of household

poetry, which God, in requital of his bleak and dismal lot, had permitted some angel, that most pitied him, to

warble through the house. She was not an actual fact for him, but the interpretation of all that he lacked on

earth brought warmly home to his conception; so that this mere symbol, or lifelike picture, had almost the

But we strive in vain to put the idea into words. No adequate expression of the beauty and profound pathos

with which it impresses us is attainable. This being, made only for happiness, and heretofore so miserably

failing to be happy,his tendencies so hideously thwarted, that, some unknown time ago, the delicate

springs of his character, never morally or intellectually strong, had given way, and he was now

imbecile,this poor, forlorn voyager from the Islands of the Blest, in a frail bark, on a tempestuous sea, had

been flung, by the last mountainwave of his shipwreck, into a quiet harbor. There, as he lay more than half

lifeless on the strand, the fragrance of an earthly rosebud had come to his nostrils, and, as odors will, had

summoned up reminiscences or visions of all the living and breathing beauty amid which he should have had

his home. With his native susceptibility of happy influences, he inhales the slight, ethereal rapture into his

And how did Phoebe regard Clifford? The girl's was not one of those natures which are most attracted by

what is strange and exceptional in human character. The path which would best have suited her was the

wellworn track of ordinary life; the companions in whom she would most have delighted were such as one

encounters at every turn. The mystery which enveloped Clifford, so far as it affected her at all, was an

annoyance, rather than the piquant charm which many women might have found in it. Still, her native

kindliness was brought strongly into play, not by what was darkly picturesque in his situation, nor so much,

even, by the finer graces of his character, as by the simple appeal of a heart so forlorn as his to one so full of

genuine sympathy as hers. She gave him an affectionate regard, because he needed so much love, and seemed

to have received so little. With a ready tact, the result of everactive and wholesome sensibility, she

discerned what was good for him, and did it. Whatever was morbid in his mind and experience she ignored;

and thereby kept their intercourse healthy, by the incautious, but, as it were, heavendirected freedom of her

whole conduct. The sick in mind, and, perhaps, in body, are rendered more darkly and hopelessly so by the

manifold reflection of their disease, mirrored back from all quarters in the deportment of those about them;

they are compelled to inhale the poison of their own breath, in infinite repetition. But Phoebe afforded her

poor patient a supply of purer air. She impregnated it, too, not with a wildflower scent, for wildness was

no trait of hers,but with the perfume of gardenroses, pinks, and other blossoms of much sweetness, which

nature and man have consented together in making grow from summer to summer, and from century to

century. Such a flower was Phoebe in her relation with Clifford, and such the delight that he inhaled from

Yet, it must be said, her petals sometimes drooped a little, in consequence of the heavy atmosphere about her.

She grew more thoughtful than heretofore. Looking aside at Clifford's face, and seeing the dim,

unsatisfactory elegance and the intellect almost quenched, she would try to inquire what had been his life.

Was he always thus? Had this veil been over him from his birth? this veil, under which far more of his

spirit was hidden than revealed, and through which he so imperfectly discerned the actual world, or was its

gray texture woven of some dark calamity? Phoebe loved no riddles, and would have been glad to escape the

perplexity of this one. Nevertheless, there was so far a good result of her meditations on Clifford's character,

that, when her involuntary conjectures, together with the tendency of every strange circumstance to tell its

own story, had gradually taught her the fact, it had no terrible effect upon her. Let the world have done him

what vast wrong it might, she knew Cousin Clifford too wellor fancied soever to shudder at the touch of

Within a few days after the appearance of this remarkable inmate, the routine of life had established itself

with a good deal of uniformity in the old house of our narrative. In the morning, very shortly after breakfast,

it was Clifford's custom to fall asleep in his chair; nor, unless accidentally disturbed, would he emerge from a

dense cloud of slumber or the thinner mists that flitted to and fro, until well towards noonday. These hours of

drowsihead were the season of the old gentlewoman's attendance on her brother, while Phoebe took charge of

the shop; an arrangement which the public speedily understood, and evinced their decided preference of the

younger shopwoman by the multiplicity of their calls during her administration of affairs. Dinner over,

Hepzibah took her knittingwork,a long stocking of gray yarn, for her brother's winter wear,and with a

sigh, and a scowl of affectionate farewell to Clifford, and a gesture enjoining watchfulness on Phoebe, went

to take her seat behind the counter. It was now the young girl's turn to be the nurse,the guardian, the

CLIFFORD, except for Phoebe's More active instigation would ordinarily have yielded to the torpor which

had crept through all his modes of being, and which sluggishly counselled him to sit in his morning chair till

eventide. But the girl seldom failed to propose a removal to the garden, where Uncle Venner and the

daguerreotypist had made such repairs on the roof of the ruinous arbor, or summerhouse, that it was now a

sufficient shelter from sunshine and casual showers. The hopvine, too, had begun to grow luxuriantly over

the sides of the little edifice, and made an interior of verdant seclusion, with innumerable peeps and glimpses

Here, sometimes, in this green playplace of flickering light, Phoebe read to Clifford. Her acquaintance, the

artist, who appeared to have a literary turn, had supplied her with works of fiction, in pamphlet form,and a

few volumes of poetry, in altogether a different style and taste from those which Hepzibah selected for his

amusement. Small thanks were due to the books, however, if the girl's readings were in any degree more

successful than her elderly cousin's. Phoebe's voice had always a pretty music in it, and could either enliven

Clifford by its sparkle and gayety of tone, or soothe him by a continued flow of pebbly and brooklike

cadences. But the fictionsin which the countrygirl, unused to works of that nature, often became deeply

absorbedinterested her strange auditor very little, or not at all. Pictures of life, scenes of passion or

sentiment, wit, humor, and pathos, were all thrown away, or worse than thrown away, on Clifford; either

because he lacked an experience by which to test their truth, or because his own griefs were a touchstone of

reality that few feigned emotions could withstand. When Phoebe broke into a peal of merry laughter at what

she read, he would now and then laugh for sympathy, but oftener respond with a troubled, questioning look.

If a teara maiden's sunshiny tear over imaginary woedropped upon some melancholy page, Clifford

either took it as a token of actual calamity, or else grew peevish, and angrily motioned her to close the

volume. And wisely too! Is not the world sad enough, in genuine earnest, without making a pastime of mock

With poetry it was rather better. He delighted in the swell and subsidence of the rhythm, and the happily

recurring rhyme. Nor was Clifford incapable of feeling the sentiment of poetry,not, perhaps, where it was

highest or deepest, but where it was most flitting and ethereal. It was impossible to foretell in what exquisite

verse the awakening spell might lurk; but, on raising her eyes from the page to Clifford's face, Phoebe would

be made aware, by the light breaking through it, that a more delicate intelligence than her own had caught a

lambent flame from what she read. One glow of this kind, however, was often the precursor of gloom for

many hours afterward; because, when the glow left him, he seemed conscious of a missing sense and power,

and groped about for them, as if a blind man should go seeking his lost eyesight.

It pleased him more, and was better for his inward welfare, that Phoebe should talk, and make passing

occurrences vivid to his mind by her accompanying description and remarks. The life of the garden offered

topics enough for such discourse as suited Clifford best. He never failed to inquire what flowers had bloomed

since yesterday. His feeling for flowers was very exquisite, and seemed not so much a taste as an emotion; he

was fond of sitting with one in his hand, intently observing it, and looking from its petals into Phoebe's face,

as if the garden flower were the sister of the household maiden. Not merely was there a delight in the flower's

perfume, or pleasure in its beautiful form, and the delicacy or brightness of its hue; but Clifford's enjoyment

was accompanied with a perception of life, character, and individuality, that made him love these blossoms of

the garden, as if they were endowed with sentiment and intelligence. This affection and sympathy for flowers

is almost exclusively a woman's trait. Men, if endowed with it by nature, soon lose, forget, and learn to

despise it, in their contact with coarser things than flowers. Clifford, too, had long forgotten it; but found it

It is wonderful how many pleasant incidents continually came to pass in that secluded gardenspot when

once Phoebe had set herself to look for them. She had seen or heard a bee there, on the first day of her

acquaintance with the place. And often, almost continually, indeed,since then, the bees kept coming

thither, Heaven knows why, or by what pertinacious desire, for farfetched sweets, when, no doubt, there

were broad cloverfields, and all kinds of garden growth, much nearer home than this. Thither the bees came,

however, and plunged into the squashblossoms, as if there were no other squashvines within a long day's

flight, or as if the soil of Hepzibah's garden gave its productions just the very quality which these laborious

little wizards wanted, in order to impart the Hymettus odor to their whole hive of New England honey. When

Clifford heard their sunny, buzzing murmur, in the heart of the great yellow blossoms, he looked about him

with a joyful sense of warmth, and blue sky, and green grass, and of God's free air in the whole height from

earth to heaven. After all, there need be no question why the bees came to that one green nook in the dusty

town. God sent them thither to gladden our poor Clifford. They brought the rich summer with them, in

When the beanvines began to flower on the poles, there was one particular variety which bore a vivid scarlet

blossom. The daguerreotypist had found these beans in a garret, over one of the seven gables, treasured up in

an old chest of drawers by some horticultural Pyncheon of days gone by, who doubtless meant to sow them

the next summer, but was himself first sown in Death's gardenground. By way of testing whether there were

still a living germ in such ancient seeds, Holgrave had planted some of them; and the result of his experiment

was a splendid row of beanvines, clambering, early, to the full height of the poles, and arraying them, from

top to bottom, in a spiral profusion of red blossoms. And, ever since the unfolding of the first bud, a

multitude of hummingbirds had been attracted thither. At times, it seemed as if for every one of the hundred

blossoms there was one of these tiniest fowls of the air,a thumb's bigness of burnished plumage, hovering

and vibrating about the beanpoles. It was with indescribable interest, and even more than childish delight,

that Clifford watched the hummingbirds. He used to thrust his head softly out of the arbor to see them the

better; all the while, too, motioning Phoebe to be quiet, and snatching glimpses of the smile upon her face, so

as to heap his enjoyment up the higher with her sympathy. He had not merely grown young;he was a child

Hepzibah, whenever she happened to witness one of these fits of miniature enthusiasm, would shake her

head, with a strange mingling of the mother and sister, and of pleasure and sadness, in her aspect. She said

that it had always been thus with Clifford when the hummingbirds came,always, from his

babyhood,and that his delight in them had been one of the earliest tokens by which he showed his love for

beautiful things. And it was a wonderful coincidence, the good lady thought, that the artist should have

planted these scarletflowering beanswhich the hummingbirds sought far and wide, and which had not

grown in the Pyncheon garden before for forty yearson the very summer of Clifford's return.

Then would the tears stand in poor Hepzibah's eyes, or overflow them with a too abundant gush, so that she

was fain to betake herself into some corner, lest Clifford should espy her agitation. Indeed, all the enjoyments

of this period were provocative of tears. Coming so late as it did, it was a kind of Indian summer, with a mist

in its balmiest sunshine, and decay and death in its gaudiest delight. The more Clifford seemed to taste the

happiness of a child, the sadder was the difference to be recognized. With a mysterious and terrible Past,

which had annihilated his memory, and a blank Future before him, he had only this visionary and impalpable

Now, which, if you once look closely at it, is nothing. He himself, as was perceptible by many symptoms, lay

darkly behind his pleasure, and knew it to be a babyplay, which he was to toy and trifle with, instead of

thoroughly believing. Clifford saw, it may be, in the mirror of his deeper consciousness, that he was an

example and representative of that great class of people whom an inexplicable Providence is continually

putting at crosspurposes with the world: breaking what seems its own promise in their nature; withholding

their proper food, and setting poison before them for a banquet; and thuswhen it might so easily, as one

would think, have been adjusted otherwisemaking their existence a strangeness, a solitude, and torment.

All his life long, he had been learning how to be wretched, as one learns a foreign tongue; and now, with the

lesson thoroughly by heart, he could with difficulty comprehend his little airy happiness. Frequently there

was a dim shadow of doubt in his eyes. "Take my hand, Phoebe," he would say, "and pinch it hard with your

little fingers! Give me a rose, that I may press its thorns, and prove myself awake by the sharp touch of pain!"

Evidently, he desired this prick of a trifling anguish, in order to assure himself, by that quality which he best

knew to be real, that the garden, and the seven weatherbeaten gables, and Hepzibah's scowl, and Phoebe's

smile, were real likewise. Without this signet in his flesh, he could have attributed no more substance to them

than to the empty confusion of imaginary scenes with which he had fed his spirit, until even that poor

The author needs great faith in his reader's sympathy; else he must hesitate to give details so minute, and

incidents apparently so trifling, as are essential to make up the idea of this gardenlife. It was the Eden of a

thundersmitten Adam, who had fled for refuge thither out of the same dreary and perilous wilderness into

One of the available means of amusement, of which Phoebe made the most in Clifford's behalf, was that

feathered society, the hens, a breed of whom, as we have already said, was an immemorial heirloom in the

Pyncheon family. In compliance with a whim of Clifford, as it troubled him to see them in confinement, they

had been set at liberty, and now roamed at will about the garden; doing some little mischief, but hindered

from escape by buildings on three sides, and the difficult peaks of a wooden fence on the other. They spent

much of their abundant leisure on the margin of Maule's well, which was haunted by a kind of snail,

evidently a titbit to their palates; and the brackish water itself, however nauseous to the rest of the world, was

so greatly esteemed by these fowls, that they might be seen tasting, turning up their heads, and smacking their

bills, with precisely the air of winebibbers round a probationary cask. Their generally quiet, yet often brisk,

and constantly diversified talk, one to another, or sometimes in soliloquy,as they scratched worms out of

the rich, black soil, or pecked at such plants as suited their taste,had such a domestic tone, that it was

almost a wonder why you could not establish a regular interchange of ideas about household matters, human

and gallinaceous. All hens are well worth studying for the piquancy and rich variety of their manners; but by

no possibility can there have been other fowls of such odd appearance and deportment as these ancestral

ones. They probably embodied the traditionary peculiarities of their whole line of progenitors, derived

through an unbroken succession of eggs; or else this individual Chanticleer and his two wives had grown to

be humorists, and a little crackbrained withal, on account of their solitary way of life, and out of sympathy

Queer, indeed, they looked! Chanticleer himself, though stalking on two stiltlike legs, with the dignity of

interminable descent in all his gestures, was hardly bigger than an ordinary partridge; his two wives were

about the size of quails; and as for the one chicken, it looked small enough to be still in the egg, and, at the

same time, sufficiently old, withered, wizened, and experienced, to have been founder of the antiquated race.

Instead of being the youngest of the family, it rather seemed to have aggregated into itself the ages, not only

of these living specimens of the breed, but of all its forefathers and foremothers, whose united excellences

and oddities were squeezed into its little body. Its mother evidently regarded it as the one chicken of the

world, and as necessary, in fact, to the world's continuance, or, at any rate, to the equilibrium of the present

system of affairs, whether in church or state. No lesser sense of the infant fowl's importance could have

justified, even in a mother's eyes, the perseverance with which she watched over its safety, ruffling her small

person to twice its proper size, and flying in everybody's face that so much as looked towards her hopeful

progeny. No lower estimate could have vindicated the indefatigable zeal with which she scratched, and her

unscrupulousness in digging up the choicest flower or vegetable, for the sake of the fat earthworm at its root.

Her nervous cluck, when the chicken happened to be hidden in the long grass or under the squashleaves; her

gentle croak of satisfaction, while sure of it beneath her wing; her note of illconcealed fear and obstreperous

defiance, when she saw her archenemy, a neighbor's cat, on the top of the high fence,one or other of these

sounds was to be heard at almost every moment of the day. By degrees, the observer came to feel nearly as

Phoebe, after getting well acquainted with the old hen, was sometimes permitted to take the chicken in her

hand, which was quite capable of grasping its cubic inch or two of body. While she curiously examined its

hereditary marks,the peculiar speckle of its plumage, the funny tuft on its head, and a knob on each of its

legs,the little biped, as she insisted, kept giving her a sagacious wink. The daguerreotypist once whispered

her that these marks betokened the oddities of the Pyncheon family, and that the chicken itself was a symbol

of the life of the old house, embodying its interpretation, likewise, although an unintelligible one, as such

clews generally are. It was a feathered riddle; a mystery hatched out of an egg, and just as mysterious as if the

The second of Chanticleer's two wives, ever since Phoebe's arrival, had been in a state of heavy despondency,

caused, as it afterwards appeared, by her inability to lay an egg. One day, however, by her selfimportant

gait, the sideways turn of her head, and the cock of her eye, as she pried into one and another nook of the

garden,croaking to herself, all the while, with inexpressible complacency,it was made evident that this

identical hen, much as mankind undervalued her, carried something about her person the worth of which was

not to be estimated either in gold or precious stones. Shortly after, there was a prodigious cackling and

gratulation of Chanticleer and all his family, including the wizened chicken, who appeared to understand the

matter quite as well as did his sire, his mother, or his aunt. That afternoon Phoebe found a diminutive

egg,not in the regular nest, it was far too precious to be trusted there,but cunningly hidden under the

currantbushes, on some dry stalks of last year's grass. Hepzibah, on learning the fact, took possession of the

egg and appropriated it to Clifford's breakfast, on account of a certain delicacy of flavor, for which, as she

affirmed, these eggs had always been famous. Thus unscrupulously did the old gentlewoman sacrifice the

continuance, perhaps, of an ancient feathered race, with no better end than to supply her brother with a dainty

that hardly filled the bowl of a teaspoon! It must have been in reference to this outrage that Chanticleer, the

next day, accompanied by the bereaved mother of the egg, took his post in front of Phoebe and Clifford, and

delivered himself of a harangue that might have proved as long as his own pedigree, but for a fit of merriment

on Phoebe's part. Hereupon, the offended fowl stalked away on his long stilts, and utterly withdrew his notice

from Phoebe and the rest of human nature, until she made her peace with an offering of spicecake, which,

We linger too long, no doubt, beside this paltry rivulet of life that flowed through the garden of the Pyncheon

House. But we deem it pardonable to record these mean incidents and poor delights, because they proved so

greatly to Clifford's benefit. They had the earthsmell in them, and contributed to give him health and

substance. Some of his occupations wrought less desirably upon him. He had a singular propensity, for

example, to hang over Maule's well, and look at the constantly shifting phantasmagoria of figures produced

by the agitation of the water over the mosaicwork of colored pebbles at the bottom. He said that faces

looked upward to him there, beautiful faces, arrayed in bewitching smiles,each momentary face so fair

and rosy, and every smile so sunny, that he felt wronged at its departure, until the same flitting witchcraft

made a new one. But sometimes he would suddenly cry out, "The dark face gazes at me!" and be miserable

the whole day afterwards. Phoebe, when she hung over the fountain by Clifford's side, could see nothing of

all this,neither the beauty nor the ugliness,but only the colored pebbles, looking as if the gush of the

waters shook and disarranged them. And the dark face, that so troubled Clifford, was no more than the

shadow thrown from a branch of one of the damsontrees, and breaking the inner light of Maule's well. The

truth was, however, that his fancyreviving faster than his will and judgment, and always stronger than

theycreated shapes of loveliness that were symbolic of his native character, and now and then a stern and

On Sundays, after Phoebe had been at church,for the girl had a churchgoing conscience, and would

hardly have been at ease had she missed either prayer, singing, sermon, or benediction, after churchtime,

therefore, there was, ordinarily, a sober little festival in the garden. In addition to Clifford, Hepzibah, and

Phoebe, two guests made up the company. One was the artist Holgrave, who, in spite of his consociation with

reformers, and his other queer and questionable traits, continued to hold an elevated place in Hepzibah's

regard. The other, we are almost ashamed to say, was the venerable Uncle Venner, in a clean shirt, and a

broadcloth coat, more respectable than his ordinary wear, inasmuch as it was neatly patched on each elbow,

and might be called an entire garment, except for a slight inequality in the length of its skirts. Clifford, on

several occasions, had seemed to enjoy the old man's intercourse, for the sake of his mellow, cheerful vein,

which was like the sweet flavor of a frostbitten apple, such as one picks up under the tree in December. A

man at the very lowest point of the social scale was easier and more agreeable for the fallen gentleman to

encounter than a person at any of the intermediate degrees; and, moreover, as Clifford's young manhood had

been lost, he was fond of feeling himself comparatively youthful, now, in apposition with the patriarchal age

of Uncle Venner. In fact, it was sometimes observable that Clifford half wilfully hid from himself the

consciousness of being stricken in years, and cherished visions of an earthly future still before him; visions,

however, too indistinctly drawn to be followed by disappointmentthough, doubtless, by depressionwhen

So this oddly composed little social party used to assemble under the ruinous arbor. Hepzibahstately as

ever at heart, and yielding not an inch of her old gentility, but resting upon it so much the more, as justifying

a princesslike condescensionexhibited a not ungraceful hospitality. She talked kindly to the vagrant artist,

and took sage counsellady as she waswith the woodsawyer, the messenger of everybody's petty

errands, the patched philosopher. And Uncle Venner, who had studied the world at streetcorners, and other

posts equally well adapted for just observation, was as ready to give out his wisdom as a townpump to give

"Miss Hepzibah, ma'am," said he once, after they had all been cheerful together, "I really enjoy these quiet

little meetings of a Sabbath afternoon. They are very much like what I expect to have after I retire to my

"Uncle Venner" observed Clifford in a drowsy, inward tone, "is always talking about his farm. But I have a

"Ah, Mr. Clifford Pyncheon!" said the man of patches, "you may scheme for me as much as you please; but

I'm not going to give up this one scheme of my own, even if I never bring it really to pass. It does seem to me

that men make a wonderful mistake in trying to heap up property upon property. If I had done so, I should

feel as if Providence was not bound to take care of me; and, at all events, the city wouldn't be! I'm one of

those people who think that infinity is big enough for us alland eternity long enough."

"Why, so they are, Uncle Venner," remarked Phoebe after a pause; for she had been trying to fathom the

profundity and appositeness of this concluding apothegm. "But for this short life of ours, one would like a

" It appears to me," said the daguerreotypist, smiling, "that Uncle Venner has the principles of Fourier at the

bottom of his wisdom; only they have not quite so much distinctness in his mind as in that of the

And then, while the yellow richness of the declining sunshine still fell into the open space of the garden,

Phoebe brought out a loaf of bread and a china bowl of currants, freshly gathered from the bushes, and

crushed with sugar. These, with water,but not from the fountain of ill omen, close at hand,constituted all

the entertainment. Meanwhile, Holgrave took some pains to establish an intercourse with Clifford, actuated, it

might seem, entirely by an impulse of kindliness, in order that the present hour might be cheerfuller than

most which the poor recluse had spent, or was destined yet to spend. Nevertheless, in the artist's deep,

thoughtful, allobservant eyes, there was, now and then, an expression, not sinister, but questionable; as if he

had some other interest in the scene than a stranger, a youthful and unconnected adventurer, might be

supposed to have. With great mobility of outward mood, however, he applied himself to the task of

enlivening the party; and with so much success, that even darkhued Hepzibah threw off one tint of

melancholy, and made what shift she could with the remaining portion. Phoebe said to herself,"How

pleasant he can be!" As for Uncle Venner, as a mark of friendship and approbation, he readily consented to

afford the young man his countenance in the way of his profession,not metaphorically, be it understood,

but literally, by allowing a daguerreotype of his face, so familiar to the town, to be exhibited at the entrance

Clifford, as the company partook of their little banquet, grew to be the gayest of them all. Either it was one of

those upquivering flashes of the spirit, to which minds in an abnormal state are liable, or else the artist had

subtly touched some chord that made musical vibration. Indeed, what with the pleasant summer evening, and

the sympathy of this little circle of not unkindly souls, it was perhaps natural that a character so susceptible as

Clifford's should become animated, and show itself readily responsive to what was said around him. But he

gave out his own thoughts, likewise, with an airy and fanciful glow; so that they glistened, as it were, through

the arbor, and made their escape among the interstices of the foliage. He had been as cheerful, no doubt,

while alone with Phoebe, but never with such tokens of acute, although partial intelligence.

But, as the sunlight left the peaks of the Seven Gables, so did the excitement fade out of Clifford's eyes. He

gazed vaguely and mournfully about him, as if he missed something precious, and missed it the more drearily

"I want my happiness!" at last he murmured hoarsely and indistinctly, hardly Shaping out the words. "Many,

Alas, poor Clifford! You are old, and worn with troubles that ought never to have befallen you. You are

partly crazy and partly imbecile; a ruin, a failure, as almost everybody is,though some in less degree, or

less perceptibly, than their fellows. Fate has no happiness in store for you; unless your quiet home in the old

family residence with the faithful Hepzibah, and your long summer afternoons with Phoebe, and these

Sabbath festivals with Uncle Venner and the daguerreotypist, deserve to be called happiness! Why not? If not

the thing itself, it is marvellously like it, and the more so for that ethereal and intangible quality which causes

it all to vanish at too close an introspection. Take it, therefore, while you may Murmur not,question

FROM the inertness, or what we may term the vegetative character, of his ordinary mood, Clifford would

perhaps have been content to spend one day after another, interminably,or, at least, throughout the

summertime,in just the kind of life described in the preceding pages. Fancying, however, that it might be

for his benefit occasionally to diversify the scene, Phoebe sometimes suggested that he should look out upon

the life of the street. For this purpose, they used to mount the staircase together, to the second story of the

house, where, at the termination of a wide entry, there was an arched window, of uncommonly large

dimensions, shaded by a pair of curtains. It opened above the porch, where there had formerly been a

balcony, the balustrade of which had long since gone to decay, and been removed. At this arched window,

throwing it open, but keeping himself in comparative obscurity by means of the curtain, Clifford had an

opportunity of witnessing such a portion of the great world's movement as might be supposed to roll through

one of the retired streets of a not very populous city. But he and Phoebe made a sight as well worth seeing as

any that the city could exhibit. The pale, gray, childish, aged, melancholy, yet often simply cheerful, and

sometimes delicately intelligent aspect of Clifford, peering from behind the faded crimson of the curtain,

watching the monotony of everyday occurrences with a kind of inconsequential interest and earnestness,

and, at every petty throb of his sensibility, turning for sympathy to the eyes of the bright young girl!

If once he were fairly seated at the window, even Pyncheon Street would hardly be so dull and lonely but

that, somewhere or other along its extent, Clifford might discover matter to occupy his eye, and titillate, if not

engross, his observation. Things familiar to the youngest child that had begun its outlook at existence seemed

strange to him. A cab; an omnibus, with its populous interior, dropping here and there a passenger, and

picking up another, and thus typifying that vast rolling vehicle, the world, the end of whose journey is

everywhere and nowhere; these objects he followed eagerly with his eyes, but forgot them before the dust

raised by the horses and wheels had settled along their track. As regarded novelties (among which cabs and

omnibuses were to be reckoned), his mind appeared to have lost its proper gripe and retentiveness. Twice or

thrice, for example, during the sunny hours of the day, a watercart went along by the Pyncheon House,

leaving a broad wake of moistened earth, instead of the white dust that had risen at a lady's lightest footfall; it

was like a summer shower, which the city authorities had caught and tamed, and compelled it into the

commonest routine of their convenience. With the watercart Clifford could never grow familiar; it always

affected him with just the same surprise as at first. His mind took an apparently sharp impression from it, but

lost the recollection of this perambulatory shower, before its next reappearance, as completely as did the

street itself, along which the heat so quickly strewed white dust again. It was the same with the railroad.

Clifford could hear the obstreperous howl of the steamdevil, and, by leaning a little way from the arched

window, could catch a glimpse of the trains of cars, flashing a brief transit across the extremity of the street.

The idea of terrible energy thus forced upon him was new at every recurrence, and seemed to affect him as

disagreeably, and with almost as much surprise, the hundredth time as the first.

Nothing gives a sadder sense of decay than this loss or suspension of the power to deal with unaccustomed

things, and to keep up with the swiftness of the passing moment. It can merely be a suspended animation; for,

were the power actually to perish, there would be little use of immortality. We are less than ghosts, for the

Clifford was indeed the most inveterate of conservatives. All the antique fashions of the street were dear to

him; even such as were characterized by a rudeness that would naturally have annoyed his fastidious senses.

He loved the old rumbling and jolting carts, the former track of which he still found in his longburied

remembrance, as the observer of today finds the wheeltracks of ancient vehicles in Herculaneum. The

butcher's cart, with its snowy canopy, was an acceptable object; so was the fishcart, heralded by its horn; so,

likewise, was the countryman's cart of vegetables, plodding from door to door, with long pauses of the patient

horse, while his owner drove a trade in turnips, carrots, summersquashes, stringbeans, green peas, and new

potatoes, with half the housewives of the neighborhood. The baker's cart, with the harsh music of its bells,

had a pleasant effect on Clifford, because, as few things else did, it jingled the very dissonance of yore. One

afternoon a scissorgrinder chanced to set his wheel agoing under the Pyncheon Elm, and just in front of the

arched window. Children came running with their mothers' scissors, or the carvingknife, or the paternal

razor, or anything else that lacked an edge (except, indeed, poor Clifford's wits), that the grinder might apply

the article to his magic wheel, and give it back as good as new. Round went the busily revolving machinery,

kept in motion by the scissorgrinder's foot, and wore away the hard steel against the hard stone, whence

issued an intense and spiteful prolongation of a hiss as fierce as those emitted by Satan and his compeers in

Pandemonium, though squeezed into smaller compass. It was an ugly, little, venomous serpent of a noise, as

ever did petty violence to human ears. But Clifford listened with rapturous delight. The sound, however

disagreeable, had very brisk life in it, and, together with the circle of curious children watching the

revolutions of the wheel, appeared to give him a more vivid sense of active, bustling, and sunshiny existence

than he had attained in almost any other way. Nevertheless, its charm lay chiefly in the past; for the

He sometimes made doleful complaint that there were no stagecoaches nowadays. And he asked in an

injured tone what had become of all those old squaretopped chaises, with wings sticking out on either side,

that used to be drawn by a ploughhorse, and driven by a farmer's wife and daughter, peddling

whortleberries and blackberries about the town. Their disappearance made him doubt, he said, whether the

berries had not left off growing in the broad pastures and along the shady country lanes.

But anything that appealed to the sense of beauty, in however humble a way, did not require to be

recommended by these old associations. This was observable when one of those Italian boys (who are rather

a modern feature of our streets) came along with his barrelorgan, and stopped under the wide and cool

shadows of the elm. With his quick professional eye he took note of the two faces watching him from the

arched window, and, opening his instrument, began to scatter its melodies abroad. He had a monkey on his

shoulder, dressed in a Highland plaid; and, to complete the sum of splendid attractions wherewith he

presented himself to the public, there was a company of little figures, whose sphere and habitation was in the

mahogany case of his organ, and whose principle of life was the music which the Italian made it his business

to grind out. In all their variety of occupation,the cobbler, the blacksmith, the soldier, the lady with her fan,

the toper with his bottle, the milkmaid sitting by her, cowthis fortunate little society might truly be said to

enjoy a harmonious existence, and to make life literally a dance. The Italian turned a crank; and, behold!

every one of these small individuals started into the most curious vivacity. The cobbler wrought upon a shoe;

the blacksmith hammered his iron, the soldier waved his glittering blade; the lady raised a tiny breeze with

her fan; the jolly toper swigged lustily at his bottle; a scholar opened his book with eager thirst for

knowledge, and turned his head to and fro along the page; the milkmaid energetically drained her cow; and a

miser counted gold into his strongbox,all at the same turning of a crank. Yes; and, moved by the

selfsame impulse, a lover saluted his mistress on her lips! Possibly some cynic, at once merry and bitter, had

desired to signify, in this pantomimic scene, that we mortals, whatever our business or

amusement,however serious, however trifling, all dance to one identical tune, and, in spite of our

ridiculous activity, bring nothing finally to pass. For the most remarkable aspect of the affair was, that, at the

cessation of the music, everybody was petrified at once, from the most extravagant life into a dead torpor.

Neither was the cobbler's shoe finished, nor the blacksmith's iron shaped out; nor was there a drop less of

brandy in the toper's bottle, nor a drop more of milk in the milkmaid's pail, nor one additional coin in the

miser's strongbox, nor was the scholar a page deeper in his book. All were precisely in the same condition

as before they made themselves so ridiculous by their haste to toil, to enjoy, to accumulate gold, and to

become wise. Saddest of all, moreover, the lover was none the happier for the maiden's granted kiss! But,

rather than swallow this last too acrid ingredient, we reject the whole moral of the show.

The monkey, meanwhile, with a thick tail curling out into preposterous prolixity from beneath his tartans,

took his station at the Italian's feet. He turned a wrinkled and abominable little visage to every passerby, and

to the circle of children that soon gathered round, and to Hepzibah's shopdoor, and upward to the arched

window, whence Phoebe and Clifford were looking down. Every moment, also, he took off his Highland

bonnet, and performed a bow and scrape. Sometimes, moreover, he made personal application to individuals,

holding out his small black palm, and otherwise plainly signifying his excessive desire for whatever filthy

lucre might happen to be in anybody's pocket. The mean and low, yet strangely manlike expression of his

wilted countenance; the prying and crafty glance, that showed him ready to gripe at every miserable

advantage; his enormous tail (too enormous to be decently concealed under his gabardine), and the deviltry of

nature which it betokened,take this monkey just as he was, in short, and you could desire no better image

of the Mammon of copper coin, symbolizing the grossest form of the love of money. Neither was there any

possibility of satisfying the covetous little devil. Phoebe threw down a whole handful of cents, which he

picked up with joyless eagerness, handed them over to the Italian for safekeeping, and immediately

Doubtless, more than one NewEnglanderor, let him be of what country he might, it is as likely to be the

casepassed by, and threw a look at the monkey, and went on, without imagining how nearly his own moral

condition was here exemplified. Clifford, however, was a being of another order. He had taken childish

delight in the music, and smiled, too, at the figures which it set in motion. But, after looking awhile at the

longtailed imp, he was so shocked by his horrible ugliness, spiritual as well as physical, that he actually

began to shed tears; a weakness which men of merely delicate endowments, and destitute of the fiercer,

deeper, and more tragic power of laughter, can hardly avoid, when the worst and meanest aspect of life

Pyncheon Street was sometimes enlivened by spectacles of more imposing pretensions than the above, and

which brought the multitude along with them. With a shivering repugnance at the idea of personal contact

with the world, a powerful impulse still seized on Clifford, whenever the rush and roar of the human tide

grew strongly audible to him. This was made evident, one day, when a political procession, with hundreds of

flaunting banners, and drums, fifes, clarions, and cymbals, reverberating between the rows of buildings,

marched all through town, and trailed its length of trampling footsteps, and most infrequent uproar, past the

ordinarily quiet House of the Seven Gables. As a mere object of sight, nothing is more deficient in

picturesque features than a procession seen in its passage through narrow streets. The spectator feels it to be

fool's play, when he can distinguish the tedious commonplace of each man's visage, with the perspiration and

weary selfimportance on it, and the very cut of his pantaloons, and the stiffness or laxity of his shirtcollar,

and the dust on the back of his black coat. In order to become majestic, it should be viewed from some

vantage point, as it rolls its slow and long array through the centre of a wide plain, or the stateliest public

square of a city; for then, by its remoteness, it melts all the petty personalities, of which it is made up, into

one broad mass of existence,one great life,one collected body of mankind, with a vast, homogeneous

spirit animating it. But, on the other hand, if an impressible person, standing alone over the brink of one of

these processions, should behold it, not in its atoms, but in its aggregate,as a mighty river of life, massive

in its tide, and black with mystery, and, out of its depths, calling to the kindred depth within him,then the

contiguity would add to the effect. It might so fascinate him that he would hardly be restrained from plunging

So it proved with Clifford. He shuddered; he grew pale; he threw an appealing look at Hepzibah and Phoebe,

who were with him at the window. They comprehended nothing of his emotions, and supposed him merely

disturbed by the unaccustomed tumult. At last, with tremulous limbs, he started up, set his foot on the

windowsill, and in an instant more would have been in the unguarded balcony. As it was, the whole

procession might have seen him, a wild, haggard figure, his gray locks floating in the wind that waved their

banners; a lonely being, estranged from his race, but now feeling himself man again, by virtue of the

irrepressible instinct that possessed him. Had Clifford attained the balcony, he would probably have leaped

into the street; but whether impelled by the species of terror that sometimes urges its victim over the very

precipice which he shrinks from, or by a natural magnetism, tending towards the great centre of humanity, it

But his companions, affrighted by his gesture,which was that of a man hurried away in spite of

himself,seized Clifford's garment and held him back. Hepzibah shrieked. Phoebe, to whom all

"I hardly know, Hepzibah," said Clifford, drawing a long breath. "Fear nothing,it is over now,but had I

taken that plunge, and survived it, methinks it would have made me another man!"

Possibly, in some sense, Clifford may have been right. He needed a shock; or perhaps he required to take a

deep, deep plunge into the ocean of human life, and to sink down and be covered by its profoundness, and

then to emerge, sobered, invigorated, restored to the world and to himself. Perhaps again, he required nothing

A similar yearning to renew the broken links of brotherhood with his kind sometimes showed itself in a

milder form; and once it was made beautiful by the religion that lay even deeper than itself. In the incident

now to be sketched, there was a touching recognition, on Clifford's part, of God's care and love towards

him,towards this poor, forsaken man, who, if any mortal could, might have been pardoned for regarding

himself as thrown aside, forgotten, and left to be the sport of some fiend, whose playfulness was an ecstasy of

It was the Sabbath morning; one of those bright, calm Sabbaths, with its own hallowed atmosphere, when

Heaven seems to diffuse itself over the earth's face in a solemn smile, no less sweet than solemn. On such a

Sabbath morn, were we pure enough to be its medium, we should be conscious of the earth's natural worship

ascending through our frames, on whatever spot of ground we stood. The churchbells, with various tones,

but all in harmony, were calling out and responding to one another,"It is the Sabbath! The

Sabbath!Yea; the Sabbath!"and over the whole city the bells scattered the blessed sounds, now slowly,

now with livelier joy, now one bell alone, now all the bells together, crying earnestly,"It is the Sabbath!"

and flinging their accents afar off, to melt into the air and pervade it with the holy word. The air with God's

sweetest and tenderest sunshine in it, was meet for mankind to breathe into their hearts, and send it forth

Clifford sat at the window with Hepzibah, watching the neighbors as they stepped into the street. All of them,

however unspiritual on other days, were transfigured by the Sabbath influence; so that their very

garmentswhether it were an old man's decent coat well brushed for the thousandth time, or a little boy's

first sack and trousers finished yesterday by his mother's needlehad somewhat of the quality of

ascensionrobes. Forth, likewise, from the portal of the old house stepped Phoebe, putting up her small green

sunshade, and throwing upward a glance and smile of parting kindness to the faces at the arched window. In

her aspect there was a familiar gladness, and a holiness that you could play with, and yet reverence it as much

as ever. She was like a prayer, offered up in the homeliest beauty of one's mothertongue. Fresh was Phoebe,

moreover, and airy and sweet in her apparel; as if nothing that she woreneither her gown, nor her small

straw bonnet, nor her little kerchief, any more than her snowy stockingshad ever been put on before; or, if

worn, were all the fresher for it, and with a fragrance as if they had lain among the rosebuds.

The girl waved her hand to Hepzibah and Clifford, and went up the street; a religion in herself, warm, simple,

true, with a substance that could walk on earth, and a spirit that was capable of heaven.

"Hepzibah," asked Clifford, after watching Phoebe to the corner, "do you never go to church?"

"Were I to be there," he rejoined, "it seems to me that I could pray once more, when so many human souls

She looked into Clifford's face, and beheld there a soft natural effusion; for his heart gushed out, as it were,

and ran over at his eyes, in delightful reverence for God, and kindly affection for his human brethren. The

emotion communicated itself to Hepzibah. She yearned to take him by the hand, and go and kneel down, they

two together,both so long separate from the world, and, as she now recognized, scarcely friends with Him

"Dear brother," said she earnestly, "let us go! We belong nowhere. We have not a foot of space in any church

to kneel upon; but let us go to some place of worship, even if we stand in the broad aisle. Poor and forsaken

So Hepzibah and her brother made themselves, readyas ready as they could in the best of their

oldfashioned garments, which had hung on pegs, or been laid away in trunks, so long that the dampness and

mouldy smell of the past was on them,made themselves ready, in their faded bettermost, to go to church.

They descended the staircase together,gaunt, sallow Hepzibah, and pale, emaciated, agestricken Clifford!

They pulled open the front door, and stepped across the threshold, and felt, both of them, as if they were

standing in the presence of the whole world, and with mankind's great and terrible eye on them alone. The

eye of their Father seemed to be withdrawn, and gave them no encouragement. The warm sunny air of the

street made them shiver. Their hearts quaked within them at the idea of taking one step farther.

"It cannot be, Hepzibah!it is too late," said Clifford with deep sadness. "We are ghosts! We have no right

among human beings,no right anywhere but in this old house, which has a curse on it, and which,

therefore, we are doomed to haunt! And, besides," he continued, with a fastidious sensibility, inalienably

characteristic of the man," it would not be fit nor beautiful to go! It is an ugly thought that I should be

frightful to my fellowbeings, and that children would cling to their mothers' gowns at sight of me!"

They shrank back into the dusky passageway, and closed the door. But, going up the staircase again, they

found the whole interior of the house tenfold, more dismal, and the air closer and heavier, for the glimpse and

breath of freedom which they had just snatched. They could not flee; their jailer had but left the door ajar in

mockery, and stood behind it to watch them stealing out. At the threshold, they felt his pitiless gripe upon

them. For, what other dungeon is so dark as one's own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one's self!

But it would be no fair picture of Clifford's state of mind were we to represent him as continually or

prevailingly wretched. On the contrary, there was no other man in the city, we are bold to affirm, of so much

as half his years, who enjoyed so many lightsome and griefless moments as himself. He had no burden of

care upon him; there were none of those questions and contingencies with the future to be settled which wear

away all other lives, and render them not worth having by the very process of providing for their support. In

this respect he was a child, a child for the whole term of his existence, be it long or short. Indeed, his life

seemed to be standing still at a period little in advance of childhood, and to cluster all his reminiscences about

that epoch; just as, after the torpor of a heavy blow, the sufferer's reviving consciousness goes back to a

moment considerably behind the accident that stupefied him. He sometimes told Phoebe and Hepzibah his

dreams, in which he invariably played the part of a child, or a very young man. So vivid were they, in his

relation of them, that he once held a dispute with his sister as to the particular figure or print of a chintz

morningdress which he had seen their mother wear, in the dream of the preceding night. Hepzibah, piquing

herself on a woman's accuracy in such matters, held it to be slightly different from what Clifford described;

but, producing the very gown from an old trunk, it proved to be identical with his remembrance of it. Had

Clifford, every time that he emerged out of dreams so lifelike, undergone the torture of transformation from a

boy into an old and broken man, the daily recurrence of the shock would have been too much to bear. It

would have caused an acute agony to thrill from the morning twilight, all the day through, until bedtime; and

even then would have mingled a dull, inscrutable pain and pallid hue of misfortune with the visionary bloom

and adolescence of his slumber. But the nightly moonshine interwove itself with the morning mist, and

enveloped him as in a robe, which he hugged about his person, and seldom let realities pierce through; he was

not often quite awake, but slept openeyed, and perhaps fancied himself most dreaming then.

Thus, lingering always so near his childhood, he had sympathies with children, and kept his heart the fresher

thereby, like a reservoir into which rivulets were pouring not far from the fountainhead. Though prevented,

by a subtile sense of propriety, from desiring to associate with them, he loved few things better than to look

out of the arched window and see a little girl driving her hoop along the sidewalk, or schoolboys at a game of

ball. Their voices, also, were very pleasant to him, heard at a distance, all swarming and intermingling

Clifford would, doubtless, have been glad to share their sports. One afternoon he was seized with an

irresistible desire to blow soapbubbles; an amusement, as Hepzibah told Phoebe apart, that had been a

favorite one with her brother when they were both children. Behold him, therefore, at the arched window,

with an earthen pipe in his mouth! Behold him, with his gray hair, and a wan, unreal smile over his

countenance, where still hovered a beautiful grace, which his worst enemy must have acknowledged to be

spiritual and immortal, since it had survived so long! Behold him, scattering airy spheres abroad from the

window into the street! Little impalpable worlds were those soapbubbles, with the big world depicted, in

hues bright as imagination, on the nothing of their surface. It was curious to see how the passersby regarded

these brilliant fantasies, as they came floating down, and made the dull atmosphere imaginative about them.

Some stopped to gaze, and perhaps, carried a pleasant recollection of the bubbles onward as far as the

streetcorner; some looked angrily upward, as if poor Clifford wronged them by setting an image of beauty

afloat so near their dusty pathway. A great many put out their fingers or their walkingsticks to touch, withal;

and were perversely gratified, no doubt, when the bubble, with all its pictured earth and sky scene, vanished

At length, just as an elderly gentleman of very dignified presence happened to be passing, a large bubble

sailed majestically down, and burst right against his nose! He looked up,at first with a stern, keen glance,

which penetrated at once into the obscurity behind the arched window,then with a smile which might be

conceived as diffusing a dogday sultriness for the space of several yards about him.

"Aha, Cousin Clifford!" cried Judge Pyncheon. "What! still blowing soapbubbles!"

The tone seemed as if meant to be kind and soothing, but yet had a bitterness of sarcasm in it. As for Clifford,

an absolute palsy of fear came over him. Apart from any definite cause of dread which his past experience

might have given him, he felt that native and original horror of the excellent Judge which is proper to a weak,

delicate, and apprehensive character in the presence of massive strength. Strength is incomprehensible by

weakness, and, therefore, the more terrible. There is no greater bugbear than a strongwilled relative in the

IT must not be supposed that the life of a personage naturally so active as Phoebe could be wholly confined

within the precincts of the old Pyncheon House. Clifford's demands upon her time were usually satisfied, in

those long days, considerably earlier than sunset. Quiet as his daily existence seemed, it nevertheless drained

all the resources by which he lived. It was not physical exercise that overwearied him,for except that he

sometimes wrought a little with a hoe, or paced the gardenwalk, or, in rainy weather, traversed a large

unoccupied room,it was his tendency to remain only too quiescent, as regarded any toil of the limbs and

muscles. But, either there was a smouldering fire within him that consumed his vital energy, or the monotony

that would have dragged itself with benumbing effect over a mind differently situated was no monotony to

Clifford. Possibly, he was in a state of second growth and recovery, and was constantly assimilating

nutriment for his spirit and intellect from sights, sounds, and events which passed as a perfect void to persons

more practised with the world. As all is activity and vicissitude to the new mind of a child, so might it be,

likewise, to a mind that had undergone a kind of new creation, after its longsuspended life.

Be the cause what it might, Clifford commonly retired to rest, thoroughly exhausted, while the sunbeams

were still melting through his windowcurtains, or were thrown with late lustre on the chamber wall. And

while he thus slept early, as other children do, and dreamed of childhood, Phoebe was free to follow her own

This was a freedom essential to the health even of a character so little susceptible of morbid influences as that

of Phoebe. The old house, as we have already said, had both the dryrot and the damprot in its walls; it was

not good to breathe no other atmosphere than that. Hepzibah, though she had her valuable and redeeming

traits, had grown to be a kind of lunatic by imprisoning herself so long in one place, with no other company

than a single series of ideas, and but one affection, and one bitter sense of wrong. Clifford, the reader may

perhaps imagine, was too inert to operate morally on his fellowcreatures, however intimate and exclusive

their relations with him. But the sympathy or magnetism among human beings is more subtile and universal

than we think; it exists, indeed, among different classes of organized life, and vibrates from one to another. A

flower, for instance, as Phoebe herself observed, always began to droop sooner in Clifford's hand, or

Hepzibah's, than in her own; and by the same law, converting her whole daily life into a flower fragrance for

these two sickly spirits, the blooming girl must inevitably droop and fade much sooner than if worn on a

younger and happier breast. Unless she had now and then indulged her brisk impulses, and breathed rural air

in a suburban walk, or ocean breezes along the shore,had occasionally obeyed the impulse of Nature, in

New England girls, by attending a metaphysical or philosophical lecture, or viewing a sevenmile panorama,

or listening to a concert,had gone shopping about the city, ransacking entire depots of splendid

merchandise, and bringing home a ribbon,had employed, likewise, a little time to read the Bible in her

chamber, and had stolen a little more to think of her mother and her native placeunless for such moral

medicines as the above, we should soon have beheld our poor Phoebe grow thin and put on a bleached,

unwholesome aspect, and assume strange, shy ways, prophetic of oldmaidenhood and a cheerless future.

Even as it was, a change grew visible; a change partly to be regretted, although whatever charm it infringed

upon was repaired by another, perhaps more precious. She was not so constantly gay, but had her moods of

thought, which Clifford, on the whole, liked better than her former phase of unmingled cheerfulness; because

now she understood him better and more delicately, and sometimes even interpreted him to himself. Her eyes

looked larger, and darker, and deeper; so deep, at some silent moments, that they seemed like Artesian wells,

down, down, into the infinite. She was less girlish than when we first beheld her alighting from the omnibus;

The only youthful mind with which Phoebe had an opportunity of frequent intercourse was that of the

daguerreotypist. Inevitably, by the pressure of the seclusion about them, they had been brought into habits of

some familiarity. Had they met under different circumstances, neither of these young persons would have

been likely to bestow much thought upon the other, unless, indeed, their extreme dissimilarity should have

proved a principle of mutual attraction. Both, it is true, were characters proper to New England life, and

possessing a common ground, therefore, in their more external developments; but as unlike, in their

respective interiors, as if their native climes had been at worldwide distance. During the early part of their

acquaintance, Phoebe had held back rather more than was customary with her frank and simple manners from

Holgrave's not very marked advances. Nor was she yet satisfied that she knew him well, although they almost

daily met and talked together, in a kind, friendly, and what seemed to be a familiar way.

The artist, in a desultory manner, had imparted to Phoebe something of his history. Young as he was, and had

his career terminated at the point already attained, there had been enough of incident to fill, very creditably,

an autobiographic volume. A romance on the plan of Gil Blas, adapted to American society and manners,

would cease to be a romance. The experience of many individuals among us, who think it hardly worth the

telling, would equal the vicissitudes of the Spaniard's earlier life; while their ultimate success, or the point

whither they tend, may be incomparably higher than any that a novelist would imagine for his hero.

Holgrave, as he told Phoebe somewhat proudly, could not boast of his origin, unless as being exceedingly

humble, nor of his education, except that it had been the scantiest possible, and obtained by a few

wintermonths' attendance at a district school. Left early to his own guidance, he had begun to be

selfdependent while yet a boy; and it was a condition aptly suited to his natural force of will. Though now

but twentytwo years old (lacking some months, which are years in such a life), he had already been, first, a

country schoolmaster; next, a salesman in a country store; and, either at the same time or afterwards, the

political editor of a country newspaper. He had subsequently travelled New England and the Middle States,

as a peddler, in the employment of a Connecticut manufactory of colognewater and other essences. In an

episodical way he had studied and practised dentistry, and with very flattering success, especially in many of

the factorytowns along our inland streams. As a supernumerary official, of some kind or other, aboard a

packetship, he had visited Europe, and found means, before his return, to see Italy, and part of France and

Germany. At a later period he had spent some months in a community of Fourierists. Still more recently he

had been a public lecturer on Mesmerism, for which science (as he assured Phoebe, and, indeed, satisfactorily

proved, by putting Chanticleer, who happened to be scratching near by, to sleep) he had very remarkable

His present phase, as a daguerreotypist, was of no more importance in his own view, nor likely to be more

permanent, than any of the preceding ones. It had been taken up with the careless alacrity of an adventurer,

who had his bread to earn. It would be thrown aside as carelessly, whenever he should choose to earn his

bread by some other equally digressive means. But what was most remarkable, and, perhaps, showed a more

than common poise in the young man, was the fact that, amid all these personal vicissitudes, he had never lost

his identity. Homeless as he had been,continually changing his whereabout, and, therefore, responsible

neither to public opinion nor to individuals,putting off one exterior, and snatching up another, to be soon

shifted for a third,he had never violated the innermost man, but had carried his conscience along with him.

It was impossible to know Holgrave without recognizing this to be the fact. Hepzibah had seen it. Phoebe

soon saw it likewise, and gave him the sort of confidence which such a certainty inspires. She was startled.

however, and sometimes repelled,not by any doubt of his integrity to whatever law he acknowledged, but

by a sense that his law differed from her own. He made her uneasy, and seemed to unsettle everything around

her, by his lack of reverence for what was fixed, unless, at a moment's warning, it could establish its right to

Then, moreover, she scarcely thought him affectionate in his nature. He was too calm and cool an observer.

Phoebe felt his eye, often; his heart, seldom or never. He took a certain kind of interest in Hepzibah and her

brother, and Phoebe herself. He studied them attentively, and allowed no slightest circumstance of their

individualities to escape him. He was ready to do them whatever good he might; but, after all, he never

exactly made common cause with them, nor gave any reliable evidence that he loved them better in

proportion as he knew them more. In his relations with them, he seemed to be in quest of mental food, not

heartsustenance. Phoebe could not conceive what interested him so much in her friends and herself,

intellectually, since he cared nothing for them, or, comparatively, so little, as objects of human affection.

Always, in his interviews with Phoebe, the artist made especial inquiry as to the welfare of Clifford, whom,

"As happy as a child," answered Phoebe; "butlike a child, too very easily disturbed."

"I cannot see his thoughts! How should I?" replied Phoebe with simple piquancy. "Very often his humor

changes without any reason that can be guessed at, just as a cloud comes over the sun. Latterly, since I have

begun to know him better, I feel it to be not quite right to look closely into his moods. He has had such a

great sorrow, that his heart is made all solemn and sacred by it. When he is cheerful,when the sun shines

into his mind, then I venture to peep in, just as far as the light reaches, but no further. It is holy ground

"How prettily you express this sentiment!" said the artist. "I can understand the feeling, without possessing it.

Had I your opportunities, no scruples would prevent me from fathoming Clifford to the full depth of my

"How strange that you should wish it!" remarked Phoebe involuntarily. "What is Cousin Clifford to you?"

"Oh, nothing,of course, nothing!" answered Holgrave with a smile. "Only this is such an odd and

incomprehensible world! The more I look at it, the more it puzzles me, and I begin to suspect that a man's

bewilderment is the measure of his wisdom. Men and women, and children, too, are such strange creatures,

that one never can be certain that he really knows them; nor ever guess what they have been from what he

sees them to be now. Judge Pyncheon! Clifford! What a complex riddle a complexity of complexitiesdo

they present! It requires intuitiv e sympathy, like a young girl's, to solve it. A mere observer, like myself

(who never have any intuitions, and am, at best, only subtile and acute), is pretty certain to go astray."

The artist now turned the conversation to themes less dark than that which they had touched upon. Phoebe

and he were young together; nor had Holgrave, in his premature experience of life, wasted entirely that

beautiful spirit of youth, which, gushing forth from one small heart and fancy, may diffuse itself over the

universe, making it all as bright as on the first day of creation. Man's own youth is the world's youth; at least,

he feels as if it were, and imagines that the earth's granite substance is something not yet hardened, and which

he can mould into whatever shape he likes. So it was with Holgrave. He could talk sagely about the world's

old age, but never actually believed what he said; he was a young man still, and therefore looked upon the

worldthat graybearded and wrinkled profligate, decrepit, without being venerableas a tender stripling,

capable of being improved into all that it ought to be, but scarcely yet had shown the remotest promise of

becoming. He had that sense, or inward prophecy, which a young man had better never have been born

than not to have, and a mature man had better die at once than utterly to relinquish,that we are not doomed

to creep on forever in the old bad way, but that, this very now, there are the harbingers abroad of a golden

era, to be accomplished in his own lifetime. It seemed to Holgrave,as doubtless it has seemed to the

hopeful of every century since the epoch of Adam's grandchildren,that in this age, more than ever before,

the mossgrown and rotten Past is to be torn down, and lifeless institutions to be thrust out of the way, and

As to the main point,may we never live to doubt it!as to the better centuries that are coming, the artist

was surely right. His error lay in supposing that this age, more than any past or future one, is destined to see

the tattered garments of Antiquity exchanged for a new suit, instead of gradually renewing themselves by

patchwork; in applying his own little lifespan as the measure of an interminable achievement; and, more

than all, in fancying that it mattered anything to the great end in view whether he himself should contend for

it or against it. Yet it was well for him to think so. This enthusiasm, infusing itself through the calmness of

his character, and thus taking an aspect of settled thought and wisdom, would serve to keep his youth pure,

and make his aspirations high. And when, with the years settling down more weightily upon him, his early

faith should be modified by inevitable experience, it would be with no harsh and sudden revolution of his

sentiments. He would still have faith in man's brightening destiny, and perhaps love him all the better, as he

should recognize his helplessness in his own behalf; and the haughty faith, with which he began life, would

be well bartered for a far humbler one at its close, in discerning that man's best directed effort accomplishes a

Holgrave had read very little, and that little in passing through the thoroughfare of life, where the mystic

language of his books was necessarily mixed up with the babble of the multitude, so that both one and the

other were apt to lose any sense that might have been properly their own. He considered himself a thinker,

and was certainly of a thoughtful turn, but, with his own path to discover, had perhaps hardly yet reached the

point where an educated man begins to think. The true value of his character lay in that deep consciousness of

inward strength, which made all his past vicissitudes seem merely like a change of garments; in that

enthusiasm, so quiet that he scarcely knew of its existence, but which gave a warmth to everything that he

laid his hand on; in that personal ambition, hiddenfrom his own as well as other eyesamong his more

generous impulses, but in which lurked a certain efficacy, that might solidify him from a theorist into the

champion of some practicable cause. Altogether in his culture and want of culture,in his crude, wild, and

misty philosophy, and the practical experience that counteracted some of its tendencies; in his magnanimous

zeal for man's welfare, and his recklessness of whatever the ages had established in man's behalf; in his faith,

and in his infidelity. in what he had, and in what he lacked,the artist might fitly enough stand forth as the

His career it would be difficult to prefigure. There appeared to be qualities in Holgrave, such as, in a country

where everything is free to the hand that can grasp it, could hardly fail to put some of the world's prizes

within his reach. But these matters are delightfully uncertain. At almost every step in life, we meet with

young men of just about Holgrave's age, for whom we anticipate wonderful things, but of whom, even after

much and careful inquiry, we never happen to hear another word. The effervescence of youth and passion,

and the fresh gloss of the intellect and imagination, endow them with a false brilliancy, which makes fools of

themselves and other people. Like certain chintzes, calicoes, and ginghams, they show finely in their first

newness, but cannot stand the sun and rain, and assume a very sober aspect after washingday.

But our business is with Holgrave as we find him on this particular afternoon, and in the arbor of the

Pyncheon garden. In that point of view, it was a pleasant sight to behold this young man, with so much faith

in himself, and so fair an appearance of admirable powers,so little harmed, too, by the many tests that had

tried his metal,it was pleasant to see him in his kindly intercourse with Phoebe. Her thought had scarcely

done him justice when it pronounced him cold; or, if so, he had grown warmer now. Without such purpose on

her part, and unconsciously on his, she made the House of the Seven Gables like a home to him, and the

garden a familiar precinct. With the insight on which he prided himself, he fancied that he could look through

Phoebe, and all around her, and could read her off like a page of a child's storybook. But these transparent

natures are often deceptive in their depth; those pebbles at the bottom of the fountain are farther from us than

we think. Thus the artist, whatever he might judge of Phoebe's capacity, was beguiled, by some silent charm

of hers, to talk freely of what he dreamed of doing in the world. He poured himself out as to another self.

Very possibly, he forgot Phoebe while he talked to her, and was moved only by the inevitable tendency of

thought, when rendered sympathetic by enthusiasm and emotion, to flow into the first safe reservoir which it

finds. But, had you peeped at them through the chinks of the gardenfence, the young man's earnestness and

heightened color might have led you to suppose that he was making love to the young girl!

At length, something was said by Holgrave that made it apposite for Phoebe to inquire what had first brought

him acquainted with her cousin Hepzibah, and why he now chose to lodge in the desolate old Pyncheon

House. Without directly answering her, he turned from the Future, which had heretofore been the theme of

his discourse, and began to speak of the influences of the Past. One subject, indeed, is but the reverberation of

"Shall we never, never get rid of this Past?" cried he, keeping up the earnest tone of his preceding

conversation. "It lies upon the Present like a giant's dead body In fact, the case is just as if a young giant were

compelled to waste all his strength in carrying about the corpse of the old giant, his grandfather, who died a

long while ago, and only needs to be decently buried. Just think a moment, and it will startle you to see what

"For example, then," continued Holgrave: "a dead man, if he happens to have made a will, disposes of wealth

no longer his own; or, if he die intestate, it is distributed in accordance with the notions of men much longer

dead than he. A dead man sits on all our judgmentseats; and living judges do but search out and repeat his

decisions. We read in dead men's books! We laugh at dead men's jokes, and cry at dead men's pathos! We are

sick of dead men's diseases, physical and moral, and die of the same remedies with which dead doctors killed

their patients! We worship the living Deity according to dead men's forms and creeds. Whatever we seek to

do, of our own free motion, a dead man's icy hand obstructs us! Turn our eyes to what point we may, a dead

man's white, immitigable face encounters them, and freezes our very heart! And we must be dead ourselves

before we can begin to have our proper influence on our own world, which will then be no longer our world,

but the world of another generation, with which we shall have no shadow of a right to interfere. I ought to

have said, too, that we live in dead men's houses; as, for instance, in this of the Seven Gables!"

"But we shall live to see the day, I trust," went on the artist, "when no man shall build his house for posterity.

Why should he? He might just as reasonably order a durable suit of clothes, leather, or guttapercha, or

whatever else lasts longest, so that his greatgrandchildren should have the benefit of them, and cut

precisely the same figure in the world that he himself does. If each generation were allowed and expected to

build its own houses, that single change, comparatively unimportant in itself, would imply almost every

reform which society is now suffering for. I doubt whether even our public edificesour capitols,

statehouses, courthouses, cityhall, and churches,ought to be built of such permanent materials as stone

or brick. It were better that they should crumble to ruin once in twenty years, or thereabouts, as a hint to the

"How you hate everything old!" said Phoebe in dismay. "It makes me dizzy to think of such a shifting

"I certainly love nothing mouldy," answered Holgrave. "Now, this old Pyncheon House! Is it a wholesome

place to live in, with its black shingles, and the green moss that shows how damp they are? its dark,

lowstudded roomsits grime and sordidness, which are the crystallization on its walls of the human breath,

that has been drawn and exhaled here in discontent and anguish? The house ought to be purified with

"Oh, I am pursuing my studies here; not in books, however," replied Holgrave. "The house, in my view, is

expressive of that odious and abominable Past, with all its bad influences, against which I have just been

declaiming. I dwell in it for a while, that I may know the better how to hate it. By the bye, did you ever hear

the story of Maule, the wizard, and what happened between him and your immeasurably greatgrandfather?"

"Yes, indeed!" said Phoebe; "I heard it long ago, from my father, and two or three times from my cousin

Hepzibah, in the month that I have been here. She seems to think that all the calamities of the Pyncheons

began from that quarrel with the wizard, as you call him. And you, Mr. Holgrave look as if you thought so

too! How singular that you should believe what is so very absurd, when you reject many things that are a

"I do believe it," said the artist seriously; "not as a superstition, however, but as proved by unquestionable

facts, and as exemplifying a theory. Now, see: under those seven gables, at which we now look up, and

which old Colonel Pyncheon meant to be the house of his descendants, in prosperity and happiness, down to

an epoch far beyond the present,under that roof, through a portion of three centuries, there has been

perpetual remorse of conscience, a constantly defeated hope, strife amongst kindred, various misery, a

strange form of death, dark suspicion, unspeakable disgrace, all, or most of which calamity I have the

means of tracing to the old Puritan's inordinate desire to plant and endow a family. To plant a family! This

idea is at the bottom of most of the wrong and mischief which men do. The truth is, that, once in every

halfcentury, at longest, a family should be merged into the great, obscure mass of humanity, and forget all

about its ancestors. Human blood, in order to keep its freshness, should run in hidden streams, as the water of

an aqueduct is conveyed in subterranean pipes. In the family existence of these Pyncheons, for

instance,forgive me, Phoebe. but I, cannot think of you as one of them,in their brief New England

pedigree, there has been time enough to infect them all with one kind of lunacy or another."

"You speak very unceremoniously of my kindred," said Phoebe, debating with herself whether she ought to

"I speak true thoughts to a true mind!" answered Holgrave, with a vehemence which Phoebe had not before

witnessed in him. "The truth is as I say! Furthermore, the original perpetrator and father of this mischief

appears to have perpetuated himself, and still walks the street,at least, his very image, in mind and

body,with the fairest prospect of transmitting to posterity as rich and as wretched an inheritance as he has

received! Do you remember the daguerreotype, and its resemblance to the old portrait?"

"How strangely in earnest you are!" exclaimed Phoebe, looking at him with surprise and perplexity; half

alarmed and partly inclined to laugh. "You talk of the lunacy of the Pyncheons; is it contagious?"

"I understand you!" said the artist, coloring and laughing. "I believe I am a little mad. This subject has taken

hold of my mind with the strangest tenacity of clutch since I have lodged in yonder old gable. As one method

of throwing it off, I have put an incident of the Pyncheon family history, with which I happen to be

"Is it possible you did not know it?" cried Holgrave. "Well, such is literary fame! Yes. Miss Phoebe

Pyncheon, among the multitude of my marvellous gifts I have that of writing stories; and my name has

figured, I can assure you, on the covers of Graham and Godey, making as respectable an appearance, for

aught I could see, as any of the canonized beadroll with which it was associated. In the humorous line, I am

thought to have a very pretty way with me; and as for pathos, I am as provocative of tears as an onion. But

"Yes, if it is not very long," said Phoebe,and added laughingly, "nor very dull."

As this latter point was one which the daguerreotypist could not decide for himself, he forthwith produced his

roll of manuscript, and, while the late sunbeams gilded the seven gables, began to read.

THERE was a message brought, one day, from the worshipful Gervayse Pyncheon to young Matthew Maule,

the carpenter, desiring his immediate presence at the House of the Seven Gables.

"And what does your master want with me?" said the carpenter to Mr. Pyncheon's black servant. "Does the

house need any repair? Well it may, by this time; and no blame to my father who built it, neither! I was

reading the old Colonel's tombstone, no longer ago than last Sabbath; and, reckoning from that date, the

house has stood sevenandthirty years. No wonder if there should be a job to do on the roof."

"Don't know what massa wants," answered Scipio. "The house is a berry good house, and old Colonel

Pyncheon think so too, I reckon;else why the old man haunt it so, and frighten a poor nigga, As he does?"

"Well, well, friend Scipio; let your master know that I'm coming," said the carpenter with a laugh. "For a fair,

workmanlike job, he'll find me his man. And so the house is haunted, is it? It will take a tighter workman than

I am to keep the spirits out of the Seven Gables. Even if the Colonel would be quiet," he added, muttering to

himself, "my old grandfather, the wizard, will be pretty sure to stick to the Pyncheons as long as their walls

"What's that you mutter to yourself, Matthew Maule?" asked Scipio. "And what for do you look so black at

"No matter, darky." said the carpenter. "Do you think nobody is to look black but yourself? Go tell your

master I'm coming; and if you happen to see Mistress Alice, his daughter, give Matthew Maule's humble

respects to her. She has brought a fair face from Italy,fair, and gentle, and proud,has that same Alice

"He talk of Mistress Alice!" cried Scipio, as he returned from his errand. "The low carpenterman! He no

This young Matthew Maule, the carpenter, it must be observed, was a person little understood, and not very

generally liked, in the town where he resided; not that anything could be alleged against his integrity, or his

skill and diligence in the handicraft which he exercised. The aversion (as it might justly be called) with which

many persons regarded him was partly the result of his own character and deportment, and partly an

He was the grandson of a former Matthew Maule, one of the early settlers of the town, and who had been a

famous and terrible wizard in his day. This old reprobate was one of the sufferers when Cotton Mather, and

his brother ministers, and the learned judges, and other wise men, and Sir William Phipps, the sagacious

governor, made such laudable efforts to weaken the great enemy of souls, by sending a multitude of his

adherents up the rocky pathway of Gallows Hill. Since those days, no doubt, it had grown to be suspected

that, in consequence of an unfortunate overdoing of a work praiseworthy in itself, the proceedings against the

witches had proved far less acceptable to the Beneficent Father than to that very Arch Enemy whom they

were intended to distress and utterly overwhelm. It is not the less certain, however, that awe and terror

brooded over the memories of those who died for this horrible crime of witchcraft. Their graves, in the

crevices of the rocks, were supposed to be incapable of retaining the occupants who had been so hastily thrust

into them. Old Matthew Maule, especially, was known to have as little hesitation or difficulty in rising out of

his grave as an ordinary man in getting out of bed, and was as often seen at midnight as living people at

noonday. This pestilent wizard (in whom his just punishment seemed to have wrought no manner of

amendment) had an inveterate habit of haunting a certain mansion, styled the House of the Seven Gables,

against the owner of which he pretended to hold an unsettled claim for groundrent. The ghost, it

appears,with the pertinacity which was one of his distinguishing characteristics while alive,insisted that

he was the rightful proprietor of the site upon which the house stood. His terms were, that either the aforesaid

groundrent, from the day when the cellar began to be dug, should be paid down, or the mansion itself given

up; else he, the ghostly creditor, would have his finger in all the affairs of the Pyncheons, and make

everything go wrong with them, though it should be a thousand years after his death. It was a wild story,

perhaps, but seemed not altogether so incredible to those who could remember what an inflexibly obstinate

Now, the wizard's grandson, the young Matthew Maule of our story, was popularly supposed to have

inherited some of his ancestor's questionable traits. It is wonderful how many absurdities were promulgated

in reference to the young man. He was fabled, for example, to have a strange power of getting into people's

dreams, and regulating matters there according to his own fancy, pretty much like the stagemanager of a

theatre. There was a great deal of talk among the neighbors, particularly the petticoated ones, about what they

called the witchcraft of Maule's eye. Some said that he could look into people's minds; others, that, by the

marvellous power of this eye, he could draw people into his own mind, or send them, if he pleased, to do

errands to his grandfather, in the spiritual world; others, again, that it was what is termed an Evil Eye, and

possessed the valuable faculty of blighting corn, and drying children into mummies with the heartburn. But,

after all, what worked most to the young carpenter's disadvantage was, first, the reserve and sternness of his

natural disposition, and next, the fact of his not being a churchcommunicant, and the suspicion of his

After receiving Mr. Pyncheon's message, the carpenter merely tarried to finish a small job, which he

happened to have in hand, and then took his way towards the House of the Seven Gables. This noted edifice,

though its style might be getting a little out of fashion, was still as respectable a family residence as that of

any gentleman in town. The present owner, Gervayse Pyncheon, was said to have contracted a dislike to the

house, in consequence of a shock to his sensibility, in early childhood, from the sudden death of his

grandfather. In the very act of running to climb Colonel Pyncheon's knee, the boy had discovered the old

Puritan to be a corpse. On arriving at manhood, Mr. Pyncheon had visited England, where he married a lady

of fortune, and had subsequently spent many years, partly in the mother country, and partly in various cities

on the continent of Europe. During this period, the family mansion had been consigned to the charge of a

kinsman, who was allowed to make it his home for the time being, in consideration of keeping the premises

in thorough repair. So faithfully had this contract been fulfilled, that now, as the carpenter approached the

house, his practised eye could detect nothing to criticise in its condition. The peaks of the seven gables rose

up sharply; the shingled roof looked thoroughly watertight; and the glittering plasterwork entirely covered

the exterior walls, and sparkled in the October sun, as if it had been new only a week ago.

The house had that pleasant aspect of life which is like the cheery expression of comfortable activity in the

human countenance. You could see, at once, that there was the stir of a large family within it. A huge load of

oakwood was passing through the gateway, towards the outbuildings in the rear; the fat cookor probably

it might be the housekeeperstood at the side door, bargaining for some turkeys and poultry which a

countryman had brought for sale. Now and then a maidservant, neatly dressed, and now the shining sable

face of a slave, might be seen bustling across the windows, in the lower part of the house. At an open window

of a room in the second story, hanging over some pots of beautiful and delicate flowers,exotics, but which

had never known a more genial sunshine than that of the New England autumn, was the figure of a young

lady, an exotic, like the flowers, and beautiful and delicate as they. Her presence imparted an indescribable

grace and faint witchery to the whole edifice. In other respects, it was a substantial, jollylooking mansion,

and seemed fit to be the residence of a patriarch, who might establish his own headquarters in the front gable

and assign one of the remainder to each of his six children, while the great chimney in the centre should

symbolize the old fellow's hospitable heart, which kept them all warm, and made a great whole of the seven

There was a vertical sundial on the front gable; and as the carpenter passed beneath it, he looked up and noted

"Three o'clock!" said he to himself. "My father told me that dial was put up only an hour before the old

Colonel's death. How truly it has kept time these sevenandthirty years past! The shadow creeps and creeps,

It might have befitted a craftsman, like Matthew Maule, on being sent for to a gentleman's house, to go to the

back door, where servants and workpeople were usually admitted; or at least to the side entrance, where the

better class of tradesmen made application. But the carpenter had a great deal of pride and stiffness in his

nature; and, at this moment, moreover, his heart was bitter with the sense of hereditary wrong, because he

considered the great Pyncheon House to be standing on soil which should have been his own. On this very

site, beside a spring of delicious water, his grandfather had felled the pinetrees and built a cottage, in which

children had been born to him; and it was only from a dead man's stiffened fingers that Colonel Pyncheon

had wrested away the titledeeds. So young Maule went straight to the principal entrance, beneath a portal of

carved oak, and gave such a peal of the iron knocker that you would have imagined the stern old wizard

Black Scipio answered the summons in a prodigious, hurry; but showed the whites of his eyes in amazement

"Lordamercy! what a great man he be, this carpenter fellow." mumbled Scipio, down in his throat.

As he stept into the house, a note of sweet and melancholy music thrilled and vibrated along the

passageway, proceeding from one of the rooms above stairs. It was the harpsichord which Alice Pyncheon

had brought with her from beyond the sea. The fair Alice bestowed most of her maiden leisure between

flowers and music, although the former were apt to droop, and the melodies were often sad. She was of

foreign education, and could not take kindly to the New England modes of life, in which nothing beautiful

As Mr. Pyncheon had been impatiently awaiting Maule's arrival, black Scipio, of course, lost no time in

ushering the carpenter into his master's presence. The room in which this gentleman sat was a parlor of

moderate size, looking out upon the garden of the house, and having its windows partly shadowed by the

foliage of fruittrees. It was Mr. Pyncheon's peculiar apartment, and was provided with furniture, in an

elegant and costly style, principally from Paris; the floor (which was unusual at that day) being covered with

a carpet, so skilfully and richly wrought that it seemed to glow as with living flowers. In one corner stood a

marble woman, to whom her own beauty was the sole and sufficient garment. Some picturesthat looked

old, and had a mellow tinge diffused through all their artful splendorhung on the walls. Near the fireplace

was a large and very beautiful cabinet of ebony, inlaid with ivory; a piece of antique furniture, which Mr.

Pyncheon had bought in Venice, and which he used as the treasureplace for medals, ancient coins, and

whatever small and valuable curiosities he had picked up on his travels. Through all this variety of

decoration, however, the room showed its original characteristics; its low stud, its crossbeam, its

chimneypiece, with the oldfashioned Dutch tiles; so that it was the emblem of a mind industriously stored

with foreign ideas, and elaborated into artificial refinement, but neither larger, nor, in its proper self, more

There were two objects that appeared rather out of place in this very handsomely furnished room. One was a

large map, or surveyor's plan, of a tract of land, which looked as if it had been drawn a good many years ago,

and was now dingy with smoke, and soiled, here and there, with the touch of fingers. The other was a portrait

of a stern old man, in a Puritan garb, painted roughly, but with a bold effect, and a remarkably strong

At a small table, before a fire of English seacoal, sat Mr. Pyncheon, sipping coffee, which had grown to be a

very favorite beverage with him in France. He was a middleaged and really handsome man, with a wig

flowing down upon his shoulders; his coat was of blue velvet, with lace on the borders and at the

buttonholes; and the firelight glistened on the spacious breadth of his waistcoat, which was flowered all

over with gold. On the entrance of Scipio, ushering in the carpenter, Mr. Pyncheon turned partly round, but

resumed his former position, and proceeded deliberately to finish his cup of coffee, without immediate notice

of the guest whom he had summoned to his presence. It was not that he intended any rudeness or improper

neglect,which, indeed, he would have blushed to be guilty of,but it never occurred to him that a person

in Maule's station had a claim on his courtesy, or would trouble himself about it one way or the other.

The carpenter, however, stepped at once to the hearth, and turned himself about, so as to look Mr. Pyncheon

"You sent for me," said he. "Be pleased to explain your business, that I may go back to my own affairs."

"Ah! excuse me," said Mr. Pyncheon quietly. "I did not mean to tax your time without a recompense. Your

name, I think, is Maule, Thomas or Matthew Maule,a son or grandson of the builder of this house?"

"Matthew Maule," replied the carpenter,"son of him who built the house,grandson of the rightful

"I know the dispute to which you allude," observed Mr. Pyncheon with undisturbed equanimity. "I am well

aware that my grandfather was compelled to resort to a suit at law, in order to establish his claim to the

foundationsite of this edifice. We will not, if you please, renew the discussion. The matter was settled at the

time, and by the competent authorities,equitably, it is to be presumed,and, at all events, irrevocably.

Yet, singularly enough, there is an incidental reference to this very subject in what I am now about to say to

you. And this same inveterate grudge,excuse me, I mean no offence,this irritability, which you have just

"If you can find anything for your purpose, Mr. Pyncheon," said the carpenter, "in a man's natural resentment

"I take you at your word, Goodman Maule," said the owner of the Seven Gables, with a smile, "and will

proceed to suggest a mode in which your hereditary resentmentsjustifiable or otherwisemay have had a

bearing on my affairs. You have heard, I suppose, that the Pyncheon family, ever since my grandfather's

days, have been prosecuting a still unsettled claim to a very large extent of territory at the Eastward?"

"Often," replied Maule,and it is said that a smile came over his face,"very often,from my father!"

"This claim," continued Mr. Pyncheon, after pausing a moment, as if to consider what the carpenter's smile

might mean, "appeared to be on the very verge of a settlement and full allowance, at the period of my

grandfather's decease. It was well known, to those in his confidence, that he anticipated neither difficulty nor

delay. Now, Colonel Pyncheon, I need hardly say, was a practical man, well acquainted with public and

private business, and not at all the person to cherish illfounded hopes, or to attempt the following out of an

impracticable scheme. It is obvious to conclude, therefore, that he had grounds, not apparent to his heirs, for

his confident anticipation of success in the matter of this Eastern claim. In a word, I believe,and my legal

advisers coincide in the belief, which, moreover, is authorized, to a certain extent, by the family

traditions,that my grandfather was in possession of some deed, or other document, essential to this claim,

"Very likely," said Matthew Maule,and again, it is said, there was a dark smile on his face,"but what

Here ensued a great many words between Matthew Maule and the proprietor of the Seven Gables, on the

subject which the latter had thus broached. It seems (although Mr. Pyncheon had some hesitation in referring

to stories so exceedingly absurd in their aspect) that the popular belief pointed to some mysterious connection

and dependence, existing between the family of the Maules and these vast unrealized possessions of the

Pyncheons. It was an ordinary saying that the old wizard, hanged though he was, had obtained the best end of

the bargain in his contest with Colonel Pyncheon; inasmuch as he had got possession of the great Eastern

claim, in exchange for an acre or two of gardenground. A very aged woman, recently dead, had often used

the metaphorical expression, in her fireside talk, that miles and miles of the Pyncheon lands had been

shovelled into Maule's grave; which, by the bye, was but a very shallow nook, between two rocks, near the

summit of Gallows Hill. Again, when the lawyers were making inquiry for the missing document, it was a

byword that it would never be found, unless in the wizard's skeleton hand. So much weight had the shrewd

lawyers assigned to these fables, that (but Mr. Pyncheon did not see fit to inform the carpenter of the fact)

they had secretly caused the wizard's grave to be searched. Nothing was discovered, however, except that,

Now, what was unquestionably important, a portion of these popular rumors could be traced, though rather

doubtfully and indistinctly, to chance words and obscure hints of the executed wizard's son, and the father of

this present Matthew Maule. And here Mr. Pyncheon could bring an item of his own personal evidence into

play. Though but a child at the time, he either remembered or fancied that Matthew's father had had some job

to perform on the day before, or possibly the very morning of the Colonel's decease, in the private room

where he and the carpenter were at this moment talking. Certain papers belonging to Colonel Pyncheon, as

"My father," he said,but still there was that dark smile, making a riddle of his countenance,"my father

was an honester man than the bloody old Colonel! Not to get his rights back again would he have carried off

"I shall not bandy words with you," observed the foreignbred Mr. Pyncheon, with haughty composure. "Nor

will it become me to resent any rudeness towards either my grandfather or myself. A gentleman, before

seeking intercourse with a person of your station and habits, will first consider whether the urgency of the end

may compensate for the disagreeableness of the means. It does so in the present instance."

He then renewed the conversation, and made great pecuniary offers to the carpenter, in case the latter should

give information leading to the discovery of the lost document, and the consequent success of the Eastern

claim. For a long time Matthew Maule is said to have turned a cold ear to these propositions. At last,

however, with a strange kind of laugh, he inquired whether Mr. Pyncheon would make over to him the old

wizard's homesteadground, together with the House of the Seven Gables, now standing on it, in requital of

The wild, chimneycorner legend (which, without copying all its extravagances, my narrative essentially

follows) here gives an account of some very strange behavior on the part of Colonel Pyncheon's portrait. This

picture, it must be understood, was supposed to be so intimately connected with the fate of the house, and so

magically built into its walls, that, if once it should be removed, that very instant the whole edifice would

come thundering down in a heap of dusty ruin. All through the foregoing conversation between Mr.

Pyncheon and the carpenter, the portrait had been frowning, clenching its fist, and giving many such proofs

of excessive discomposure, but without attracting the notice of either of the two colloquists. And finally, at

Matthew Maule's audacious suggestion of a transfer of the sevengabled structure, the ghostly portrait is

averred to have lost all patience, and to have shown itself on the point of descending bodily from its frame.

"Give up this house!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, in amazement at the proposal. "Were I to do so, my

"He never has, if all stories are true," remarked the carpenter composedly. "But that matter concerns his

Impossible as he at first thought it to comply with Maule's conditions, still, on a second glance, Mr. Pyncheon

was of opinion that they might at least be made matter of discussion. He himself had no personal attachment

for the house, nor any pleasant associations connected with his childish residence in it. On the contrary, after

sevenandthirty years, the presence of his dead grandfather seemed still to pervade it, as on that morning

when the affrighted boy had beheld him, with so ghastly an aspect, stiffening in his chair. His long abode in

foreign parts, moreover, and familiarity with many of the castles and ancestral halls of England, and the

marble palaces of Italy, had caused him to look contemptuously at the House of the Seven Gables, whether in

point of splendor or convenience. It was a mansion exceedingly inadequate to the style of living which it

would be incumbent on Mr. Pyncheon to support, after realizing his territorial rights. His steward might deign

to occupy it, but never, certainly, the great landed proprietor himself. In the event of success, indeed, it was

his purpose to return to England; nor, to say the truth, would he recently have quitted that more congenial

home, had not his own fortune, as well as his deceased wife's, begun to give symptoms of exhaustion. The

Eastern claim once fairly settled, and put upon the firm basis of actual possession, Mr. Pyncheon's

propertyto be measured by miles, not acreswould be worth an earldom, and would reasonably entitle

him to solicit, or enable him to purchase, that elevated dignity from the British monarch. Lord

Pyncheon!or the Earl of Waldo!how could such a magnate be expected to contract his grandeur within

In short, on an enlarged view of the business, the carpenter's terms appeared so ridiculously easy that Mr.

Pyncheon could scarcely forbear laughing in his face. He was quite ashamed, after the foregoing reflections,

to propose any diminution of so moderate a recompense for the immense service to be rendered.

"I consent to your proposition, Maule," cried he." Put me in possession of the document essential to establish

According to some versions of the story, a regular contract to the above effect was drawn up by a lawyer, and

signed and sealed in the presence of witnesses. Others say that Matthew Maule was contented with a private

written agreement, in which Mr. Pyncheon pledged his honor and integrity to the fulfillment of the terms

concluded upon. The gentleman then ordered wine, which he and the carpenter drank together, in

confirmation of their bargain. During the whole preceding discussion and subsequent formalities, the old

Puritan's portrait seems to have persisted in its shadowy gestures of disapproval; but without effect, except

that, as Mr. Pyncheon set down the emptied glass, he thought be beheld his grandfather frown.

"This sherry is too potent a wine for me; it has affected my brain already," he observed, after a somewhat

startled look at the picture. "On returning to Europe, I shall confine myself to the more delicate vintages of

"My Lord Pyncheon may drink what wine he will, and wherever he pleases," replied the carpenter, as if he

had been privy to Mr. Pyncheon's ambitious projects. "But first, sir, if you desire tidings of this lost

document, I must crave the favor of a little talk with your fair daughter Alice."

"You are mad, Maule!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon haughtily; and now, at last, there was anger mixed up with

Indeed, at this new demand on the carpenter's part, the proprietor of the Seven Gables was even more

thunderstruck than at the cool proposition to surrender his house. There was, at least, an assignable motive

for the first stipulation; there appeared to be none whatever for the last. Nevertheless, Matthew Maule

sturdily insisted on the young lady being summoned, and even gave her father to understand, in a mysterious

kind of explanation,which made the matter considerably darker than it looked before,that the only

chance of acquiring the requisite knowledge was through the clear, crystal medium of a pure and virgin

intelligence, like that of the fair Alice. Not to encumber our story with Mr. Pyncheon's scruples, whether of

conscience, pride, or fatherly affection, he at length ordered his daughter to be called. He well knew that she

was in her chamber, and engaged in no occupation that could not readily be laid aside; for, as it happened,

ever since Alice's name had been spoken, both her father and the carpenter had heard the sad and sweet music

So Alice Pyncheon was summoned, and appeared. A portrait of this young lady, painted by a Venetian artist,

and left by her father in England, is said to have fallen into the hands of the present Duke of Devonshire, and

to be now preserved at Chatsworth; not on account of any associations with the original, but for its value as a

picture, and the high character of beauty in the countenance. If ever there was a lady born, and set apart from

the world's vulgar mass by a certain gentle and cold stateliness, it was this very Alice Pyncheon. Yet there

was the womanly mixture in her; the tenderness, or, at least, the tender capabilities. For the sake of that

redeeming quality, a man of generous nature would have forgiven all her pride, and have been content,

almost, to lie down in her path, and let Alice set her slender foot upon his heart. All that he would have

required was simply the acknowledgment that he was indeed a man, and a fellowbeing, moulded of the

As Alice came into the room, her eyes fell upon the carpenter, who was standing near its centre, clad in green

woollen jacket, a pair of loose breeches, open at the knees, and with a long pocket for his rule, the end of

which protruded; it was as proper a mark of the artisan's calling as Mr. Pyncheon's fulldress sword of that

gentleman's aristocratic pretensions. A glow of artistic approval brightened over Alice Pyncheon's face; she

was struck with admirationwhich she made no attempt to concealof the remarkable comeliness,

strength, and energy of Maule's figure. But that admiring glance (which most other men, perhaps, would have

cherished as a sweet recollection all through life) the carpenter never forgave. It must have been the devil

"Does the girl look at me as if I were a brute beast?" thought he, setting his teeth. "She shall know whether I

"My father, you sent for me," said Alice, in her sweet and harplike voice. "But, if you have business with

this young man, pray let me go again. You know I do not love this room, in spite of that Claude, with which

"Stay a moment, young lady, if you please!" said Matthew Maule. "My business with your father is over.

"Yes, Alice," said Mr. Pyncheon, with some disturbance and confusion. "This young manhis name is

Matthew Mauleprofesses, so far as I can understand him, to be able to discover, through your means, a

certain paper or parchment, which was missing long before your birth. The importance of the document in

question renders it advisable to neglect no possible, even if improbable, method of regaining it. You will

therefore oblige me, my dear Alice, by answering this person's inquiries, and complying with his lawful and

reasonable requests, so far as they may appear to have the aforesaid object in view. As I shall remain in the

room, you need apprehend no rude nor unbecoming deportment, on the young man's part; and, at your

slightest wish, of course, the investigation, or whatever we may call it, shall immediately be broken off."

"Mistress Alice Pyncheon," remarked Matthew Maule, with the utmost deference, but yet a halfhidden

sarcasm in his look and tone, "will no doubt feel herself quite safe in her father's presence, and under his

"I certainly shall entertain no manner of apprehension, with my father at hand," said Alice with maidenly

dignity. "Neither do I conceive that a lady, while true to herself, can have aught to fear from whomsoever, or

Poor Alice! By what unhappy impulse did she thus put herself at once on terms of defiance against a strength

"Then, Mistress Alice," said Matthew Maule, handing a chair, gracefully enough, for a craftsman, "will it

please you only to sit down, and do me the favor (though altogether beyond a poor carpenter's deserts) to fix

Alice complied, She was very proud. Setting aside all advantages of rank, this fair girl deemed herself

conscious of a power combined of beauty, high, unsullied purity, and the preservative force of

womanhoodthat could make her sphere impenetrable, unless betrayed by treachery within. She

instinctively knew, it may be, that some sinister or evil potency was now striving to pass her barriers; nor

would she decline the contest. So Alice put woman's might against man's might; a match not often equal on

Her father meanwhile had turned away, and seemed absorbed in the contemplation of a landscape by Claude,

where a shadowy and sunstreaked vista penetrated so remotely into an ancient wood, that it would have

been no wonder if his fancy had lost itself in the picture's bewildering depths. But, in truth, the picture was no

more to him at that moment than the blank wall against which it hung. His mind was haunted with the many

and strange tales which he had heard, attributing mysterious if not supernatural endowments to these Maules,

as well the grandson here present as his two immediate ancestors. Mr. Pyncheon's long residence abroad, and

intercourse with men of wit and fashion, courtiers, worldings, and freethinkers,had done much towards

obliterating the grim Puritan superstitions, which no man of New England birth at that early period could

entirely escape. But, on the other hand, had not a whole Community believed Maule's grandfather to be a

wizard? Had not the crime been proved? Had not the wizard died for it? Had he not bequeathed a legacy of

hatred against the Pyncheons to this only grandson, who, as it appeared, was now about to exercise a subtle

influence over the daughter of his enemy's house? Might not this influence be the same that was called

Turning half around, he caught a glimpse of Maule's figure in the lookingglass. At some paces from Alice,

with his arms uplifted in the air, the carpenter made a gesture as if directing downward a slow, ponderous,

"Stay, Maule!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, stepping forward. "I forbid your proceeding further!"

"Pray, my dear father, do not interrupt the young man," said Alice, without changing her position. "His

Again Mr. Pyncheon turned his eyes towards the Claude. It was then his daughter's will, in opposition to his

own, that the experiment should be fully tried. Henceforth, therefore, he did but consent, not urge it. And was

it not for her sake far more than for his own that he desired its success? That lost parchment once restored,

the beautiful Alice Pyncheon, with the rich dowry which he could then bestow, might wed an English duke or

a German reigningprince, instead of some New England clergyman or lawyer! At the thought, the ambitious

father almost consented, in his heart, that, if the devil's power were needed to the accomplishment of this

With his mind full of imaginary magnificence, Mr. Pyncheon heard a halfuttered exclamation from his

daughter. It was very faint and low; so indistinct that there seemed but half a will to shape out the words, and

too undefined a purport to be intelligible. Yet it was a call for help!his conscience never doubted it;and,

little more than a whisper to his ear, it was a dismal shriek, and long reechoed so, in the region round his

Mr. Pyncheon came hastily forward. The carpenter was standing erect in front of Alice's chair, and pointing

his finger towards the maiden with an expression of triumphant power, the limits of which could not be

defined, as, indeed, its scope stretched vaguely towards the unseen and the infinite. Alice sat in an attitude of

He spoke loudly, with terror in his voice, and close to that delicate ear which had always been so sensitive to

every discord. But the sound evidently reached her not. It is indescribable what a sense of remote, dim,

unattainable distance betwixt himself and Alice was impressed on the father by this impossibility of reaching

"Best touch her" said Matthew Maule "Shake the girl, and roughly, too! My hands are hardened with too

Mr. Pyncheon took her hand, and pressed it with the earnestness of startled emotion. He kissed her, with so

great a heartthrob in the kiss, that he thought she must needs feel it. Then, in a gust of anger at her

insensibility, he shook her maiden form with a violence which, the next moment, it affrighted him to

remember. He withdrew his encircling arms, and Alicewhose figure, though flexible, had been wholly

impassiverelapsed into the same attitude as before these attempts to arouse her. Maule having shifted his

position, her face was turned towards him slightly, but with what seemed to be a reference of her very

Then it was a strange sight to behold how the man of conventionalities shook the powder out of his periwig;

how the reserved and stately gentleman forgot his dignity; how the goldembroidered waistcoat flickered and

glistened in the firelight with the convulsion of rage, terror, and sorrow in the human heart that was beating

"Villain!" cried Mr. Pyncheon, shaking his clenched fist at Maule. "You and the fiend together have robbed

me of my daughter. Give her back, spawn of the old wizard, or you shall climb Gallows Hill in your

"Softly, Mr. Pyncheon!" said the carpenter with scornful composure. "Softly, an it please your worship, else

you will spoil those rich lace ruffles at your wrists! Is it my crime if you have sold your daughter for the mere

hope of getting a sheet of yellow parchment into your clutch? There sits Mistress Alice quietly asleep. Now

let Matthew Maule try whether she be as proud as the carpenter found her awhile since."

He spoke, and Alice responded, with a soft, subdued, inward acquiescence, and a bending of her form

towards him, like the flame of a torch when it indicates a gentle draught of air. He beckoned with his hand,

and, rising from her chair,blindly, but undoubtingly, as tending to her sure and inevitable centre, the

proud Alice approached him. He waved her back, and, retreating, Alice sank again into her seat.

"She is mine!" said Matthew Maule. "Mine, by the right of the strongest spirit!"

In the further progress of the legend, there is a long, grotesque, and occasionally awestriking account of the

carpenter's incantations (if so they are to be called), with a view of discovering the lost document. It appears

to have been his object to convert the mind of Alice into a kind of telescopic medium, through which Mr.

Pyncheon and himself might obtain a glimpse into the spiritual world. He succeeded, accordingly, in holding

an imperfect sort of intercourse, at one remove, with the departed personages in whose custody the so much

valued secret had been carried beyond the precincts of earth. During her trance, Alice described three figures

as being present to her spiritualized perception. One was an aged, dignified, sternlooking gentleman, clad as

for a solemn festival in grave and costly attire, but with a great bloodstain on his richly wrought band; the

second, an aged man, meanly dressed, with a dark and malign countenance, and a broken halter about his

neck; the third, a person not so advanced in life as the former two, but beyond the middle age, wearing a

coarse woollen tunic and leather breeches, and with a carpenter's rule sticking out of his side pocket. These

three visionary characters possessed a mutual knowledge of the missing document. One of them, in truth,

it was he with the bloodstain on his band,seemed, unless his gestures were misunderstood, to hold the

parchment in his immediate keeping, but was prevented by his two partners in the mystery from disburdening

himself of the trust. Finally, when he showed a purpose of shouting forth the secret loudly enough to be heard

from his own sphere into that of mortals, his companions struggled with him, and pressed their hands over his

mouth; and forthwith whether that he were choked by it, or that the secret itself was of a crimson hue

there was a fresh flow of blood upon his band. Upon this, the two meanly dressed figures mocked and

jeered at the muchabashed old dignitary, and pointed their fingers at the stain.

"It will never be allowed," said he. "The custody of this secret, that would so enrich his heirs, makes part of

your grandfather's retribution. He must choke with it until it is no longer of any value. And keep you the

House of the Seven Gables! It is too dear bought an inheritance, and too heavy with the curse upon it, to be

Mr. Pyncheon tried to speak, butwhat with fear and passioncould make only a gurgling murmur in his

"Aha, worshipful sir!so you have old Maule's blood to drink!" said he jeeringly.

"Fiend in man's shape! why dost thou keep dominion over my child?" cried Mr. Pyncheon, when his choked

utterance could make way. "Give me back my daughter. Then go thy ways; and may we never meet again!"

"Your daughter!" said Matthew Maule. "Why, she is fairly mine! Nevertheless, not to be too hard with fair

Mistress Alice, I will leave her in your keeping; but I do not warrant you that she shall never have occasion to

He waved his hands with an upward motion; and, after a few repetitions of similar gestures, the beautiful

Alice Pyncheon awoke from her strange trance. She awoke without the slightest recollection of her visionary

experience; but as one losing herself in a momentary reverie, and returning to the consciousness of actual life,

in almost as brief an interval as the downsinking flame of the hearth should quiver again up the chimney.

On recognizing Matthew Maule, she assumed an air of somewhat cold but gentle dignity, the rather, as there

was a certain peculiar smile on the carpenter's visage that stirred the native pride of the fair Alice. So ended,

for that time, the quest for the lost titledeed of the Pyncheon territory at the Eastward; nor, though often

subsequently renewed, has it ever yet befallen a Pyncheon to set his eye upon that parchment.

But, alas for the beautiful, the gentle, yet too haughty Alice! A power that she little dreamed of had laid its

grasp upon her maiden soul. A will, most unlike her own, constrained her to do its grotesque and fantastic

bidding. Her father as it proved, had martyred his poor child to an inordinate desire for measuring his land by

miles instead of acres. And, therefore, while Alice Pyncheon lived, she was Maule's slave, in a bondage more

humiliating, a thousandfold, than that which binds its chain around the body. Seated by his humble fireside,

Maule had but to wave his hand; and, wherever the proud lady chanced to be,whether in her chamber, or

entertaining her father's stately guests, or worshipping at church, whatever her place or occupation, her

spirit passed from beneath her own control, and bowed itself to Maule. "Alice, laugh!"the carpenter, beside

his hearth, would say; or perhaps intensely will it, without a spoken word. And, even were it prayertime, or

at a funeral, Alice must break into wild laughter. "Alice, be sad!"and, at the instant, down would come her

tears, quenching all the mirth of those around her like sudden rain upon a bonfire. "Alice, dance." and

dance she would, not in such courtlike measures as she had learned abroad, but Some highpaced jig, or

hopskip rigadoon, befitting the brisk lasses at a rustic merrymaking. It seemed to be Maule's impulse, not

to ruin Alice, nor to visit her with any black or gigantic mischief, which would have crowned her sorrows

with the grace of tragedy, but to wreak a low, ungenerous scorn upon her. Thus all the dignity of life was lost.

One evening, at a bridal party (but not her own; for, so lost from selfcontrol, she would have deemed it sin

to marry), poor Alice was beckoned forth by her unseen despot, and constrained, in her gossamer white dress

and satin slippers, to hasten along the street to the mean dwelling of a laboringman. There was laughter and

good cheer within; for Matthew Maule, that night, was to wed the laborer's daughter, and had summoned

proud Alice Pyncheon to wait upon his bride. And so she did; and when the twain were one, Alice awoke out

of her enchanted sleep. Yet, no longer proud,humbly, and with a smile all steeped in sadness,she kissed

Maule's wife, and went her way. It was an inclement night; the southeast wind drove the mingled snow and

rain into her thinly sheltered bosom; her satin slippers were wet through and through, as she trod the muddy

sidewalks. The next day a cold; soon, a settled cough; anon, a hectic cheek, a wasted form, that sat beside the

harpsichord, and filled the house with music! Music in which a strain of the heavenly choristers was echoed!

Oh; joy For Alice had borne her last humiliation! Oh, greater joy! For Alice was penitent of her one earthly

The Pyncheons made a great funeral for Alice. The kith and kin were there, and the whole respectability of

the town besides. But, last in the procession, came Matthew Maule, gnashing his teeth, as if he would have

bitten his own heart in twain,the darkest and wofullest man that ever walked behind a corpse! He meant to

humble Alice, not to kill her; but he had taken a woman's delicate soul into his rude gripe, to play withand

HOLGRAVE, plunging into his tale with the energy and absorption natural to a young author, had given a

good deal of action to the parts capable of being developed and exemplified in that manner. He now observed

that a certain remarkable drowsiness (wholly unlike that with which the reader possibly feels himself

affected) had been flung over the senses of his auditress. It was the effect, unquestionably, of the mystic

gesticulations by which he had sought to bring bodily before Phoebe's perception the figure of the

mesmerizing carpenter. With the lids drooping over her eyes,now lifted for an instant, and drawn down

again as with leaden weights,she leaned slightly towards him, and seemed almost to regulate her breath by

his. Holgrave gazed at her, as he rolled up his manuscript, and recognized an incipient stage of that curious

psychological condition which, as he had himself told Phoebe, he possessed more than an ordinary faculty of

producing. A veil was beginning to be muffled about her, in which she could behold only him, and live only

in his thoughts and emotions. His glance, as he fastened it on the young girl, grew involuntarily more

concentrated; in his attitude there was the consciousness of power, investing his hardly mature figure with a

dignity that did not belong to its physical manifestation. It was evident, that, with but one wave of his hand

and a corresponding effort of his will, he could complete his mastery over Phoebe's yet free and virgin spirit:

he could establish an influence over this good, pure, and simple child, as dangerous, and perhaps as

disastrous, as that which the carpenter of his legend had acquired and exercised over the illfated Alice.

To a disposition like Holgrave's, at once speculative and active, there is no temptation so great as the

opportunity of acquiring empire over the human spirit; nor any idea more seductive to a young man than to

become the arbiter of a young girl's destiny. Let us, therefore, whatever his defects of nature and

education, and in spite of his scorn for creeds and institutions,concede to the daguerreotypist the rare and

high quality of reverence for another's individuality. Let us allow him integrity, also, forever after to be

confided in; since he forbade himself to twine that one link more which might have rendered his spell over

"You really mortify me, my dear Miss Phoebe!" he exclaimed, smiling halfsarcastically at her. "My poor

story, it is but too evident, will never do for Godey or Graham! Only think of your falling asleep at what I

hoped the newspaper critics would pronounce a most brilliant, powerful, imaginative, pathetic, and original

winding up! Well, the manuscript must serve to light lamps with;if, indeed, being so imbued with my

"Me asleep! How can you say so?" answered Phoebe, as unconscious of the crisis through which she had

passed as an infant of the precipice to the verge of which it has rolled. "No, no! I consider myself as having

been very attentive; and, though I don't remember the incidents quite distinctly, yet I have an impression of a

vast deal of trouble and calamity,so, no doubt, the story will prove exceedingly attractive."

By this time the sun had gone down, and was tinting the clouds towards the zenith with those bright hues

which are not seen there until some time after sunset, and when the horizon has quite lost its richer brilliancy.

The moon, too, which had long been climbing overhead, and unobtrusively melting its disk into the

azure,like an ambitious demagogue, who hides his aspiring purpose by assuming the prevalent hue of

popular sentiment,now began to shine out, broad and oval, in its middle pathway. These silvery beams

were already powerful enough to change the character of the lingering daylight. They softened and

embellished the aspect of the old house; although the shadows fell deeper into the angles of its many gables,

and lay brooding under the projecting story, and within the halfopen door. With the lapse of every moment,

the garden grew more picturesque; the fruittrees, shrubbery, and flowerbushes had a dark obscurity among

them. The commonplace characteristicswhich, at noontide, it seemed to have taken a century of sordid life

to accumulatewere now transfigured by a charm of romance. A hundred mysterious years were whispering

among the leaves, whenever the slight seabreeze found its way thither and stirred them. Through the foliage

that roofed the little summerhouse the moonlight flickered to and fro, and fell silvery white on the dark

floor, the table, and the circular bench, with a continual shift and play, according as the chinks and wayward

So sweetly cool was the atmosphere, after all the feverish day, that the summer eve might be fancied as

sprinkling dews and liquid moonlight, with a dash of icy temper in them, out of a silver vase. Here and there,

a few drops of this freshness were scattered on a human heart, and gave it youth again, and sympathy with the

eternal youth of nature. The artist chanced to be one on whom the reviving influence fell. It made him

feelwhat he sometimes almost forgot, thrust so early as he had been into the rude struggle of man with

"It seems to me," he observed, "that I never watched the coming of so beautiful an eve, and never felt

anything so very much like happiness as at this moment. After all, what a good world we live in! How good,

and beautiful! How young it is, too, with nothing really rotten or ageworn in it! This old house, for example,

which sometimes has positively oppressed my breath with its smell of decaying timber! And this garden,

where the black mould always clings to my spade, as if I were a sexton delving in a graveyard! Could I keep

the feeling that now possesses me, the garden would every day be virgin soil, with the earth's first freshness

in the flavor of its beans and squashes; and the house!it would be like a bower in Eden, blossoming with

the earliest roses that God ever made. Moonlight, and the sentiment in man's heart responsive to it, are the

greatest of renovators and reformers. And all other reform and renovation, I suppose, will prove to be no

"I have been happier than I am now; at least, much gayer," said Phoebe thoughtfully. "Yet I am sensible of a

great charm in this brightening moonlight; and I love to watch how the day, tired as it is, lags away

reluctantly, and hates to be called yesterday so soon. I never cared much about moonlight before. What is

"And you have never felt it before?" inquired the artist, looking earnestly at the girl through the twilight.

"Never," answered Phoebe; "and life does not look the same, now that I have felt it so. It seems as if I had

looked at everything, hitherto, in broad daylight, or else in the ruddy light of a cheerful fire, glimmering and

dancing through a room. Ah, poor me!" she added, with a halfmelancholy laugh. "I shall never be so merry

as before I knew Cousin Hepzibah and poor Cousin Clifford. I have grown a great deal older, in this little

time. Older, and, I hope, wiser, and,not exactly sadder,but, certainly, with not half so much lightness in

my spirits! I have given them my sunshine, and have been glad to give it; but, of course, I cannot both give

"You have lost nothing, Phoebe, worth keeping, nor which it was possible to keep," said Holgrave after a

pause. "Our first youth is of no value; for we are never conscious of it until after it is gone. But

sometimesalways, I suspect, unless one is exceedingly unfortunatethere comes a sense of second youth,

gushing out of the heart's joy at being in love; or, possibly, it may come to crown some other grand festival in

life, if any other such there be. This bemoaning of one's self (as you do now) over the first, careless, shallow

gayety of youth departed, and this profound happiness at youth regained,so much deeper and richer than

that we lost,are essential to the soul's development. In some cases, the two states come almost

simultaneously, and mingle the sadness and the rapture in one mysterious emotion."

"No wonder," replied Holgrave, smiling; "for I have told you a secret which I hardly began to know before I

found myself giving it utterance. remember it, however; and when the truth becomes clear to you, then think

"It is entirely moonlight now, except only a little flush of faint crimson, upward from the west, between those

buildings," remarked Phoebe. "I must go in. Cousin Hepzibah is not quick at figures, and will give herself a

"Miss Hepzibah tells me," observed he, "that you return to the country in a few days."

"Yes, but only for a little while," answered Phoebe; "for I look upon this as my present home. I go to make a

few arrangements, and to take a more deliberate leave of my mother and friends. It is pleasant to live where

one is much desired and very useful; and I think I may have the satisfaction of feeling myself so here."

"You surely may, and more than you imagine," said the artist. "Whatever health, comfort, and natural life

exists in the house is embodied in your person. These blessings came along with you, and will vanish when

you leave the threshold. Miss Hepzibah, by secluding herself from society, has lost all true relation with it,

and is, in fact, dead; although she galvanizes herself into a semblance of life, and stands behind her counter,

afflicting the world with a greatlytobedeprecated scowl. Your poor cousin Clifford is another dead and

longburied person, on whom the governor and council have wrought a necromantic miracle. I should not

wonder if he were to crumble away, some morning, after you are gone, and nothing be seen of him more,

except a heap of dust. Miss Hepzibah, at any rate, will lose what little flexibility she has. They both exist by

"I should be very sorry to think so," answered Phoebe gravely. "But it is true that my small abilities were

precisely what they needed; and I have a real interest in their welfare,an odd kind of motherly

sentiment,which I wish you would not laugh at! And let me tell you frankly, Mr. Holgrave, I am

"Undoubtedly," said the daguerreotypist, "I do feel an interest in this antiquated, povertystricken old maiden

lady, and this degraded and shattered gentleman,this abortive lover of the beautiful. A kindly interest, too,

helpless old children that they are! But you have no conception what a different kind of heart mine is from

your own. It is not my impulse, as regards these two individuals, either to help or hinder; but to look on, to

analyze, to explain matters to myself, and to comprehend the drama which, for almost two hundred years, has

been dragging its slow length over the ground where you and I now tread. If permitted to witness the close, I

doubt not to derive a moral satisfaction from it, go matters how they may. There is a conviction within me

that the end draws nigh. But, though Providence sent you hither to help, and sends me only as a privileged

and meet spectator, I pledge myself to lend these unfortunate beings whatever aid I can!"

"I wish you would speak more plainly," cried Phoebe, perplexed and displeased; "and, above all, that you

would feel more like a Christian and a human being! How is it possible to see people in distress without

desiring, more than anything else, to help and comfort them? You talk as if this old house were a theatre; and

you seem to look at Hepzibah's and Clifford's misfortunes, and those of generations before them, as a tragedy,

such as I have seen acted in the hall of a country hotel, only the present one appears to be played exclusively

for your amusement. I do not like this. The play costs the performers too much, and the audience is too

"You are severe," said Holgrave, compelled to recognize a degree of truth in the piquant sketch of his own

"And then," continued Phoebe, "what can you mean by your conviction, which you tell me of, that the end is

drawing near? Do you know of any new trouble hanging over my poor relatives? If so, tell me at once, and I

"Forgive me, Phoebe!" said the daguerreotypist, holding out his hand, to which the girl was constrained to

yield her own." I am somewhat of a mystic, it must be confessed. The tendency is in my blood, together with

the faculty of mesmerism, which might have brought me to Gallows Hill, in the good old times of witchcraft.

Believe me, if I were really aware of any secret, the disclosure of which would benefit your friends,who

are my own friends, likewise,you should learn it before we part. But I have no such knowledge."

"Nothing,no secrets but my own," answered Holgrave. "I can perceive, indeed, that Judge Pyncheon still

keeps his eye on Clifford, in whose ruin he had so large a share. His motives and intentions, however are a

mystery to me. He is a determined and relentless man, with the genuine character of an inquisitor; and had he

any object to gain by putting Clifford to the rack, I verily believe that he would wrench his joints from their

sockets, in order to accomplish it. But, so wealthy and eminent as he is, so powerful in his own strength,

and in the support of society on all sides,what can Judge Pyncheon have to hope or fear from the imbecile,

"Oh, that was because I am morbid!" replied the artist. "My mind has a twist aside, like almost everybody's

mind, except your own. Moreover, it is so strange to find myself an inmate of this old Pyncheon House, and

sitting in this old garden(hark, how Maule's well is murmuring!)that, were it only for this one

circumstance, I cannot help fancying that Destiny is arranging its fifth act for a catastrophe."

"There." cried Phoebe with renewed vexation; for she was by nature as hostile to mystery as the sunshine to a

"Then let us part friends!" said Holgrave, pressing her hand. "Or, if not friends, let us part before you entirely

"Goodby, then," said Phoebe frankly. "I do not mean to be angry a great while, and should be sorry to have

you think so. There has Cousin Hepzibah been standing in the shadow of the doorway, this quarter of an hour

past! She thinks I stay too long in the damp garden. So, goodnight, and goodby."

On the second morning thereafter, Phoebe might have been seen, in her straw bonnet, with a shawl on one

arm and a little carpetbag on the other, bidding adieu to Hepzibah and Cousin Clifford. She was to take a

seat in the next train of cars, which would transport her to within half a dozen miles of her country village.

The tears were in Phoebe's eyes; a smile, dewy with affectionate regret, was glimmering around her pleasant

mouth. She wondered how it came to pass, that her life of a few weeks, here in this heavyhearted old

mansion, had taken such hold of her, and so melted into her associations, as now to seem a more important

centrepoint of remembrance than all which had gone before. How had Hepzibahgrim, silent, and

irresponsive to her overflow of cordial sentimentcontrived to win so much love? And Clifford, in his

abortive decay, with the mystery of fearful crime upon him, and the close prisonatmosphere yet lurking in

his breath, how had he transformed himself into the simplest child, whom Phoebe felt bound to watch

over, and be, as it were, the providence of his unconsidered hours! Everything, at that instant of farewell,

stood out prominently to her view. Look where she would, lay her hand on what she might, the object

She peeped from the window into the garden, and felt herself more regretful at leaving this spot of black

earth, vitiated with such an agelong growth of weeds, than joyful at the idea of again scenting her pine

forests and fresh cloverfields. She called Chanticleer, his two wives, and the venerable chicken, and threw

them some crumbs of bread from the breakfasttable. These being hastily gobbled up, the chicken spread its

wings, and alighted close by Phoebe on the windowsill, where it looked gravely into her face and vented its

emotions in a croak. Phoebe bade it be a good old chicken during her absence, and promised to bring it a little

"Ah, Phoebe!" remarked Hepzibah, "you do not smile so naturally as when you came to us! Then, the smile

chose to shine out; now, you choose it should. It is well that you are going back, for a little while, into your

native air. There has been too much weight on your spirits. The house is too gloomy and lonesome; the shop

is full of vexations; and as for me, I have no faculty of making things look brighter than they are. Dear

"Come hither, Phoebe," suddenly cried her cousin Clifford, who had said very little all the morning.

Phoebe put one of her small hands on each elbow of his chair, and leaned her face towards him, so that he

might peruse it as carefully as he would. It is probable that the latent emotions of this parting hour had

revived, in some degree, his bedimmed and enfeebled faculties. At any rate, Phoebe soon felt that, if not the

profound insight of a seer, yet a more than feminine delicacy of appreciation, was making her heart the

subject of its regard. A moment before, she had known nothing which she would have sought to hide. Now,

as if some secret were hinted to her own consciousness through the medium of another's perception, she was

fain to let her eyelids droop beneath Clifford's gaze. A blush, too,the redder, because she strove hard to

keep it down,ascended bigger and higher, in a tide of fitful progress, until even her brow was all suffused

"It is enough, Phoebe," said Clifford, with a melancholy smile. "When I first saw you, you were the prettiest

little maiden in the world; and now you have deepened into beauty. Girlhood has passed into womanhood;

Phoebe took leave of the desolate couple, and passed through the shop, twinkling her eyelids to shake off a

dewdrop; forconsidering how brief her absence was to be, and therefore the folly of being cast down

about itshe would not so far acknowledge her tears as to dry them with her handkerchief. On the doorstep,

she met the little urchin whose marvellous feats of gastronomy have been recorded in the earlier pages of our

narrative. She took from the window some specimen or other of natural history,her eyes being too dim

with moisture to inform her accurately whether it was a rabbit or a hippopotamus,put it into the child's

hand as a parting gift, and went her way. Old Uncle Venner was just coming out of his door, with a

woodhorse and saw on his shoulder; and, trudging along the street, he scrupled not to keep company with

Phoebe, so far as their paths lay together; nor, in spite of his patched coat and rusty beaver, and the curious

fashion of his towcloth trousers, could she find it in her heart to outwalk him.

"We shall miss you, next Sabbath afternoon," observed the street philosopher." It is unaccountable how little

while it takes some folks to grow just as natural to a man as his own breath; and, begging your pardon, Miss

Phoebe (though there can be no offence in an old man's saying it), that's just what you've grown to me! My

years have been a great many, and your life is but just beginning; and yet, you are somehow as familiar to me

as if I had found you at my mother's door, and you had blossomed, like a running vine, all along my pathway

since. Come back soon, or I shall be gone to my farm; for I begin to find these woodsawing jobs a little too

"And let it be all the sooner, Phoebe, for the sake of those poor souls yonder," continued her companion.

"They can never do without you, now,never, Phoebe; neverno more than if one of God's angels had

been living with them, and making their dismal house pleasant and comfortable! Don't it seem to you they'd

be in a sad case, if, some pleasant summer morning like this, the angel should spread his wings, and fly to the

place he came from? Well, just so they feel, now that you're going home by the railroad! They can't bear it,

"I am no angel, Uncle Venner," said Phoebe, smiling, as she offered him her hand at the streetcorner. "But, I

suppose, people never feel so much like angels as when they are doing what little good they may. So I shall

Thus parted the old man and the rosy girl; and Phoebe took the wings of the morning, and was soon flitting

almost as rapidly away as if endowed with the aerial locomotion of the angels to whom Uncle Venner had so

SEVERAL days passed over the Seven Gables, heavily and drearily enough. In fact (not to attribute the

whole gloom of sky and earth to the one inauspicious circumstance of Phoebe's departure), an easterly storm

had set in, and indefatigably apply itself to the task of making the black roof and walls of the old house look

more cheerless than ever before. Yet was the outside not half so cheerless as the interior. Poor Clifford was

cut off, at once, from all his scanty resources of enjoyment. Phoebe was not there; nor did the sunshine fall

upon the floor. The garden, with its muddy walks, and the chill, dripping foliage of its summerhouse, was

an image to be shuddered at. Nothing flourished in the cold, moist, pitiless atmosphere, drifting with the

brackish scud of seabreezes, except the moss along the joints of the shingleroof, and the great bunch of

weeds, that had lately been suffering from drought, in the angle between the two front gables.

As for Hepzibah, she seemed not merely possessed with the east wind, but to be, in her very person, only

another phase of this gray and sullen spell of weather; the east wind itself, grim and disconsolate, in a rusty

black silk gown, and with a turban of cloudwreaths on its head. The custom of the shop fell off, because a

story got abroad that she soured her small beer and other damageable commodities, by scowling on them. It

is, perhaps, true that the public had something reasonably to complain of in her deportment; but towards

Clifford she was neither illtempered nor unkind, nor felt less warmth of heart than always, had it been

possible to make it reach him. The inutility of her best efforts, however, palsied the poor old gentlewoman.

She could do little else than sit silently in a corner of the room, when the wet peartree branches, sweeping

across the small windows, created a noonday dusk, which Hepzibah unconsciously darkened with her

woebegone aspect. It was no fault of Hepzibah's. Everythingeven the old chairs and tables, that had

known what weather was for three or four such lifetimes as her ownlooked as damp and chill as if the

present were their worst experience. The picture of the Puritan Colonel shivered on the wall. The house itself

shivered, from every attic of its seven gables down to the great kitchen fireplace, which served all the better

as an emblem of the mansion's heart, because, though built for warmth, it was now so comfortless and empty.

Hepzibah attempted to enliven matters by a fire in the parlor. But the storm demon kept watch above, and,

whenever a flame was kindled, drove the smoke back again, choking the chimney's sooty throat with its own

breath. Nevertheless, during four days of this miserable storm, Clifford wrapt himself in an old cloak, and

occupied his customary chair. On the morning of the fifth, when summoned to breakfast, he responded only

by a brokenhearted murmur, expressive of a determination not to leave his bed. His sister made no attempt

to change his purpose. In fact, entirely as she loved him, Hepzibah could hardly have borne any longer the

wretched dutyso impracticable by her few and rigid faculties of seeking pastime for a still sensitive, but

ruined mind, critical and fastidious, without force or volition. It was at least something short of positive

despair, that today she might sit shivering alone, and not suffer continually a new grief, and unreasonable

But Clifford, it seemed, though he did not make his appearance below stairs, had, after all, bestirred himself

in quest of amusement. In the course of the forenoon, Hepzibah heard a note of music, which (there being no

other tuneful contrivance in the House of the Seven Gables) she knew must proceed from Alice Pyncheon's

harpsichord. She was aware that Clifford, in his youth, had possessed a cultivated taste for music, and a

considerable degree of skill in its practice. It was difficult, however, to conceive of his retaining an

accomplishment to which daily exercise is so essential, in the measure indicated by the sweet, airy, and

delicate, though most melancholy strain, that now stole upon her ear. Nor was it less marvellous that the

longsilent instrument should be capable of so much melody. Hepzibah involuntarily thought of the ghostly

harmonies, prelusive of death in the family, which were attributed to the legendary Alice. But it was, perhaps,

proof of the agency of other than spiritual fingers, that, after a few touches, the chords seemed to snap

But a harsher sound succeeded to the mysterious notes; nor was the easterly day fated to pass without an

event sufficient in itself to poison, for Hepzibah and Clifford, the balmiest air that ever brought the

hummingbirds along with it. The final echoes of Alice Pyncheon's performance (or Clifford's, if his we must

consider it) were driven away by no less vulgar a dissonance than the ringing of the shopbell. A foot was

heard scraping itself on the threshold, and thence somewhat ponderously stepping on the floor. Hepzibah

delayed a moment, while muffling herself in a faded shawl, which had been her defensive armor in a forty

years' warfare against the east wind. A characteristic sound, however,neither a cough nor a hem, but a kind

of rumbling and reverberating spasm in somebody's capacious depth of chest; impelled her to hurry

forward, with that aspect of fierce faintheartedness so common to women in cases of perilous emergency.

Few of her sex, on such occasions, have ever looked so terrible as our poor scowling Hepzibah. But the

visitor quietly closed the shopdoor behind him, stood up his umbrella against the counter, and turned a

visage of composed benignity, to meet the alarm and anger which his appearance had excited.

Hepzibah's presentiment had not deceived her. It was no other than Judge Pyncheon, who, after in vain trying

"How do you do, Cousin Hepzibah?and how does this most inclement weather affect our poor Clifford?"

began the Judge; and wonderful it seemed, indeed, that the easterly storm was not put to shame, or, at any

rate, a little mollified, by the genial benevolence of his smile. "I could not rest without calling to ask, once

"You can do nothing," said Hepzibah, controlling her agitation as well as she could." I devote myself to

"But allow me to suggest, dear cousin," rejoined the Judge," you err,in all affection and kindness, no

doubt, and with the very best intentions,but you do err, nevertheless, in keeping your brother so secluded.

Why insulate him thus from all sympathy and kindness? Clifford, alas! has had too much of solitude. Now let

him try society,the society, that is to say, of kindred and old friends. Let me, for instance, but see Clifford,

"You cannot see him," answered Hepzibah. "Clifford has kept his bed since yesterday."

"What! How! Is he ill?" exclaimed Judge Pyncheon, starting with what seemed to be angry alarm; for the

very frown of the old Puritan darkened through the room as he spoke. "Nay, then, I must and will see him!

"He is in no danger of death," said Hepzibah,and added, with bitterness that she could repress no longer,

"none; unless he shall be persecuted to death, now, by the same man who long ago attempted it!"

"Cousin Hepzibah," said the Judge, with an impressive earnestness of manner, which grew even to tearful

pathos as he proceeded, "is it possible that you do not perceive how unjust, how unkind, how unchristian, is

this constant, this longcontinued bitterness against me, for a part which I was constrained by duty and

conscience, by the force of law, and at my own peril, to act? What did I do, in detriment to Clifford, which it

was possible to leave undone? How could you, his sister,if, for your neverending sorrow, as it has been

for mine, you had known what I did,have, shown greater tenderness? And do you think, cousin, that it has

cost me no pang? that it has left no anguish in my bosom, from that day to this, amidst all the prosperity

with which Heaven has blessed me?or that I do not now rejoice, when it is deemed consistent with the

dues of public justice and the welfare of society that this dear kinsman, this early friend, this nature so

delicately and beautifully constituted,so unfortunate, let us pronounce him, and forbear to say, so

guilty,that our own Clifford, in fine, should be given back to life, and its possibilities of enjoyment? Ah,

you little know me, Cousin Hepzibah! You little know this heart! It now throbs at the thought of meeting

him! There lives not the human being (except yourself,and you not more than I) who has shed so many

tears for Clifford's calamity. You behold some of them now. There is none who would so delight to promote

his happiness! Try me, Hepzibah! try me, cousin! try the man whom you have treated as your enemy

and Clifford's! try Jaffrey Pyncheon, and you shall find him true, to the heart's core!"

"In the name of Heaven," cried Hepzibah, provoked only to intenser indignation by this outgush of the

inestimable tenderness of a stern nature,"in God's name, whom you insult, and whose power I could almost

question, since he hears you utter so many false words without palsying your tongue,give over, I beseech

you, this loathsome pretence of affection for your victim! You hate him! Say so, like a man! You cherish, at

this moment, some black purpose against him in your heart! Speak it out, at once!or, if you hope so to

promote it better, hide it till you can triumph in its success! But never speak again of your love for my poor

brother. I cannot bear it! It will drive me beyond a woman's decency! It will drive me mad! Forbear. Not

For once, Hepzibah's wrath had given her courage. She had spoken. But, after all, was this unconquerable

distrust of Judge Pyncheon's integrity, and this utter denial, apparently, of his claim to stand in the ring of

human sympathies,were they founded in any just perception of his character, or merely the offspring of a

The Judge, beyond all question, was a man of eminent respectability. The church acknowledged it; the state

acknowledged it. It was denied by nobody. In all the very extensive sphere of those who knew him, whether

in his public or private capacities, there was not an individualexcept Hepzibah, and some lawless mystic,

like the daguerreotypist, and, possibly, a few political opponentswho would have dreamed of seriously

disputing his claim to a high and honorable place in the world's regard. Nor (we must do him the further

justice to say) did Judge Pyncheon himself, probably, entertain many or very frequent doubts, that his

enviable reputation accorded with his deserts. His conscience, therefore, usually considered the surest witness

to a man's integrity,his conscience, unless it might be for the little space of five minutes in the twentyfour

hours, or, now and then, some black day in the whole year's circle,his conscience bore an accordant

testimony with the world's laudatory voice. And yet, strong as this evidence may seem to be, we should

hesitate to peril our own conscience on the assertion, that the Judge and the consenting world were right, and

that poor Hepzibah with her solitary prejudice was wrong. Hidden from mankind, forgotten by himself, or

buried so deeply under a sculptured and ornamented pile of ostentatious deeds that his daily life could take no

note of it,there may have lurked some evil and unsightly thing. Nay, we could almost venture to say,

further, that a daily guilt might have been acted by him, continually renewed, and reddening forth afresh, like

the miraculous bloodstain of a murder, without his necessarily and at every moment being aware of it.

Men of strong minds, great force of character, and a hard texture of the sensibilities, are very capable of

falling into mistakes of this kind. They are ordinarily men to whom forms are of paramount importance. Their

field of action lies among the external phenomena of life. They possess vast ability in grasping, and

arranging, and appropriating to themselves, the big, heavy, solid unrealities, such as gold, landed estate,

offices of trust and emolument, and public honors. With these materials, and with deeds of goodly aspect,

done in the public eye, an individual of this class builds up, as it were, a tall and stately edifice, which, in the

view of other people, and ultimately in his own view, is no other than the man's character, or the man himself.

Behold, therefore, a palace! Its splendid halls and suites of spacious apartments are floored with a

mosaicwork of costly marbles; its windows, the whole height of each room, admit the sunshine through the

most transparent of plateglass; its high cornices are gilded, and its ceilings gorgeously painted; and a lofty

domethrough which, from the central pavement, you may gaze up to the sky, as with no obstructing

medium betweensurmounts the whole. With what fairer and nobler emblem could any man desire to

shadow forth his character? Ah! but in some low and obscure nook, some narrow closet on the

groundfloor, shut, locked and bolted, and the key flung away,or beneath the marble pavement, in a

stagnant waterpuddle, with the richest pattern of mosaicwork above,may lie a corpse, half decayed, and

still decaying, and diffusing its deathscent all through the palace! The inhabitant will not be conscious of it,

for it has long been his daily breath! Neither will the visitors, for they smell only the rich odors which the

master sedulously scatters through the palace, and the incense which they bring, and delight to burn before

him! Now and then, perchance, comes in a seer, before whose sadly gifted eye the whole structure melts into

thin air, leaving only the hidden nook, the bolted closet, with the cobwebs festooned over its forgotten door,

or the deadly hole under the pavement, and the decaying corpse within. Here, then, we are to seek the true

emblem of the man's character, and of the deed that gives whatever reality it possesses to his life. And,

beneath the show of a marble palace, that pool of stagnant water, foul with many impurities, and, perhaps,

tinged with blood,that secret abomination, above which, possibly, he may say his prayers, without

To apply this train of remark somewhat more closely to Judge Pyncheon. We might say (without in the least

imputing crime to a personage of his eminent respectability) that there was enough of splendid rubbish in his

life to cover up and paralyze a more active and subtile conscience than the Judge was ever troubled with. The

purity of his judicial character, while on the bench; the faithfulness of his public service in subsequent

capacities; his devotedness to his party, and the rigid consistency with which he had adhered to its principles,

or, at all events, kept pace with its organized movements; his remarkable zeal as president of a Bible society;

his unimpeachable integrity as treasurer of a widow's and orphan's fund; his benefits to horticulture, by

producing two much esteemed varieties of the pear and to agriculture, through the agency of the famous

Pyncheon bull; the cleanliness of his moral deportment, for a great many years past; the severity with which

he had frowned upon, and finally cast off, an expensive and dissipated son, delaying forgiveness until within

the final quarter of an hour of the young man's life; his prayers at morning and eventide, and graces at

mealtime; his efforts in furtherance of the temperance cause; his confining himself, since the last attack of

the gout, to five diurnal glasses of old sherry wine; the snowy whiteness of his linen, the polish of his boots,

the handsomeness of his goldheaded cane, the square and roomy fashion of his coat, and the fineness of its

material, and, in general, the studied propriety of his dress and equipment; the scrupulousness with which he

paid public notice, in the street, by a bow, a lifting of the hat, a nod, or a motion of the hand, to all and sundry

of his acquaintances, rich or poor; the smile of broad benevolence wherewith he made it a point to gladden

the whole world,what room could possibly be found for darker traits in a portrait made up of lineaments

like these? This proper face was what he beheld in the lookingglass. This admirably arranged life was what

he was conscious of in the progress of every day. Then might not he claim to be its result and sum, and say to

And allowing that, many, many years ago, in his early and reckless youth, he had committed some one wrong

act,or that, even now, the inevitable force of circumstances should occasionally make him do one

questionable deed among a thousand praiseworthy, or, at least, blameless ones,would you characterize the

Judge by that one necessary deed, and that halfforgotten act, and let it overshadow the fair aspect of a

lifetime? What is there so ponderous in evil, that a thumb's bigness of it should outweigh the mass of things

not evil which were heaped into the other scale! This scale and balance system is a favorite one with people

of Judge Pyncheon's brotherhood. A hard, cold man, thus unfortunately situated, seldom or never looking

inward, and resolutely taking his idea of himself from what purports to be his image as reflected in the mirror

of public opinion, can scarcely arrive at true selfknowledge, except through loss of property and reputation.

But our affair now is with Judge Pyncheon as he stood confronting the fierce outbreak of Hepzibah's wrath.

Without premeditation, to her own surprise, and indeed terror, she had given vent, for once, to the inveteracy

Thus far the Judge's countenance had expressed mild forbearance, grave and almost gentle deprecation of

his cousin's unbecoming violence,free and Christianlike forgiveness of the wrong inflicted by her words.

But when those words were irrevocably spoken, his look assumed sternness, the sense of power, and

immitigable resolve; and this with so natural and imperceptible a change, that it seemed as if the iron man

had stood there from the first, and the meek man not at all. The effect was as when the light, vapory clouds,

with their soft coloring, suddenly vanish from the stony brow of a precipitous mountain, and leave there the

frown which you at once feel to be eternal. Hepzibah almost adopted the insane belief that it was her old

Puritan ancestor, and not the modern Judge, on whom she had just been wreaking the bitterness of her heart.

Never did a man show stronger proof of the lineage attributed to him than Judge Pyncheon, at this crisis, by

"With all my heart!" answered she. "Then, why do you persecute us any longer? Leave poor Clifford and me

"It is my purpose to see Clifford before I leave this house," continued the Judge. "Do not act like a

madwoman, Hepzibah! I am his only friend, and an allpowerful one. Has it never occurred to you,are you

so blind as not to have seen,that, without not merely my consent, but my efforts, my representations, the

exertion of my whole influence, political, official, personal, Clifford would never have been what you call

free? Did you think his release a triumph over me? Not so, my good cousin; not so, by any means! The

furthest possible from that! No; but it was the accomplishment of a purpose long entertained on my part. I set

"You!" answered Hepzibah. "I never will believe it! He owed his dungeon to you; his freedom to God's

"I set him free!" reaffirmed Judge Pyncheon, with the calmest composure. "And I came hither now to decide

whether he shall retain his freedom. It will depend upon himself. For this purpose, I must see him."

"Never!it would drive him mad!" exclaimed Hepzibah, but with an irresoluteness sufficiently perceptible

to the keen eye of the Judge; for, without the slightest faith in his good intentions, she knew not whether there

was most to dread in yielding or resistance. "And why should you wish to see this wretched, broken man,

who retains hardly a fraction of his intellect, and will hide even that from an eye which has no love in it?"

"He shall see love enough in mine, if that be all!" said the Judge, with wellgrounded confidence in the

benignity of his aspect. "But, Cousin Hepzibah, you confess a great deal, and very much to the purpose. Now,

listen, and I will frankly explain my reasons for insisting on this interview. At the death, thirty years since, of

our uncle Jaffrey, it was found,I know not whether the circumstance ever attracted much of your attention,

among the sadder interests that clustered round that event,but it was found that his visible estate, of every

kind, fell far short of any estimate ever made of it. He was supposed to be immensely rich. Nobody doubted

that he stood among the weightiest men of his day. It was one of his eccentricities, however,and not

altogether a folly, neither,to conceal the amount of his property by making distant and foreign investments,

perhaps under other names than his own, and by various means, familiar enough to capitalists, but

unnecessary here to be specified. By Uncle Jaffrey's last will and testament, as you are aware, his entire

property was bequeathed to me, with the single exception of a life interest to yourself in this old family

"And do you seek to deprive us of that?" asked Hepzibah, unable to restrain her bitter contempt." Is this your

"Certainly not, my dear cousin!" answered the Judge, smiling benevolently. "On the contrary, as you must do

me the justice to own, I have constantly expressed my readiness to double or treble your resources, whenever

you should make up your mind to accept any kindness of that nature at the hands of your kinsman. No, no!

But here lies the gist of the matter. Of my uncle's unquestionably great estate, as I have said, not the

halfno, not one third, as I am fully convincedwas apparent after his death. Now, I have the best possible

reasons for believing that your brother Clifford can give me a clew to the recovery of the remainder."

"Clifford!Clifford know of any hidden wealth? Clifford have it in his power to make you rich?" cried the

old gentlewoman, affected with a sense of something like ridicule at the idea. "Impossible! You deceive

"It is as certain as that I stand here!" said Judge Pyncheon, striking his goldheaded cane on the floor, and at

the same time stamping his foot, as if to express his conviction the more forcibly by the whole emphasis of

"I do not belong to the dreaming class of men," said the Judge quietly. "Some months before my uncle's

death, Clifford boasted to me of the possession of the secret of incalculable wealth. His purpose was to taunt

me, and excite my curiosity. I know it well. But, from a pretty distinct recollection of the particulars of our

conversation, I am thoroughly convinced that there was truth in what he said. Clifford, at this moment, if he

chooses,and choose he must!can inform me where to find the schedule, the documents, the evidences, in

whatever shape they exist, of the vast amount of Uncle Jaffrey's missing property. He has the secret. His

boast was no idle word. It had a directness, an emphasis, a particularity, that showed a backbone of solid

"But what could have been Clifford's object," asked Hepzibah, "in concealing it so long?"

"It was one of the bad impulses of our fallen nature," replied the Judge, turning up his eyes. "He looked upon

me as his enemy. He considered me as the cause of his overwhelming disgrace, his imminent peril of death,

his irretrievable ruin. There was no great probability, therefore, of his volunteering information, out of his

dungeon, that should elevate me still higher on the ladder of prosperity. But the moment has now come when

"And what if he should refuse?" inquired Hepzibah. "Or,as I steadfastly believe,what if he has no

"My dear cousin," said Judge Pyncheon, with a quietude which he had the power of making more formidable

than any violence, "since your brother's return, I have taken the precaution (a highly proper one in the near

kinsman and natural guardian of an individual so situated) to have his deportment and habits constantly and

carefully overlooked. Your neighbors have been eyewitnesses to whatever has passed in the garden. The

butcher, the baker, the fishmonger, some of the customers of your shop, and many a prying old woman,

have told me several of the secrets of your interior. A still larger circleI myself, among the restcan

testify to his extravagances at the arched window. Thousands beheld him, a week or two ago, on the point of

finging himself thence into the street. From all this testimony, I am led to apprehendreluctantly, and with

deep griefthat Clifford's misfortunes have so affected his intellect, never very strong, that he cannot safely

remain at large. The alternative, you must be aware,and its adoption will depend entirely on the decision

which I am now about to make,the alternative is his confinement, probably for the remainder of his life, in

"Should my cousin Clifford," continued Judge Pyncheon, wholly undisturbed, "from mere malice, and hatred

of one whose interests ought naturally to be dear to him,a mode of passion that, as often as any other,

indicates mental disease,should he refuse me the information so important to myself, and which he

assuredly possesses, I shall consider it the one needed jot of evidence to satisfy my mind of his insanity. And,

once sure of the course pointed out by conscience, you know me too well, Cousin Hepzibah, to entertain a

"O Jaffrey,Cousin Jaffrey." cried Hepzibah mournfully, not passionately, "it is you that are diseased in

mind, not Clifford! You have forgotten that a woman was your mother!that you have had sisters, brothers,

children of your own!or that there ever was affection between man and man, or pity from one man to

another, in this miserable world! Else, how could you have dreamed of this? You are not young, Cousin

Jaffrey!no, nor middleaged,but already an old man! The hair is white upon your head! How many

years have you to live? Are you not rich enough for that little time? Shall you be hungry,shall you lack

clothes, or a roof to shelter you,between this point and the grave? No! but, with the half of what you now

possess, you could revel in costly food and wines, and build a house twice as splendid as you now inhabit,

and make a far greater show to the world,and yet leave riches to your only son, to make him bless the hour

of your death! Then, why should you do this cruel, cruel thing?so mad a thing, that I know not whether to

call it wicked! Alas, Cousin Jaffrey, this hard and grasping spirit has run in our blood these two hundred

years. You are but doing over again, in another shape, what your ancestor before you did, and sending down

"Talk sense, Hepzibah, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed the Judge, with the impatience natural to a reasonable

man, on hearing anything so utterly absurd as the above, in a discussion about matters of business. "I have

told you my determination. I am not apt to change. Clifford must give up his secret, or take the consequences.

And let him decide quickly; for I have several affairs to attend to this morning, and an important dinner

"Clifford has no secret!" answered Hepzibah. "And God will not let you do the thing you meditate!"

"We shall see," said the unmoved Judge. "Meanwhile, choose whether you will summon Clifford, and allow

this business to be amicably settled by an interview between two kinsmen, or drive me to harsher measures,

which I should be most happy to feel myself justified in avoiding. The responsibility is altogether on your

"You are stronger than I," said Hepzibah, after a brief consideration; "and you have no pity in your strength!

Clifford is not now insane; but the interview which you insist upon may go far to make him so. Nevertheless,

knowing you as I do, I believe it to be my best course to allow you to judge for yourself as to the

improbability of his possessing any valuable secret. I will call Clifford. Be merciful in your dealings with

him!be far more merciful than your heart bids you be!for God is looking at you, Jaffrey Pyncheon!"

The Judge followed his cousin from the shop, where the foregoing conversation had passed, into the parlor,

and flung himself heavily in to the great ancestral chair. Many a former Pyncheon had found repose in its

capacious arms: rosy children, after their sports; young men, dreamy with love; grown men, weary with

cares; old men, burdened with winters, they had mused, and slumbered, and departed to a yet profounder

sleep. It had been a long tradition, though a doubtful one, that this was the very chair, seated in which the

earliest of the Judge's New England forefathershe whose picture still hung upon the wallhad given a

dead man's silent and stern reception to the throng of distinguished guests. From that hour of evil omen until

the present, it may be,though we know not the secret of his heart,but it may be that no wearier and

sadder man had ever sunk into the chair than this same Judge Pyncheon, whom we have just beheld so

immitigably hard and resolute. Surely, it must have been at no slight cost that he had thus fortified his soul

with iron. Such calmness is a mightier effort than the violence of weaker men. And there was yet a heavy task

for him to do. Was it a little mattera trifle to be prepared for in a single moment, and to be rested from in

another moment, that he must now, after thirty years, encounter a kinsman risen from a living tomb, and

"Did you speak?" asked Hepzibah, looking in from the threshold of the parlor; for she imagined that the

Judge had uttered some sound which she was anxious to interpret as a relenting impulse. "I thought you

"No, no" gruffly answered Judge Pyncheon with a harsh frown, while his brow grew almost a black purple, in

the shadow of the room. "Why should I call you back? Time flies! Bid Clifford come to me!"

The Judge had taken his watch from his vest pocket and now held it in his hand, measuring the interval which

NEVER had the old house appeared so dismal to poor Hepzibah as when she departed on that wretched

errand. There was a strange aspect in it. As she trode along the footworn passages, and opened one crazy

door after another, and ascended the creaking staircase, she gazed wistfully and fearfully around. It would

have been no marvel, to her excited mind, if, behind or beside her, there had been the rustle of dead people's

garments, or pale visages awaiting her on the landingplace above. Her nerves were set all ajar by the scene

of passion and terror through which she had just struggled. Her colloquy with Judge Pyncheon, who so

perfectly represented the person and attributes of the founder of the family, had called back the dreary past. It

weighed upon her heart. Whatever she had heard, from legendary aunts and grandmothers, concerning the

good or evil fortunes of the Pyncheons,stories which had heretofore been kept warm in her remembrance

by the chimneycorner glow that was associated with them,now recurred to her, sombre, ghastly, cold, like

most passages of family history, when brooded over in melancholy mood. The whole seemed little else but a

series of calamity, reproducing itself in successive generations, with one general hue, and varying in little,

save the outline. But Hepzibah now felt as if the Judge, and Clifford, and herself,they three together,

were on the point of adding another incident to the annals of the house, with a bolder relief of wrong and

sorrow, which would cause it to stand out from all the rest. Thus it is that the grief of the passing moment

takes upon itself an individuality, and a character of climax, which it is destined to lose after a while, and to

fade into the dark gray tissue common to the grave or glad events of many years ago. It is but for a moment,

comparatively, that anything looks strange or startling,a truth that has the bitter and the sweet in it.

But Hepzibah could not rid herself of the sense of something unprecedented at that instant passing and soon

to be accomplished. Her nerves were in a shake. Instinctively she paused before the arched window, and

looked out upon the street, in order to seize its permanent objects with her mental grasp, and thus to steady

herself from the reel and vibration which affected her more immediate sphere. It brought her up, as we may

say, with a kind of shock, when she beheld everything under the same appearance as the day before, and

numberless preceding days, except for the difference between sunshine and sullen storm. Her eyes travelled

along the street, from doorstep to doorstep, noting the wet sidewalks, with here and there a puddle in hollows

that had been imperceptible until filled with water. She screwed her dim optics to their acutest point, in the

hope of making out, with greater distinctness, a certain window, where she half saw, half guessed, that a

tailor's seamstress was sitting at her work. Hepzibah flung herself upon that unknown woman's

companionship, even thus far off. Then she was attracted by a chaise rapidly passing, and watched its moist

and glistening top, and its splashing wheels, until it had turned the corner, and refused to carry any further her

idly trifling, because appalled and overburdened, mind. When the vehicle had disappeared, she allowed

herself still another loitering moment; for the patched figure of good Uncle Venner was now visible, coming

slowly from the head of the street downward, with a rheumatic limp, because the east wind had got into his

joints. Hepzibah wished that he would pass yet more slowly, and befriend her shivering solitude a little

longer. Anything that would take her out of the grievous present, and interpose human beings betwixt herself

and what was nearest to her,whatever would defer for an instant the inevitable errand on which she was

bound,all such impediments were welcome. Next to the lightest heart, the heaviest is apt to be most

Hepzibah had little hardihood for her own proper pain, and far less for what she must inflict on Clifford. Of

so slight a nature, and so shattered by his previous calamities, it could not well be short of utter ruin to bring

him face to face with the hard, relentless man who had been his evil destiny through life. Even had there been

no bitter recollections, nor any hostile interest now at stake between them, the mere natural repugnance of the

more sensitive system to the massive, weighty, and unimpressible one, must, in itself, have been disastrous to

the former. It would be like flinging a porcelain vase, with already a crack in it, against a granite column.

Never before had Hepzibah so adequately estimated the powerful character of her cousin Jaffrey,powerful

by intellect, energy of will, the long habit of acting among men, and, as she believed, by his unscrupulous

pursuit of selfish ends through evil means. It did but increase the difficulty that Judge Pyncheon was under a

delusion as to the secret which he supposed Clifford to possess. Men of his strength of purpose and

customary sagacity, if they chance to adopt a mistaken opinion in practical matters, so wedge it and fasten it

among things known to be true, that to wrench it out of their minds is hardly less difficult than pulling up an

oak. Thus, as the Judge required an impossibility of Clifford, the latter, as he could not perform it, must needs

perish. For what, in the grasp of a man like this, was to become of Clifford's soft poetic nature, that never

should have had a task more stubborn than to set a life of beautiful enjoyment to the flow and rhythm of

musical cadences! Indeed, what had become of it already? Broken! Blighted! All but annihilated! Soon to be

For a moment, the thought crossed Hepzibah's mind, whether Clifford might not really have such knowledge

of their deceased uncle's vanished estate as the Judge imputed to him. She remembered some vague

intimations, on her brother's part, whichif the supposition were not essentially preposterous might have

been so interpreted. There had been schemes of travel and residence abroad, daydreams of brilliant life at

home, and splendid castles in the air, which it would have required boundless wealth to build and realize. Had

this wealth been in her power, how gladly would Hepzibah have bestowed it all upon her ironhearted

kinsman, to buy for Clifford the freedom and seclusion of the desolate old house! But she believed that her

brother's schemes were as destitute of actual substance and purpose as a child's pictures of its future life,

while sitting in a little chair by its mother's knee. Clifford had none but shadowy gold at his command; and it

Was there no help in their extremity? It seemed strange that there should be none, with a city round about her.

It would be so easy to throw up the window, and send forth a shriek, at the strange agony of which everybody

would come hastening to the rescue, well understanding it to be the cry of a human soul, at some dreadful

crisis! But how wild, how almost laughable, the fatality, and yet how continually it comes to pass, thought

Hepzibah, in this dull delirium of a world,that whosoever, and with however kindly a purpose, should

come to help, they would be sure to help the strongest side! Might and wrong combined, like iron

magnetized, are endowed with irresistible attraction. There would be Judge Pyncheon, a person eminent in

the public view, of high station and great wealth, a philanthropist, a member of Congress and of the church,

and intimately associated with whatever else bestows good name,so imposing, in these advantageous

lights, that Hepzibah herself could hardly help shrinking from her own conclusions as to his hollow integrity.

The Judge, on one side! And who, on the other? The guilty Clifford! Once a byword! Now, an indistinctly

Nevertheless, in spite of this perception that the Judge would draw all human aid to his own behalf, Hepzibah

was so unaccustomed to act for herself, that the least word of counsel would have swayed her to any mode of

action. Little Phoebe Pyncheon would at once have lighted up the whole scene, if not by any available

suggestion, yet simply by the warm vivacity of her character. The idea of the artist occurred to Hepzibah.

Young and unknown, mere vagrant adventurer as he was, she had been conscious of a force in Holgrave

which might well adapt him to be the champion of a crisis. With this thought in her mind, she unbolted a

door, cobwebbed and long disused, but which had served as a former medium of communication between her

own part of the house and the gable where the wandering daguerreotypist had now established his temporary

home. He was not there. A book, face downward, on the table, a roll of manuscript, a halfwritten sheet, a

newspaper, some tools of his present occupation, and several rejected daguerreotypes, conveyed an

impression as if he were close at hand. But, at this period of the day, as Hepzibah might have anticipated, the

artist was at his public rooms. With an impulse of idle curiosity, that flickered among her heavy thoughts, she

looked at one of the daguerreotypes, and beheld Judge Pyncheon frowning at her. Fate stared her in the face.

She turned back from her fruitless quest, with a heartsinking sense of disappointment. In all her years of

seclusion, she had never felt, as now, what it was to be alone. It seemed as if the house stood in a desert, or,

by some spell, was made invisible to those who dwelt around, or passed beside it; so that any mode of

misfortune, miserable accident, or crime might happen in it without the possibility of aid. In her grief and

wounded pride, Hepzibah had spent her life in divesting herself of friends; she had wilfully cast off the

support which God has ordained his creatures to need from one another; and it was now her punishment, that

Returning to the arched window, she lifted her eyes,scowling, poor, dimsighted Hepzibah, in the face of

Heaven!and strove hard to send up a prayer through the dense gray pavement of clouds. Those mists had

gathered, as if to symbolize a great, brooding mass of human trouble, doubt, confusion, and chill indifference,

between earth and the better regions. Her faith was too weak; the prayer too heavy to be thus uplifted. It fell

back, a lump of lead, upon her heart. It smote her with the wretched conviction that Providence intermeddled

not in these petty wrongs of one individual to his fellow, nor had any balm for these little agonies of a solitary

soul; but shed its justice, and its mercy, in a broad, sunlike sweep, over half the universe at once. Its vastness

made it nothing. But Hepzibah did not see that, just as there comes a warm sunbeam into every cottage

At last, finding no other pretext for deferring the torture that she was to inflict on Clifford,her reluctance to

which was the true cause of her loitering at the window, her search for the artist, and even her abortive

prayer,dreading, also, to hear the stern voice of Judge Pyncheon from below stairs, chiding her

delay,she crept slowly, a pale, griefstricken figure, a dismal shape of woman, with almost torpid limbs,

And how should there have been? Her hand, tremulous with the shrinking purpose which directed it, had

smitten so feebly against the door that the sound could hardly have gone inward. She knocked again. Still no

response! Nor was it to be wondered at. She had struck with the entire force of her heart's vibration,

communicating, by some subtile magnetism, her own terror to the summons. Clifford would turn his face to

the pillow, and cover his head beneath the bedclothes, like a startled child at midnight. She knocked a third

time, three regular strokes, gentle, but perfectly distinct, and with meaning in them; for, modulate it with

what cautious art we will, the hand cannot help playing some tune of what we feel upon the senseless wood.

Two or three times, and more, Hepzibah repeated his name, without result; till, thinking her brother's sleep

unwontedly profound, she undid the door, and entering, found the chamber vacant. How could he have come

forth, and when, without her knowledge? Was it possible that, in spite of the stormy day, and worn out with

the irksomeness within doors he had betaken himself to his customary haunt in the garden, and was now

shivering under the cheerless shelter of the summerhouse? She hastily threw up a window, thrust forth her

turbaned head and the half of her gaunt figure, and searched the whole garden through, as completely as her

dim vision would allow. She could see the interior of the summerhouse, and its circular seat, kept moist by

the droppings of the roof. It had no occupant. Clifford was not thereabouts; unless, indeed, he had crept for

concealment (as, for a moment, Hepzibah fancied might be the case) into a great, wet mass of tangled and

broadleaved shadow, where the squashvines were clambering tumultuously upon an old wooden

framework, set casually aslant against the fence. This could not be, however; he was not there; for, while

Hepzibah was looking, a strange grimalkin stole forth from the very spot, and picked his way across the

garden. Twice he paused to snuff the air, and then anew directed his course towards the parlor window.

Whether it was only on account of the stealthy, prying manner common to the race, or that this cat seemed to

have more than ordinary mischief in his thoughts, the old gentlewoman, in spite of her much perplexity, felt

an impulse to drive the animal away, and accordingly flung down a window stick. The cat stared up at her,

like a detected thief or murderer, and, the next instant, took to flight. No other living creature was visible in

the garden. Chanticleer and his family had either not left their roost, disheartened by the interminable rain, or

had done the next wisest thing, by seasonably returning to it. Hepzibah closed the window.

But where was Clifford? Could it be that, aware of the presence of his Evil Destiny, he had crept silently

down the staircase, while the Judge and Hepzibah stood talking in the shop, and had softly undone the

fastenings of the outer door, and made his escape into the street? With that thought, she seemed to behold his

gray, wrinkled, yet childlike aspect, in the oldfashioned garments which he wore about the house; a figure

such as one sometimes imagines himself to be, with the world's eye upon him, in a troubled dream. This

figure of her wretched brother would go wandering through the city, attracting all eyes, and everybody's

wonder and repugnance, like a ghost, the more to be shuddered at because visible at noontide. To incur the

ridicule of the younger crowd, that knew him not,the harsher scorn and indignation of a few old men, who

might recall his once familiar features! To be the sport of boys, who, when old enough to run about the

streets, have no more reverence for what is beautiful and holy, nor pity for what is sad,no more sense of

sacred misery, sanctifying the human shape in which it embodies itself, than if Satan were the father of

them all! Goaded by their taunts, their loud, shrill cries, and cruel laughter,insulted by the filth of the

public ways, which they would fling upon him, or, as it might well be, distracted by the mere strangeness

of his situation, though nobody should afflict him with so much as a thoughtless word,what wonder if

Clifford were to break into some wild extravagance which was certain to be interpreted as lunacy? Thus

Then Hepzibah reflected that the town was almost completely watergirdled. The wharves stretched out

towards the centre of the harbor, and, in this inclement weather, were deserted by the ordinary throng of

merchants, laborers, and seafaring men; each wharf a solitude, with the vessels moored stem and stern,

along its misty length. Should her brother's aimless footsteps stray thitherward, and he but bend, one moment,

over the deep, black tide, would he not bethink himself that here was the sure refuge within his reach, and

that, with a single step, or the slightest overbalance of his body, he might be forever beyond his kinsman's

gripe? Oh, the temptation! To make of his ponderous sorrow a security! To sink, with its leaden weight upon

The horror of this last conception was too much for Hepzibah. Even Jaffrey Pyncheon must help her now She

"Clifford is gone!" she cried. "I cannot find my brother. Help, Jaffrey Pyncheon! Some harm will happen to

She threw open the parlordoor. But, what with the shade of branches across the windows, and the

smokeblackened ceiling, and the dark oakpanelling of the walls, there was hardly so much daylight in the

room that Hepzibah's imperfect sight could accurately distinguish the Judge's figure. She was certain,

however, that she saw him sitting in the ancestral armchair, near the centre of the floor, with his face

somewhat averted, and looking towards a window. So firm and quiet is the nervous system of such men as

Judge Pyncheon, that he had perhaps stirred not more than once since her departure, but, in the hard

composure of his temperament, retained the position into which accident had thrown him.

"I tell you, Jaffrey," cried Hepzibah impatiently, as she turned from the parlordoor to search other rooms,

But Judge Pyncheon was not the man to let himself be startled from an easychair with haste illbefitting

either the dignity of his character or his broad personal basis, by the alarm of an hysteric woman. Yet,

considering his own interest in the matter, he might have bestirred himself with a little more alacrity.

"Do you hear me, Jaffrey Pyncheon?" screamed Hepzibah, as she again approached the parlordoor, after an

At this instant, on the threshold of the parlor, emerging from within, appeared Clifford himself! His face was

preternaturally pale; so deadly white, indeed, that, through all the glimmering indistinctness of the

passageway, Hepzibah could discern his features, as if a light fell on them alone. Their vivid and wild

expression seemed likewise sufficient to illuminate them; it was an expression of scorn and mockery,

coinciding with the emotions indicated by his gesture. As Clifford stood on the threshold, partly turning back,

he pointed his finger within the parlor, and shook it slowly as though he would have summoned, not

Hepzibah alone, but the whole world, to gaze at some object inconceivably ridiculous. This action, so

illtimed and extravagant,accompanied, too, with a look that showed more like joy than any other kind of

excitement,compelled Hepzibah to dread that her stern kinsman's ominous visit had driven her poor

brother to absolute insanity. Nor could she otherwise account for the Judge's quiescent mood than by

supposing him craftily on the watch, while Clifford developed these symptoms of a distracted mind.

"Be quiet, Clifford!" whispered his sister, raising her hand to impress caution. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, be

"Let him be quiet! What can he do better?" answered Clifford, with a still wilder gesture, pointing into the

room which he had just quitted. "As for us, Hepzibah, we can dance now!we can sing, laugh, play, do what

we will! The weight is gone, Hepzibah! It is gone off this weary old world, and we may be as lighthearted

And, in accordance with his words, he began to laugh, still pointing his finger at the object, invisible to

Hepzibah, within the parlor. She was seized with a sudden intuition of some horrible thing. She thrust herself

past Clifford, and disappeared into the room; but almost immediately returned, with a cry choking in her

throat. Gazing at her brother with an affrighted glance of inquiry, she beheld him all in a tremor and a quake,

from head to foot, while, amid these commoted elements of passion or alarm, still flickered his gusty mirth.

"Come!" said Clifford in a tone of brief decision, most unlike what was usual with him. "We stay here too

long! Let us leave the old house to our cousin Jaffrey! He will take good care of it!"

Hepzibah now noticed that Clifford had on a cloak,a garment of long ago,in which he had constantly

muffled himself during these days of easterly storm. He beckoned with his hand, and intimated, so far as she

could comprehend him, his purpose that they should go together from the house. There are chaotic, blind, or

drunken moments, in the lives of persons who lack real force of character,moments of test, in which

courage would most assert itself,but where these individuals, if left to themselves, stagger aimlessly along,

or follow implicitly whatever guidance may befall them, even if it be a child's. No matter how preposterous

or insane, a purpose is a Godsend to them. Hepzibah had reached this point. Unaccustomed to action or

responsibility,full of horror at what she had seen, and afraid to inquire, or almost to imagine, how it had

come to pass,affrighted at the fatality which seemed to pursue her brother,stupefied by the dim, thick,

stifling atmosphere of dread which filled the house as with a deathsmell, and obliterated all definiteness of

thought,she yielded without a question, and on the instant, to the will which Clifford expressed. For

herself, she was like a person in a dream, when the will always sleeps. Clifford, ordinarily so destitute of this

"Why do you delay so?" cried he sharply. "Put on your cloak and hood, or whatever it pleases you to wear!

No matter what; you cannot look beautiful nor brilliant, my poor Hepzibah! Take your purse, with money in

Hepzibah obeyed these instructions, as if nothing else were to be done or thought of. She began to wonder, it

is true, why she did not wake up, and at what still more intolerable pitch of dizzy trouble her spirit would

struggle out of the maze, and make her conscious that nothing of all this had actually happened. Of course it

was not real; no such black, easterly day as this had yet begun to be; Judge Pyncheon had not talked with,

her. Clifford had not laughed, pointed, beckoned her away with him; but she had merely been afflictedas

lonely sleepers often arewith a great deal of unreasonable misery, in a morning dream!

"NownowI shall certainly awake!" thought Hepzibah, as she went to and fro, making her little

But it came not, that awakening moment! It came not, even when, just before they left the house, Clifford

stole to the parlordoor, and made a parting obeisance to the sole occupant of the room.

"What an absurd figure the old fellow cuts now!" whispered he to Hepzibah. "Just when he fancied he had me

completely under his thumb! Come, come; make haste! or he will start up, like Giant Despair in pursuit of

As they passed into the street, Clifford directed Hepzibah's attention to something on one of the posts of the

front door. It was merely the initials of his own name, which, with somewhat of his characteristic grace about

the forms of the letters, he had cut there when a boy. The brother and sister departed, and left Judge Pyncheon

sitting in the old home of his forefathers, all by himself; so heavy and lumpish that we can liken him to

nothing better than a defunct nightmare, which had perished in the midst of its wickedness, and left its flabby

SUMMER as it was, the east wind set poor Hepzibah's few remaining teeth chattering in her head, as she and

Clifford faced it, on their way up Pyncheon Street, and towards the centre of the town. Not merely was it the

shiver which this pitiless blast brought to her frame (although her feet and hands, especially, had never

seemed so deathacold as now), but there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with the physical chill, and

causing her to shake more in spirit than in body. The world's broad, bleak atmosphere was all so comfortless!

Such, indeed, is the impression which it makes on every new adventurer, even if he plunge into it while the

warmest tide of life is bubbling through his veins. What, then, must it have been to Hepzibah and

Clifford,so timestricken as they were, yet so like children in their inexperience,as they left the

doorstep, and passed from beneath the wide shelter of the Pyncheon Elm! They were wandering all abroad,

on precisely such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the world's end, with perhaps a sixpence and a

biscuit in his pocket. In Hepzibah's mind, there was the wretched consciousness of being adrift. She had lost

the faculty of selfguidance; but, in view of the difficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain

As they proceeded on their strange expedition, she now and then cast a look sidelong at Clifford, and could

not but observe that he was possessed and swayed by a powerful excitement. It was this, indeed, that gave

him the control which he had at once, and so irresistibly, established over his movements. It not a little

resembled the exhilaration of wine. Or, it might more fancifully be compared to a joyous piece of music,

played with wild vivacity, but upon a disordered instrument. As the cracked jarring note might always be

heard, and as it jarred loudest amidst the loftiest exultation of the melody, so was there a continual quake

through Clifford, causing him most to quiver while he wore a triumphant smile, and seemed almost under a

They met few people abroad, even on passing from the retired neighborhood of the House of the Seven

Gables into what was ordinarily the more thronged and busier portion of the town. Glistening sidewalks, with

little pools of rain, here and there, along their unequal surface; umbrellas displayed ostentatiously in the

shopwindows, as if the life of trade had concentrated itself in that one article; wet leaves of the,

horsechestnut or elmtrees, torn off untimely by the blast and scattered along the public way; an unsightly,

accumulation of mud in the middle of the street, which perversely grew the more unclean for its long and

laborious washing,these were the more definable points of a very sombre picture. In the way of movement

and human life, there was the hasty rattle of a cab or coach, its driver protected by a waterproof cap over his

head and shoulders; the forlorn figure of an old man, who seemed to have crept out of some subterranean

sewer, and was stooping along the kennel, and poking the wet rubbish with a stick, in quest of rusty nails; a

merchant or two, at the door of the postoffice, together with an editor and a miscellaneous politician,

awaiting a dilatory mail; a few visages of retired seacaptains at the window of an insurance office, looking

out vacantly at the vacant street, blaspheming at the weather, and fretting at the dearth as well of public news

as local gossip. What a treasuretrove to these venerable quidnuncs, could they have guessed the secret

which Hepzibah and Clifford were carrying along with them! But their two figures attracted hardly so much

notice as that of a young girl, who passed at the same instant, and happened to raise her skirt a trifle too high

above her ankles. Had it been a sunny and cheerful day, they could hardly have gone through the streets

without making themselves obnoxious to remark. Now, probably, they were felt to be in keeping with the

dismal and bitter weather, and therefore did not stand out in strong relief, as if the sun were shining on them,

Poor Hepzibah! Could she have understood this fact, it would have brought her some little comfort; for, to all

her other troubles, strange to say!there was added the womanish and oldmaidenlike misery arising

from a sense of unseemliness in her attire. Thus, she was fain to shrink deeper into herself, as it were, as if in

the hope of making people suppose that here was only a cloak and hood, threadbare and woefully faded,

As they went on, the feeling of indistinctness and unreality kept dimly hovering round about her, and so

diffusing itself into her system that one of her hands was hardly palpable to the touch of the other. Any

certainty would have been preferable to this. She whispered to herself, again and again, "Am I awake?Am

I awake?" and sometimes exposed her face to the chill spatter of the wind, for the sake of its rude assurance

that she was. Whether it was Clifford's purpose, or only chance, had led them thither, they now found

themselves passing beneath the arched entrance of a large structure of gray stone. Within, there was a

spacious breadth, and an airy height from floor to roof, now partially filled with smoke and steam, which

eddied voluminously upward and formed a mimic cloudregion over their heads. A train of cars was just

ready for a start; the locomotive was fretting and fuming, like a steed impatient for a headlong rush; and the

bell rang out its hasty peal, so well expressing the brief summons which life vouchsafes to us in its hurried

career. Without question or delay,with the irresistible decision, if not rather to be called recklessness,

which had so strangely taken possession of him, and through him of Hepzibah,Clifford impelled her

towards the cars, and assisted her to enter. The signal was given; the engine puffed forth its short, quick

breaths; the train began its movement; and, along with a hundred other passengers, these two unwonted

At last, therefore, and after so long estrangement from everything that the world acted or enjoyed, they had

been drawn into the great current of human life, and were swept away with it, as by the suction of fate itself.

Still haunted with the idea that not one of the past incidents, inclusive of Judge Pyncheon's visit, could be

"A dream, Hepzibah!" repeated he, almost laughing in her face. "On the contrary, I have never been awake

Meanwhile, looking from the window, they could see the world racing past them. At one moment, they were

rattling through a solitude; the next, a village had grown up around them; a few breaths more, and it had

vanished, as if swallowed by an earthquake. The spires of meetinghouses seemed set adrift from their

foundations; the broadbased hills glided away. Everything was unfixed from its agelong rest, and moving

Within the car there was the usual interior life of the railroad, offering little to the observation of other

passengers, but full of novelty for this pair of strangely enfranchised prisoners. It was novelty enough,

indeed, that there were fifty human beings in close relation with them, under one long and narrow roof, and

drawn onward by the same mighty influence that had taken their two selves into its grasp. It seemed

marvellous how all these people could remain so quietly in their seats, while so much noisy strength was at

work in their behalf. Some, with tickets in their hats (long travellers these, before whom lay a hundred miles

of railroad), had plunged into the English scenery and adventures of pamphlet novels, and were keeping

company with dukes and earls. Others, whose briefer span forbade their devoting themselves to studies so

abstruse, beguiled the little tedium of the way with pennypapers. A party of girls, and one young man, on

opposite sides of the car, found huge amusement in a game of ball. They tossed it to and fro, with peals of

laughter that might be measured by milelengths; for, faster than the nimble ball could fly, the merry players

fled unconsciously along, leaving the trail of their mirth afar behind, and ending their game under another sky

than had witnessed its commencement. Boys, with apples, cakes, candy, and rolls of variously tinctured

lozenges,merchandise that reminded Hepzibah of her deserted shop,appeared at each momentary

stoppingplace, doing up their business in a hurry, or breaking it short off, lest the market should ravish them

away with it. New people continually entered. Old acquaintancesfor such they soon grew to be, in this

rapid current of affairscontinually departed. Here and there, amid the rumble and the tumult, sat one

asleep. Sleep; sport; business; graver or lighter study; and the common and inevitable movement onward! It

Clifford's naturally poignant sympathies were all aroused. He caught the color of what was passing about

him, and threw it back more vividly than he received it, but mixed, nevertheless, with a lurid and portentous

hue. Hepzibah, on the other hand, felt herself more apart from human kind than even in the seclusion which

"You are not happy, Hepzibah!" said Clifford apart, in a tone of aproach. "You are thinking of that dismal old

house, and of Cousin, Jaffrey"here came the quake through him,"and of Cousin Jaffrey sitting there, all

by himself! Take my advice, follow my example,and let such things slip aside. Here we are, in the

world, Hepzibah!in the midst of life!in the throng of our fellow beings! Let you and I be happy! As

"Happy" thought Hepzibah, bitterly conscious, at the word, of her dull and heavy heart, with the frozen

pain in it,"happy. He is mad already; and, if I could once feel myself broad awake, I should go mad too!"

If a fixed idea be madness, she was perhaps not remote from it. Fast and far as they had rattled and clattered

along the iron track, they might just as well, as regarded Hepzibah's mental images, have been passing up and

down Pyncheon Street. With miles and miles of varied scenery between, there was no scene for her save the

seven old gablepeaks, with their moss, and the tuft of weeds in one of the angles, and the shopwindow, and

a customer shaking the door, and compelling the little bell to jingle fiercely, but without disturbing Judge

Pyncheon! This one old house was everywhere! It transported its great, lumbering bulk with more than

railroad speed, and set itself phlegmatically down on whatever spot she glanced at. The quality of Hepzibah's

mind was too unmalleable to take new impressions so readily as Clifford's. He had a winged nature; she was

rather of the vegetable kind, and could hardly be kept long alive, if drawn up by the roots. Thus it happened

that the relation heretofore existing between her brother and herself was changed. At home, she was his

guardian; here, Clifford had become hers, and seemed to comprehend whatever belonged to their new

position with a singular rapidity of intelligence. He had been startled into manhood and intellectual vigor; or,

at least, into a condition that resembled them, though it might be both diseased and transitory.

The conductor now applied for their tickets; and Clifford, who had made himself the pursebearer, put a

"As far as that will carry us," said Clifford. "It is no great matter. We are riding for pleasure merely."

"You choose a strange day for it, sir!" remarked a gimleteyed old gentleman on the other side of the car,

looking at Clifford and his companion, as if curious to make them out." The best chance of pleasure, in an

easterly rain, I take it, is in a man's own house, with a nice little fire in the chimney."

"I cannot precisely agree with you," said Clifford, courteously bowing to the old gentleman, and at once

taking up the clew of conversation which the latter had proffered. "It had just occurred to me, on the contrary,

that this admirable invention of the railroad with the vast and inevitable improvements to be looked for,

both as to speed and convenienceis destined to do away with those stale ideas of home and fireside, and

"In the name of commonsense," asked the old gentleman rather testily, "what can be better for a man than

"These things have not the merit which many good people attribute to them," replied Clifford. "They may be

said, in few and pithy words, to have ill served a poor purpose. My impression is, that our wonderfully

increased and still increasing facilities of locomotion are destined to bring us around again to the nomadic

state. You are aware, my dear sir,you must have observed it in your own experience,that all human

progress is in a circle; or, to use a more accurate and beautiful figure, in an ascending spiral curve. While we

fancy ourselves going straight forward, and attaining, at every step, an entirely new position of affairs, we do

actually return to something long ago tried and abandoned, but which we now find etherealized, refined, and

perfected to its ideal. The past is but a coarse and sensual prophecy of the present and the future. To apply

this truth to the topic now under discussion. In the early epochs of our race, men dwelt in temporary huts, of

bowers of branches, as easily constructed as a bird'snest, and which they built,if it should be called

building, when such sweet homes of a summer solstice rather grew than were made with hands,which

Nature, we will say, assisted them to rear where fruit abounded, where fish and game were plentiful, or, most

especially, where the sense of beauty was to be gratified by a lovelier shade than elsewhere, and a more

exquisite arrangement of lake, wood, and hill. This life possessed a charm which, ever since man quitted it,

has vanished from existence. And it typified something better than itself. It had its drawbacks; such as hunger

and thirst, inclement weather, hot sunshine, and weary and footblistering marches over barren and ugly

tracts, that lay between the sites desirable for their fertility and beauty. But in our ascending spiral, we escape

all this. These railroadscould but the whistle be made musical, and the rumble and the jar got rid ofare

positively the greatest blessing that the ages have wrought out for us. They give us wings; they annihilate the

toil and dust of pilgrimage; they spiritualize travel! Transition being so facile, what can be any man's

inducement to tarry in one spot? Why, therefore, should he build a more cumbrous habitation than can readily

be carried off with him? Why should he make himself a prisoner for life in brick, and stone, and old

wormeaten timber, when he may just as easily dwell, in one sense, nowhere,in a better sense, wherever

Clifford's countenance glowed, as he divulged this theory; a youthful character shone out from within,

converting the wrinkles and pallid duskiness of age into an almost transparent mask. The merry girls let their

ball drop upon the floor, and gazed at him. They said to themselves, perhaps, that, before his hair was gray

and the crow'sfeet tracked his temples, this now decaying man must have stamped the impress of his

features on many a woman's heart. But, alas! no woman's eye had seen his face while it was beautiful.

"I should scarcely call it an improved state of things," observed Clifford's new acquaintance, "to live

"Would you not?" exclaimed Clifford, with singular energy. "It is as clear to me as sunshine,were there

any in the sky,that the greatest possible stumblingblocks in the path of human happiness and

improvement are these heaps of bricks and stones, consolidated with mortar, or hewn timber, fastened

together with spikenails, which men painfully contrive for their own torment, and call them house and

home! The soul needs air; a wide sweep and frequent change of it. Morbid influences, in a thousandfold

variety, gather about hearths, and pollute the life of households. There is no such unwholesome atmosphere

as that of an old home, rendered poisonous by one's defunct forefathers and relatives. I speak of what I know.

There is a certain house within my familiar recollection,one of those peakedgable (there are seven of

them), projectingstoried edifices, such as you occasionally see in our older towns,a rusty, crazy, creaky,

dryrotted, dingy, dark, and miserable old dungeon, with an arched window over the porch, and a little

shopdoor on one side, and a great, melancholy elm before it! Now, sir, whenever my thoughts recur to this

sevengabled mansion (the fact is so very curious that I must needs mention it), immediately I have a vision

or image of an elderly man, of remarkably stern countenance, sitting in an oaken elbowchair, dead,

stonedead, with an ugly flow of blood upon his shirtbosom! Dead, but with open eyes! He taints the whole

house, as I remember it. I could never flourish there, nor be happy, nor do nor enjoy what God meant me to

His face darkened, and seemed to contract, and shrivel itself up, and wither into age.

"I should think not," said the old gentleman, eyeing Clifford earnestly, and rather apprehensively. "I should

"Surely not," continued Clifford; "and it were a relief to me if that house could be torn down, or burnt up, and

so the earth be rid of it, and grass be sown abundantly over its foundation. Not that I should ever visit its site

again! for, sir, the farther I get away from it, the more does the joy, the lightsome freshness, the heartleap,

the intellectual dance, the youth, in short,yes, my youth, my youth!the more does it come back to me.

No longer ago than this morning, I was old. I remember looking in the glass, and wondering at my own gray

hair, and the wrinkles, many and deep, right across my brow, and the furrows down my cheeks, and the

prodigious trampling of crow'sfeet about my temples! It was too soon! I could not bear it! Age had no right

to come! I had not lived! But now do I look old? If so, my aspect belies me strangely; fora great weight

being off my mindI feel in the very heyday of my youth, with the world and my best days before me!"

"I trust you may find it so," said the old gentleman, who seemed rather embarrassed, and desirous of avoiding

the observation which Clifford's wild talk drew on them both. "You have my best wishes for it."

"For Heaven's sake, dear Clifford, be quiet!" whispered his sister. "They think you mad."

"Be quiet yourself, Hepzibah!" returned her brother. "No matter what they think! I am not mad. For the first

time in thirty years my thoughts gush up and find words ready for them. I must talk, and I will!"

"Yes, my dear sir," said he, "it is my firm belief and hope that these terms of roof and hearthstone, which

have so long been held to embody something sacred, are soon to pass out of men's daily use, and be

forgotten. Just imagine, for a moment, how much of human evil will crumble away, with this one change!

What we call real estatethe solid ground to build a house onis the broad foundation on which nearly all

the guilt of this world rests. A man will commit almost any wrong,he will heap up an immense pile of

wickedness, as hard as granite, and which will weigh as heavily upon his soul, to eternal ages,only to build

a great, gloomy, darkchambered mansion, for himself to die in, and for his posterity to be miserable in. He

lays his own dead corpse beneath the underpinning, as one may say, and hangs his frowning picture on the

wall, and, after thus converting himself into an evil destiny, expects his remotest greatgrandchildren to be

"Then, sir," said the old gentleman, getting anxious to drop the subject, "you are not to blame for leaving it."

"Within the lifetime of the child already born," Clifford went on, "all this will be done away. The world is

growing too ethereal and spiritual to bear these enormities a great while longer. To me, though, for a

considerable period of time, I have lived chiefly in retirement, and know less of such things than most

men,even to me, the harbingers of a better era are unmistakable. Mesmerism, now! Will that effect

These rapping spirits, that little Phoebe told us of, the other day," said Clifford,"what are these but the

messengers of the spiritual world, knocking at the door of substance? And it shall be flung wide open!"

"A humbug, again!" cried the old gentleman, growing more and more testy at these glimpses of Clifford's

metaphysics. "I should like to rap with a good stick on the empty pates of the dolts who circulate such

"Then there is electricity,the demon, the angel, the mighty physical power, the allpervading intelligence!"

exclaimed Clifford. "Is that a humbug, too? Is it a factor have I dreamt itthat, by means of electricity,

the world of matter has become a great nerve, vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless point of time?

Rather, the round globe is a vast head, a brain, instinct with intelligence! Or, shall we say, it is itself a

"If you mean the telegraph," said the old gentleman, glancing his eye toward its wire, alongside the

railtrack, "it is an excellent thing,that is, of course, if the speculators in cotton and politics don't get

possession of it. A great thing, indeed, sir, particularly as regards the detection of bankrobbers and

"I don't quite like it, in that point of view," replied Clifford. "A bankrobber, and what you call a murderer,

likewise, has his rights, which men of enlightened humanity and conscience should regard in so much the

more liberal spirit, because the bulk of society is prone to controvert their existence. An almost spiritual

medium, like the electric telegraph, should be consecrated to high, deep, joyful, and holy missions. Lovers,

day by, dayhour by hour, if so often moved to do it,might send their heartthrobs from Maine to

Florida, with some such words as these `I love you forever!' `My heart runs over with love!'`I love you

more than I can!' and, again, at the next message 'I have lived an hour longer, and love you twice as much!'

Or, when a good man has departed, his distant friend should be conscious of an electric thrill, as from the

world of happy spirits, telling him 'Your dear friend is in bliss!' Or, to an absent husband, should come

tidings thus `An immortal being, of whom you are the father, has this moment come from God!' and

immediately its little voice would seem to have reached so far, and to be echoing in his heart. But for these

poor rogues, the bankrobbers,who, after all, are about as honest as nine people in ten, except that they

disregard certain formalities, and prefer to transact business at midnight rather than 'Changehours, and

for these murderers, as you phrase it, who are often excusable in the motives of their deed, and deserve to be

ranked among public benefactors, if we consider only its result,for unfortunate individuals like these, I

really cannot applaud the enlistment of an immaterial and miraculous power in the universal worldhunt at

"Positively, no!" answered Clifford. "It puts them too miserably at disadvantage. For example, sir, in a dark,

low, crossbeamed, panelled room of an old house, let us suppose a dead man, sitting in an armchair, with a

bloodstain on his shirtbosom, and let us add to our hypothesis another man, issuing from the house,

which he feels to be overfilled with the dead man's presence,and let us lastly imagine him fleeing,

Heaven knows whither, at the speed of a hurricane, by railroad! Now, sir, if the fugutive alight in some

distant town, and find all the people babbling about that selfsame dead man, whom he has fled so far to

avoid the sight and thought of, will you not allow that his natural rights have been infringed? He has been

deprived of his city of refuge, and, in my humble opinion, has suffered infinite wrong!"

"You are a strange man; sir" said the old gentleman, bringing his gimleteye to a point on Clifford, as if

"No, I'll be bound you can't!" cried Clifford, laughing. "And yet, my dear sir, I am as transparent as the water

of Maule's well! But come, Hepzibah! We have flown far enough for once. Let us alight, as the birds do, and

Just then, as it happened, the train reached a solitary waystation. Taking advantage of the brief pause,

Clifford left the car, and drew Hepzibah along with him. A moment afterwards, the trainwith all the life of

its interior, amid which Clifford had made himself so conspicuous an objectwas gliding away in the

distance, and rapidly lessening to a point which, in another moment, vanished. The world had fled away from

these two wanderers. They gazed drearily about them. At a little distance stood a wooden church, black with

age, and in a dismal state of ruin and decay, with broken windows, a great rift through the main body of the

edifice, and a rafter dangling from the top of the square tower. Farther off was a farmhouse, in the old style,

as venerably black as the church, with a roof sloping downward from the threestory peak, to within a man's

height of the ground. It seemed uninhabited. There were the relics of a woodpile, indeed, near the door, but

with grass sprouting up among the chips and scattered logs. The small raindrops came down aslant; the

Clifford shivered from head to foot. The wild effervescence of his moodwhich had so readily supplied

thoughts, fantasies, and a strange aptitude of words, and impelled him to talk from the mere necessity of

giving vent to this bubblingup gush of ideas had entirely subsided. A powerful excitement had given him

"You must take the lead now, Hepzibah!" murmured he, with a torpid and reluctant utterance. "Do with me as

you will!" She knelt down upon the platform where they were standing and lifted her clasped hands to the

sky. The dull, gray weight of clouds made it invisible; but it was no hour for disbelief,no juncture this to

"O God!"ejaculated poor, gaunt Hepzibah,then paused a moment, to consider what her prayer should

JUDGE PYNCHEON, while his two relatives have fled away with such illconsidered haste, still sits in the

old parlor, keeping house, as the familiar phrase is, in the absence of its ordinary occupants. To him, and to

the venerable House of the Seven Gables, does our story now betake itself, like an owl, bewildered in the

The Judge has not shifted his position for a long while now. He has not stirred hand or foot, nor withdrawn

his eyes so much as a hair'sbreadth from their fixed gaze towards the corner of the room, since the footsteps

of Hepzibah and Clifford creaked along the passage, and the outer door was closed cautiously behind their

exit. He holds his watch in his left hand, but clutched in such a manner that you cannot see the dialplate.

How profound a fit of meditation! Or, supposing him asleep, how infantile a quietude of conscience, and

what wholesome order in the gastric region, are betokened by slumber so entirely undisturbed with starts,

cramp, twitches, muttered dreamtalk, trumpetblasts through the nasal organ, or any slightest irregularity of

breath! You must hold your own breath, to satisfy yourself whether he breathes at all. It is quite inaudible.

You hear the ticking of his watch; his breath you do not hear. A most refreshing slumber, doubtless! And yet,

the Judge cannot be asleep. His eyes are open! A veteran politician, such as he, would never fall asleep with

wideopen eyes, lest some enemy or mischiefmaker, taking him thus at unawares, should peep through

these windows into his consciousness, and make strange discoveries among the remniniscences, projects,

hopes, apprehensions, weaknesses, and strong points, which he has heretofore shared with nobody. A

cautious man is proverbially said to sleep with one eye open. That may be wisdom. But not with both; for this

It is odd, however, that a gentleman so burdened with engagements, and noted, too, for

punctuality,should linger thus in an old lonely mansion, which he has never seemed very fond of visiting.

The oaken chair, to be sure, may tempt him with its roominess. It is, indeed, a spacious, and, allowing for the

rude age that fashioned it, a moderately easy seat, with capacity enough, at all events, and offering no

restraint to the Judge's breadth of beam. A bigger man might find ample accommodation in it. His ancestor,

now pictured upon the wall, with all his English beef about him, used hardly to present a front extending

from elbow to elbow of this chair, or a base that would cover its whole cushion. But there are better chairs

than this,mahogany, black walnut, rosewood, springseated and damaskcushioned, with varied slopes,

and innumerable artifices to make them easy, and obviate the irksomeness of too tame an ease,a score of

such might be at Judge Pyncheon's service. Yes! in a score of drawingrooms he would be more than

welcome. Mamma would advance to meet him, with outstretched hand; the virgin daughter, elderly as he has

now got to be,an old widower, as he smilingly describes himself,would shake up the cushion for the

Judge, and do her pretty utmost to make him comfortable. For the Judge is a prosperous man. He cherishes

his schemes, moreover, like other people, and reasonably brighter than most others; or did so, at least, as he

lay abed this morning, in an agreeable halfdrowse, planning the business of the day, and speculating on the

probabilities of the next fifteen years. With his firm health, and the little inroad that age has made upon him,

fifteen years or twentyyes, or perhaps fiveandtwenty!are no more than he may fairly call his own.

Fiveandtwenty years for the enjoyment of his real estate in town and country, his railroad, bank, and

insurance shares, his United States stock,his wealth, in short, however invested, now in possession, or soon

to be acquired; together with the public honors that have fallen upon him, and the weightier ones that are yet

Still lingering in the old chair! If the Judge has a little time to throw away, why does not he visit the

insurance office, as is his frequent custom, and sit awhile in one of their leatherncushioned armchairs,

listening to the gossip of the day, and dropping some deeply designed chanceword, which will be certain to

become the gossip of tomorrow. And have not the bank directors a meeting at which it was the Judge's

purpose to be present, and his office to preside? Indeed they have; and the hour is noted on a card, which is,

or ought to be, in Judge Pyncheon's right vestpocket. Let him go thither, and loll at ease upon his

This was to have been such a busy day. In the first place, the interview with Clifford. Half an hour, by the

Judge's reckoning, was to suffice for that; it would probably be less, buttaking into consideration that

Hepzibah was first to be dealt with, and that these women are apt to make many words where a few would do

much betterit might be safest to allow half an hour. Half an hour? Why, Judge, it is already two hours, by

your own undeviatingly accurate chronometer. Glance your eye down at it and see! Ah! he will not give

himself the trouble either to bend his head, or elevate his hand, so as to bring the faithful timekeeper within

his range of vision! Time, all at once, appears to have become a matter of no moment with the Judge!

And has he forgotten all the other items of his memoranda? Clifford's affair arranged, he was to meet a State

Street broker, who has undertaken to procure a heavy percentage, and the best of paper, for a few loose

thousands which the Judge happens to have by him, uninvested. The wrinkled noteshaver will have taken

his railroad trip in vain. Half an hour later, in the street next to this, there was to be an auction of real estate,

including a portion of the old Pyncheon property, originally belonging to Maule's garden ground. It has been

alienated from the Pyncheons these fourscore years; but the Judge had kept it in his eye, and had set his

heart on reannexing it to the small demesne still left around the Seven Gables; and now, during this odd fit of

oblivion, the fatal hammer must have fallen, and transferred our ancient patrimony to some alien possessor.

Possibly, indeed, the sale may have been postponed till fairer weather. If so, will the Judge make it

convenient to be present, and favor the auctioneer with his bid, On the proximate occasion?

The next affair was to buy a horse for his own driving. The one heretofore his favorite stumbled, this very

morning, on the road to town, and must be at once discarded. Judge Pyncheon's neck is too precious to be

risked on such a contingency as a stumbling steed. Should all the above business be seasonably got through

with, he might attend the meeting of a charitable society; the very name of which, however, in the

multiplicity of his benevolence, is quite forgotten; so that this engagement may pass unfulfilled, and no great

harm done. And if he have time, amid the press of more urgent matters, he must take measures for the

renewal of Mrs. Pyncheon's tombstone, which, the sexton tells him, has fallen on its marble face, and is

cracked quite in twain. She was a praiseworthy woman enough, thinks the Judge, in spite of her nervousness,

and the tears that she was so oozy with, and her foolish behavior about the coffee; and as she took her

departure so seasonably, he will not grudge the second tombstone. It is better, at least, than if she had never

needed any! The next item on his list was to give orders for some fruittrees, of a rare variety, to be

deliverable at his countryseat in the ensuing autumn. Yes, buy them, by all means; and may the peaches be

luscious in your mouth, Judge Pyncheon! After this comes something more important. A committee of his

political party has besought him for a hundred or two of dollars, in addition to his previous disbursements,

towards carrying on the fall campaign. The Judge is a patriot; the fate of the country is staked on the

November election; and besides, as will be shadowed forth in another paragraph, he has no trifling stake of

his own in the same great game. He will do what the committee asks; nay, he will be liberal beyond their

expectations; they shall have a check for five hundred dollars, and more anon, if it be needed. What next? A

decayed widow, whose husband was Judge Pyncheon's early friend, has laid her case of destitution before

him, in a very moving letter. She and her fair daughter have scarcely bread to eat. He partly intends to call on

her today,perhaps soperhaps not,accordingly as he may happen to have leisure, and a small

Another business, which, however, he puts no great weight on (it is well, you know, to be heedful, but not

overanxious, as respects one's personal health),another business, then, was to consult his family

physician. About what, for Heaven's sake? Why, it is rather difficult to describe the symptoms. A mere

dimness of sight and dizziness of brain, was it?or disagreeable choking, or stifling, or gurgling, or

bubbling, in the region of the thorax, as the anatomists say?or was it a pretty severe throbbing and kicking

of the heart, rather creditable to him than otherwise, as showing that the organ had not been left out of the

Judge's physical contrivance? No matter what it was. The doctor probably would smile at the statement of

such trifles to his professional ear; the Judge would smile in his turn; and meeting one another's eyes, they

would enjoy a hearty laugh together! But a fig for medical advice. The Judge will never need it.

Pray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch, Now! Whatnot a glance! It is within ten minutes of the

dinner hour! It surely cannot have slipped your memory that the dinner of today is to be the most important,

in its consequences, of all the dinners you ever ate. Yes, precisely the most important; although, in the course

of your somewhat eminent career, you have been placed high towards the head of the table, at splendid

banquets, and have poured out your festive eloquence to ears yet echoing with Webster's mighty organtones.

No public dinner this, however. It is merely a gathering of some dozen or so of friends from several districts

of the State; men of distinguished character and influence, assembling, almost casually, at the house of a

common friend, likewise distinguished, who will make them welcome to a little better than his ordinary fare.

Nothing in the way of French cookery, but an excellent dinner, nevertheless. Real turtle, we understand, and

salmon, tautog, canvasbacks, pig, English mutton, good roast beef, or dainties of that serious kind, fit for

substantial country gentlemen, as these honorable persons mostly are. The delicacies of the season, in short,

and flavored by a brand of old Madeira which has been the pride of many seasons. It is the Juno brand; a

glorious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; a bottledup happiness, put by for use; a golden liquid,

worth more than liquid gold; so rare and admirable, that veteran winebibbers count it among their epochs to

have tasted it! It drives away the heartache, and substitutes no headache! Could the Judge but quaff a glass,

it might enable him to shake off the unaccountable lethargy which (for the ten intervening minutes, and five

to boot, are already past) has made him such a laggard at this momentous dinner. It would all but revive a

Alas, this dinner. Have you really forgotten its true object? Then let us whisper it, that you may start at once

out of the oaken chair, which really seems to be enchanted, like the one in Comus, or that in which Moll

Pitcher imprisoned your own grandfather. But ambition is a talisman more powerful than witchcraft. Start up,

then, and, hurrying through the streets, burst in upon the company, that they may begin before the fish is

spoiled! They wait for you; and it is little for your interest that they should wait. These gentlemenneed you

be told it? have assembled, not without purpose, from every quarter of the State. They are practised

politicians, every man of them, and skilled to adjust those preliminary measures which steal from the people,

without its knowledge, the power of choosing its own rulers. The popular voice, at the next gubernatorial

election, though loud as thunder, will be really but an echo of what these gentlemen shall speak, under their

breath, at your friend's festive board. They meet to decide upon their candidate. This little knot of subtle

schemers will control the convention, and, through it, dictate to the party. And what worthier candidate,

more wise and learned, more noted for philanthropic liberality, truer to safe principles, tried oftener by

public trusts, more spotless in private character, with a larger stake in the common welfare, and deeper

grounded, by hereditary descent, in the faith and practice of the Puritans,what man can be presented for the

suffrage of the people, so eminently combining all these claims to the chiefrulership as Judge Pyncheon

Make haste, then! Do your part! The meed for which you have toiled, and fought, and climbed, and crept, is

ready for your grasp! Be present at this dinner!drink a glass or two of that noble wine!make your

pledges in as low a whisper as you will! and you rise up from table virtually governor of the glorious old

And is there no potent and exhilarating cordial in a certainty like this? It has been the grand purpose of half

your lifetime to obtain it. Now, when there needs little more than to signify your acceptance, why do you sit

so lumpishly in your greatgreatgrandfather's oaken chair, as if preferring it to the gubernatorial one? We

have all heard of King Log; but, in these jostling times, one of that royal kindred will hardly win the race for

Well! it is absolutely too late for dinner! Turtle, salmon, tautog, W., boiled turkey, SouthDown

mutton, pig, roastbeef, have vanished, or exist only in fragments, with lukewarm potatoes, and gravies

crusted over with cold fat. The Judge, had he done nothing else, would have achieved wonders with his knife

and fork. It was he, you know, of whom it used to be said, in reference to his ogrelike appetite, that his

Creator made him a great aninmal, but that the dinnerhour made him a great beast. Persons of his large

sensual endowments must claim indulgence, at their feedingtime. But, for once, the Judge is entirely too late

for dinner! Too late, we fear, even to join the party at their wine! The guests are warm and merry; they have

given up the Judge; and, concluding that the FreeSoilers have him, they will fix upon another candidate.

Were our friend now to stalk in among them, with that wideopen stare, at once wild and stolid, his ungenial

presence would be apt to change their cheer. Neither would it be seemly in Judge Pyncheon, generally so

scrupulous in his attire, to show himself at a dinnertable with that crimson stain upon his shirtbosom. By

the bye, how came it there? It is an ugly sight, at any rate; and the wisest way for the Judge is to button his

coat closely over his breast, and, taking his horse and chaise from the livery stable, to make all speed to his

own house. There, after a glass of brandy and water, and a muttonchop, a beefsteak, a broiled fowl, or some

such hasty little dinner and supper all in one, he had better spend the evening by the fireside. He must toast

his slippers a long while, in order to get rid of the chilliness which the air of this vile old house has sent

Up, therefore, Judge Pyncheon, up! You have lost a day. But tomorrow will be here anon. Will you rise,

betimes, and make the most of it? Tomorrow. Tomorrow! Tomorrow. We, that are alive, may rise

betimes tomorrow. As for him that has died today, his morrow will be the resurrection morn.

Meanwhile the twilight is glooming upward out of the corners of the room. The shadows of the tall furniture

grow deeper, and at first become more definite; then, spreading wider, they lose their distinctness of outline

in the dark gray tide of oblivion, as it were, that creeps slowly over the various objects, and the one human

figure sitting in the midst of them. The gloom has not entered from without; it has brooded here all day, and

now, taking its own inevitable time, will possess itself of everything. The Judge's face, indeed, rigid and

singularly white, refuses to melt into this universal solvent. Fainter and fainter grows the light. It is as if

another doublehandful of darkness had been scattered through the air. Now it is no longer gray, but sable.

There is still a faint appearance at the window. neither a glow, nor a gleam, Nor a glimmer,any phrase of

light would express something far brighter than this doubtful perception, or sense, rather, that there is a

window there. Has it yet vanished? No! yes!not quite! And there is still the swarthy whiteness,we

shall venture to marry these illagreeing words,the swarthy whiteness of Judge Pyncheon's face. The

features are all gone: there is only the paleness of them left. And how looks it now? There is no window!

There is no face! An infinite, inscrutable blackness has annihilated sight! Where is our universe? All

crumbled away from us; and we, adrift in chaos, may hearken to the gusts of homeless wind, that go sighing

Is there no other sound? One other, and a fearful one. It is the ticking of the Judge's watch, which, ever since

Hepzibah left the room in search of Clifford, he has been holding in his hand. Be the cause what it may, this

little, quiet, neverceasing throb of Time's pulse, repeating its small strokes with such busy regularity, in

Judge Pyncheon's motionless hand, has an effect of terror, which we do not find in any other accompaniment

But, listen! That puff of the breeze was louder. it, had a tone unlike the dreary and sullen one which has

bemoaned itself, and afflicted all mankind with miserable sympathy, for five days past. The wind has veered

about! It now comes boisterously from the northwest, and, taking hold of the aged framework of the Seven

Gables, gives it a shake, like a wrestler that would try strength with his antagonist. Another and another

sturdy tussle with the blast! The old house creaks again, and makes a vociferous but somewhat unintelligible

bellowing in its sooty throat (the big flue, we mean, of its wide chimney), partly in complaint at the rude

wind, but rather, as befits their century and a half of hostile intimacy, in tough defiance. A rumbling kind of a

bluster roars behind the fireboard. A door has slammed above stairs. A window, perhaps, has been left open,

or else is driven in by an unruly gust. It is not to be conceived, beforehand, what wonderful

windinstruments are these old timber mansions, and how haunted with the strangest noises, which

immediately begin to sing, and sigh, and sob, and shriek,and to smite with sledgehammers, airy but

ponderous, in some distant chamber, and to tread along the entries as with stately footsteps, and rustle up

and down the staircase, as with silks miraculously stiff,whenever the gale catches the house with a window

open, and gets fairly into it. Would that we were not an attendant spirit here! It is too awful! This clamor of

the wind through the lonely house; the Judge's quietude, as he sits invisible; and that pertinacious ticking of

As regards Judge Pyncheon's invisibility, however, that matter will soon be remedied. The northwest wind

has swept the sky clear. The window is distinctly seen. Through its panes, moreover, we dimly catch the

sweep of the dark, clustering foliage outside, fluttering with a constant irregularity of movement, and letting

in a peep of starlight, now here, now there. Oftener than any other object, these glimpses illuminate the

Judge's face. But here comes more effectual light. Observe that silvery dance upon the upper branches of the

peartree, and now a little lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while, through their shifting

intricacies, the moonbeams fall aslant into the room. They play over the Judge's figure and show that he has

not stirred throughout the hours of darkness. They follow the shadows, in changeful sport, across his

unchanging features. They gleam upon his watch. His grasp conceals the dialplate,but we know that the

A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon, cares no more for twelve o'clock at night than for the

corresponding hour of noon. However just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding pages, between his

Puritan ancestor and himself, it fails in this point. The Pyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most

of his contemporaries, professed his full belief in spiritual ministrations, although reckoning them chiefly of a

malignant character. The Pyncheon of tonight, who sits in yonder armchair, believes in no such nonsense.

Such, at least, was his creed, some few hours since. His hair will not bristle, therefore, at the stories

whichin times when chimneycorners had benches in them, where old people sat poking into the ashes of

the past, and raking out traditions like live coalsused to be told about this very room of his ancestral house.

In fact, these tales are too absurd to bristle even childhood's hair. What sense, meaning, or moral, for

example, such as even ghoststories should be susceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at

midnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor? And, pray, for what? Why, to see

whether the portrait of their ancestor still keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with his testamentary

We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea. Ghoststories are hardly to be treated seriously any

longer. The familyparty of the defunct Pyncheons, we presume, goes off in this wise.

First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak, steeplehat, and trunkbreeches, girt about the waist

with a leathern belt, in which hangs his steelhilted sword; he has a long staff in his hand, such as gentlemen

in advanced life used to carry, as much for the dignity of the thing as for the support to be derived from it. He

looks up at the portrait; a thing of no substance, gazing at its own painted image! All is safe. The picture is

still there. The purpose of his brain has been kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up in

graveyard grass. See! he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the frame. All safe! But is that a smile?is it not,

rather a frown of deadly import, that darkens over the shadow of his features? The stout Colonel is

dissatisfied! So decided is his look of discontent as to impart additional distinctness to his features; through

which, nevertheless, the moonlight passes, and flickers on the wall beyond. Something has strangely vexed

the ancestor! With a grim shake of the head, he turns away. Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe, in

their half a dozen generations, jostling and elbowing one another, to reach the picture. We behold aged men

and grandames, a clergyman with the Puritanic stiffness still in his garb and mien, and a redcoated officer of

the old French war; and there comes the shopkeeping Pyncheon of a century ago, with the ruffles turned

back from his wrists; and there the periwigged and brocaded gentleman of the artist's legend, with the

beautiful and pensive Alice, who brings no pride out of her virgin grave. All try the pictureframe. What do

these ghostly people seek? A mother lifts her child, that his little hands may touch it! There is evidently a

mystery about the picture, that perplexes these poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest. In a corner,

meanwhile, stands the figure of an elderly man, in a leathern jerkin and breeches, with a carpenter's rule

sticking out of his side pocket; he points his finger at the bearded Colonel and his descendants, nodding,

jeering, mocking, and finally bursting into obstreperous, though inaudible laughter.

Indulging our fancy in this freak, we have partly lost the power of restraint and guidance. We distinguish an

unlookedfor figure in our visionary scene. Among those ancestral people there is a young man, dressed in

the very fashion of today: he wears a dark frockcoat, almost destitute of skirts, gray pantaloons, gaiter

boots of patent leather, and has a finely wrought gold chain across his breast, and a little silverheaded

whalebone stick in his hand. Were we to meet this figure at noonday, we should greet him as young Jaffrey

Pyncheon, the Judge's only surviving child, who has been spending the last two years in foreign travel. If still

in life, how comes his shadow hither? If dead, what a misfortune! The old Pyncheon property, together with

the great estate acquired by the young man's father, would devolve on whom? On poor, foolish Clifford,

gaunt Hepzibah, and rustic little Phoebe! But another and a greater marvel greets us! Can we believe our

eyes? A stout, elderly gentleman has made his appearance; he has an aspect of eminent respectability, wears a

black coat and pantaloons, of roomy width, and might be pronounced scrupulously neat in his attire, but for a

broad crimson stain across his snowy neckcloth and down his shirtbosom. Is it the Judge, or no? How can it

be Judge Pyncheon? We discern his figure, as plainly as the flickering moonbeams can show us anything, still

seated in the oaken chair! Be the apparition whose it may, it advances to the picture, seems to seize the frame,

tries to peep behind it, and turns away, with a frown as black as the ancestral one.

The fantastic scene just hinted at must by no means be considered as forming an actual portion of our story.

We were betrayed into this brief extravagance by the quiver of the moonbeams; they dance handinhand

with shadows, and are reflected in the lookingglass, which, you are aware, is always a kind of window or

doorway into the spiritual world. We needed relief, moreover, from our too long and exclusive contemplation

of that figure in the chair. This wild wind, too, has tossed our thoughts into strange confusion, but without

tearing them away from their one determined centre. Yonder leaden Judge sits immovably upon our soul.

Will he never stir again? We shall go mad unless he stirs! You may the better estimate his quietude by the

fearlessness of a little mouse, which sits on its hind legs, in a streak of moonlight, close by Judge Pyncheon's

foot, and seems to meditate a journey of exploration over this great black bulk. Ha! what has startled the

nimble little mouse? It is the visage of grimalkin, outside of the window, where he appears to have posted

himself for a deliberate watch. This grimalkin has a very ugly look. Is it a cat watching for a mouse, or the

Thank Heaven, the night is wellnigh past! The moonbeams have no longer so silvery a gleam, nor contrast

so strongly with the blackness of the shadows among which they fall. They are paler now; the shadows look

gray, not black. The boisterous wind is hushed. What is the hour? Ah! the watch has at last ceased to tick; for

the Judge's forgetful fingers neglected to wind it up, as usual, at ten o'clock, being half an hour or so before

his ordinary bedtime,and it has run down, for the first time in five years. But the great worldclock of

Time still keeps its beat. The dreary nightfor, oh, how dreary seems its haunted waste, behind us!gives

place to a fresh, transparent, cloudless morn. Blessed, blessed radiance! The daybeameven what little of it

finds its way into this always dusky parlorseems part of the universal benediction, annulling evil, and

rendering all goodness possible, and happiness attainable. Will Judge Pyncheon now rise up from his chair?

Will he go forth, and receive the early sunbeams on his brow? Will he begin this new day,which God has

smiled upon, and blessed, and given to mankind,will he begin it with better purposes than the many that

have been spent amiss? Or are all the deeplaid schemes of yesterday as stubborn in his heart, and as busy in

In this latter case, there is much to do. Will the Judge still insist with Hepzibah on the interview with

Clifford? Will he buy a safe, elderly gentleman's horse? Will he persuade the purchaser of the old Pyncheon

property to relinquish the bargain in his favor? Will he see his family physician, and obtain a medicine that

shall preserve him, to be an honor and blessing to his race, until the utmost term of patriarchal longevity?

Will Judge Pyncheon, above all, make due apologies to that company of honorable friends, and satisfy them

that his absence from the festive board was unavoidable, and so fully retrieve himself in their good opinion

that he shall yet be Governor of Massachusetts? And all these great purposes accomplished, will he walk the

streets again, with that dogday smile of elaborate benevolence, sultry enough to tempt flies to come and

buzz in it? Or will he, after the tomblike seclusion of the past day and night, go forth a humbled and

repentant man, sorrowful, gentle, seeking no profit, shrinking from worldly honor, hardly daring to love God,

but bold to love his fellow man, and to do him what good he may? Will he bear about with him,no odious

grin of feigned benignity, insolent in its pretence, and loathsome in its falsehood,but the tender sadness of

a contrite heart, broken, at last, beneath its own weight of sin? For it is our belief, whatever show of honor he

may have piled upon it, that there was heavy sin at the base of this man's being.

Rise up, Judge Pyncheon! The morning sunshine glimmers through the foliage, and, beautiful and holy as it

is, shuns not to kindle up your face. Rise up, thou subtle, worldly, selfish, ironhearted hypocrite, and make

thy choice whether still to be subtle, worldly, selfish, ironhearted, and hypocritical, or to tear these sins out

of thy nature, though they bring the lifeblood with them! The Avenger is upon thee! Rise up, before it be too

What! Thou art not stirred by this last appeal? No, not a jot! And there we see a fly,one of your common

houseflies, such as are always buzzing on the windowpane,which has smelt out Governor Pyncheon,

and alights, now on his forehead, now on his chin, and now, Heaven help us! is creeping over the bridge of

his nose, towards the wouldbe chiefmagistrate's wideopen eyes! Canst thou not brush the fly away? Art

thou too sluggish? Thou man, that hadst so many busy projects yesterday! Art thou too weak, that wast so

And hark! the shopbell rings. After hours like these latter ones, through which we have borne our heavy

tale, it is good to be made sensible that there is a living world, and that even this old, lonely mansion retains

some manner of connection with it. We breathe more freely, emerging from Judge Pyncheon's presence into

UNCLE VENNER, trundling a wheelbarrow, was the earliest person stirring in the neighborhood the day

Pyncheon Street, in front of the House of the Seven Gables, was a far pleasanter scene than a bylane,

confined by shabby fences, and bordered with wooden dwellings of the meaner class, could reasonably be

expected to present. Nature made sweet amends, that morning, for the five unkindly days which had preceded

it. It would have been enough to live for, merely to look up at the wide benediction of the sky, or as much of

it as was visible between the houses, genial once more with sunshine. Every object was agreeable, whether to

be gazed at in the breadth, or examined more minutely. Such, for example, were the wellwashed pebbles

and gravel of the sidewalk; even the skyreflecting pools in the centre of the street; and the grass, now

freshly verdant, that crept along the base of the fences, on the other side of which, if one peeped over, was

seen the multifarious growth of gardens. Vegetable productions, of whatever kind, seemed more than

negatively happy, in the juicy warmth and abundance of their life. The Pyncheon Elm, throughout its great

circumference, was all alive, and full of the morning sun and a sweettempered little breeze, which lingered

within this verdant sphere, and set a thousand leafy tongues awhispering all at once. This aged tree appeared

to have suffered nothing from the gale. It had kept its boughs unshattered, and its full complement of leaves;

and the whole in perfect verdure, except a single branch, that, by the earlier change with which the elmtree

sometimes prophesies the autumn, had been transmuted to bright gold. It was like the golden branch that

This one mystic branch hung down before the main entrance of the Seven Gables, so nigh the ground that any

passerby might have stood on tiptoe and plucked it off. Presented at the door, it would have been a symbol

of his right to enter, and be made acquainted with all the secrets of the house. So little faith is due to external

appearance, that there was really an inviting aspect over the venerable edifice, conveying an idea that its

history must be a decorous and happy one, and such as would be delightful for a fireside tale. Its windows

gleamed cheerfully in the slanting sunlight. The lines and tufts of green moss, here and there, seemed pledges

of familiarity and sisterhood with Nature; as if this human dwellingplace, being of such old date, had

established its prescriptive title among primeval oaks and whatever other objects, by virtue of their long

continuance, have acquired a gracious right to be. A person of imaginative temperament, while passing by the

house, would turn, once and again, and peruse it well: its many peaks, consenting together in the clustered

chimney; the deep projection over its basementstory; the arched window, imparting a look, if not of

grandeur, yet of antique gentility, to the broken portal over which it opened; the luxuriance of gigantic

burdocks, near the threshold; he would note all these characteristics, and be conscious of something deeper

than he saw. He would conceive the mansion to have been the residence of the stubborn old Puritan, Integrity,

who, dying in some forgotten generation, had left a blessing in all its rooms and chambers, the efficacy of

which was to be seen in the religion, honesty, moderate competence, or upright poverty and solid happiness,

One object, above all others, would take root in the imaginative observer's memory. It was the great tuft of

flowers,weeds, you would have called them, only a week ago,the tuft of crimsonspotted flowers, in the

angle between the two front gables. The old people used to give them the name of Alice's Posies, in

remembrance of fair Alice Pyncheon, who was believed to have brought their seeds from Italy. They were

flaunting in rich beauty and full bloom today, and seemed, as it were, a mystic expression that something

It was but little after sunrise, when Uncle Venner made his appearance, as aforesaid, impelling a wheelbarrow

along the street. He was going his matutinal rounds to collect cabbageleaves, turniptops, potatoskins, and

the miscellaneous refuse of the dinnerpot, which the thrifty housewives of the neighborhood were

accustomed to put aside, as fit only to feed a pig. Uncle Venner's pig was fed entirely, and kept in prime

order, on these eleemosynary contributions; insomuch that the patched philosopher used to promise that,

before retiring to his farm, he would make a feast of the portly grunter, and invite all his neighbors to partake

of the joints and spareribs which they had helped to fatten. Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon's housekeeping had so

greatly improved, since Clifford became a member of the family, that her share of the banquet would have

been no lean one; and Uncle Venner, accordingly, was a good deal disappointed not to find the large earthen

pan, full of fragmentary eatables, that ordinarily awaited his coming at the back doorstep of the Seven

"I never knew Miss Hepzibah so forgetful before," said the patriarch to himself. "She must have had a dinner

yesterday, no question of that! She always has one, nowadays. So where's the potliquor and potatoskins,

I ask? Shall I knock, and see if she's stirring yet? No, no,'t won't do! If little Phoebe was about the house, I

should not mind knocking; but Miss Hepzibah, likely as not, would scowl down at me out of the window, and

With these reflections, the old man was shutting the gate of the little backyard. Creaking on its hinges,

however, like every other gate and door about the premises, the sound reached the ears of the occupant of the

"Goodmorning, Uncle Venner!" said the daguerreotypist, leaning out of the window. "Do you hear nobody

"Not a soul," said the man of patches. "But that's no wonder. 'Tis barely half an hour past sunrise, yet. But I'm

really glad to see you, Mr. Holgrave! There's a strange, lonesome look about this side of the house; so that

my heart misgave me, somehow or other, and I felt as if there was nobody alive in it. The front of the house

looks a good deal cheerier; and Alice's Posies are blooming there beautifully; and if I were a young man, Mr.

Holgrave, my sweetheart should have one of those flowers in her bosom, though I risked my neck climbing

"It did, indeed!" answered the artist, smiling. "If I were a believer in ghosts,and I don't quite know whether

I am or not,I should have concluded that all the old Pyncheons were running riot in the lower rooms,

"Yes, Miss Hepzibah will be apt to oversleep herself, after being disturbed, all night, with the racket," said

Uncle Venner. "But it would be odd, now, wouldn't it, if the Judge had taken both his cousins into the country

"Oh, along in the forenoon," said the old man. "Well, well! I must go my rounds, and so must my

wheelbarrow. But I'll be back here at dinnertime; for my pig likes a dinner as well as a breakfast. No

mealtime, and no sort of victuals, ever seems to come amiss to my pig. Good morning to you! And, Mr.

Holgrave, if I were a young man, like you, I'd get one of Alice's Posies, and keep it in water till Phoebe

"I have heard," said the daguerreotypist, as he drew in his head, "that the water of Maule's well suits those

Here the conversation ceased, and Uncle Venner went on his way. For half an hour longer, nothing disturbed

the repose of the Seven Gables; nor was there any visitor, except a carrierboy, who, as he passed the front

doorstep, threw down one of his newspapers; for Hepzibah, of late, had regularly taken it in. After a while,

there came a fat woman, making prodigious speed, and stumbling as she ran up the steps of the shopdoor.

Her face glowed with fireheat, and, it being a pretty warm morning, she bubbled and hissed, as it were, as if

all afry with chimneywarmth, and summerwarmth, and the warmth of her own corpulent velocity. She

tried the shopdoor; it was fast. She tried it again, with so angry a jar that the bell tinkled angrily back at her.

"The deuce take Old Maid Pyncheon!" muttered the irascible housewife. "Think of her pretending to set up a

centshop, and then lying abed till noon! These are what she calls gentlefolk's airs, I suppose! But I'll either

She shook it accordingly, and the bell, having a spiteful little temper of its own, rang obstreperously, making

its remonstrances heard,not, indeed, by the ears for which they were intended, but by a good lady on the

opposite side of the street. She opened the window, and addressed the impatient applicant.

"But I must and will find somebody here!" cried Mrs. Gubbins, inflicting another outrage on the bell. "I want

a halfpound of pork, to fry some firstrate flounders for Mr. Gubbins's breakfast; and, lady or not, Old Maid

"But do hear reason, Mrs. Gubbins!" responded the lady opposite. "She, and her brother too, have both gone

to their cousin's, Judge Pyncheon's at his countryseat. There's not a soul in the house, but that young

daguerreotypeman that sleeps in the north gable. I saw old Hepzibah and Clifford go away yesterday; and a

queer couple of ducks they were, paddling through the mudpuddles! They're gone, I'll assure you."

"And how do you know they're gone to the Judge's?" asked Mrs. Gubbins. "He's a rich man; and there's been

a quarrel between him and Hepzibah this many a day, because he won't give her a living. That's the main

"I know that well enough," said the neighbor. "But they're gone, that's one thing certain. And who but a

blood relation, that couldn't help himself, I ask you, would take in that awfultempered old maid, and that

Mrs. Gubbins took her departure, still brimming over with hot wrath against the absent Hepzibah. For another

halfhour, or, perhaps, considerably more, there was almost as much quiet on the outside of the house as

within. The elm, however, made a pleasant, cheerful, sunny sigh, responsive to the breeze that was elsewhere

imperceptible; a swarm of insects buzzed merrily under its drooping shadow, and became specks of light

whenever they darted into the sunshine; a locust sang, once or twice, in some inscrutable seclusion of the

tree; and a solitary little bird, with plumage of pale gold, came and hovered about Alice's Posies.

At last our small acquaintance, Ned Higgins, trudged up the street, on his way to school; and happening, for

the first time in a fortnight, to be the possessor of a cent, he could by no means get past the shopdoor of the

Seven Gables. But it would not open. Again and again, however, and half a dozen other agains, with the

inexorable pertinacity of a child intent upon some object important to itself, did he renew his efforts for

admittance. He had, doubtless, set his heart upon an elephant; or, possibly, with Hamlet, he meant to eat a

crocodile. In response to his more violent attacks, the bell gave, now and then, a moderate tinkle, but could

not be stirred into clamor by any exertion of the little fellow's childish and tiptoe strength. Holding by the

doorhandle, he peeped through a crevice of the curtain, and saw that the inner door, communicating with the

"Miss Pyncheon!" screamed the child, rapping on the windowpane, "I want an elephant!"

There being no answer to several repetitions of the summons, Ned began to grow impatient; and his little pot

of passion quickly boiling over, he picked up a stone, with a naughty purpose to fling it through the window;

at the same time blubbering and sputtering with wrath. A manone of two who happened to be passing

"I want old Hepzibah, or Phoebe, or any of them!" answered Ned, sobbing. "They won't open the door; and I

"Go to school, you little scamp!" said the man. "There's another centshop round the corner. 'T is very

strange, Dixey," added he to his companion, "what's become of all these Pyncheon's! Smith, the liverystable

keeper, tells me Judge Pyncheon put his horse up yesterday, to stand till after dinner, and has not taken him

away yet. And one of the Judge's hired men has been in, this morning, to make inquiry about him. He's a kind

"Oh, he'll turn up safe enough!" said Dixey. "And as for Old Maid Pyncheon, take my word for it, she has run

in debt, and gone off from her creditors. I foretold, you remember, the first morning she set up shop, that her

"I never thought she'd make it go," remarked his friend. "This business of centshops is overdone among the

In the course of the morning, there were various other attempts to open a communication with the supposed

inhabitants of this silent and impenetrable mansion. The man of rootbeer came, in his neatly painted wagon,

with a couple of dozen full bottles, to be exchanged for empty ones; the baker, with a lot of crackers which

Hepzibah had ordered for her retail custom; the butcher, with a nice titbit which he fancied she would be

eager to secure for Clifford. Had any observer of these proceedings been aware of the fearful secret hidden

within the house, it would have affected him with a singular shape and modification of horror, to see the

current of human life making this small eddy hereabouts, whirling sticks, straws and all such trifles, round

The butcher was so much in earnest with his sweetbread of lamb, or whatever the dainty might be, that he

tried every accessible door of the Seven Gables, and at length came round again to the shop, where he

"It's a nice article, and I know the old lady would jump at it," said he to himself. "She can't be gone away! In

fifteen years that I have driven my cart through Pyncheon Street, I've never known her to be away from

home; though often enough, to be sure, a man might knock all day without bringing her to the door. But that

Peeping through the same crevice of the curtain where, only a little while before, the urchin of elephantine

appetite had peeped, the butcher beheld the inner door, not closed, as the child had seen it, but ajar, and

almost wide open. However it might have happened, it was the fact. Through the passageway there was a

dark vista into the lighter but still obscure interior of the parlor. It appeared to the butcher that he could pretty

clearly discern what seemed to be the stalwart legs, clad in black pantaloons, of a man sitting in a large oaken

chair, the back of which concealed all the remainder of his figure. This contemptuous tranquillity on the part

of an occupant of the house, in response to the butcher's indefatigable efforts to attract notice, so piqued the

"So," thought he, "there sits Old Maid Pyncheon's bloody brother, while I've been giving myself all this

trouble! Why, if a hog hadn't more manners, I'd stick him! I call it demeaning a man's business to trade with

such people; and from this time forth, if they want a sausage or an ounce of liver, they shall run after the cart

Not a great while afterwards there was a sound of music turning the corner and approaching down the street,

with several intervals of silence, and then a renewed and nearer outbreak of brisk melody. A mob of children

was seen moving onward, or stopping, in unison with the sound, which appeared to proceed from the centre

of the throng; so that they were loosely bound together by slender strains of harmony, and drawn along

captive; with ever and anon an accession of some little fellow in an apron and strawhat, capering forth from

door or gateway. Arriving under the shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, it proved to be the Italian boy, who, with

his monkey and show of puppets, had once before played his hurdygurdy beneath the arched window. The

pleasant face of Phoebeand doubtless, too, the liberal recompense which she had flung himstill dwelt in

his remembrance. His expressive features kindled up, as he recognized the spot where this trifling incident of

his erratic life had chanced. He entered the neglected yard (now wilder than ever, with its growth of

hogweed and burdock), stationed himself on the doorstep of the main entrance, and, opening his showbox,

began to play. Each individual of the automatic community forthwith set to work, according to his or her

proper vocation: the monkey, taking off his Highland bonnet, bowed and scraped to the bystanders most

obsequiously, with ever an observant eye to pick up a stray cent; and the young foreigner himself, as he

turned the crank of his machine, glanced upward to the arched window, expectant of a presence that would

make his music the livelier and sweeter. The throng of children stood near; some on the sidewalk; some

within the yard; two or three establishing themselves on the very doorstep; and one squatting on the

"I don't hear anybody in the house," said one of the children to another. "The monkey won't pick up anything

" There is somebody at home," affirmed the urchin on the threshold. "I heard a step!"

Still the young Italian's eye turned sidelong upward; and it really seemed as if the touch of genuine, though

slight and almost playful, emotion communicated a juicier sweetness to the dry, mechanical process of his

minstrelsy. These wanderers are readily responsive to any natural kindnessbe it no more than a smile, or a

word itself not understood, but only a warmth in itwhich befalls them on the roadside of life. They

remember these things, because they are the little enchantments which, for the instant, for the space that

reflects a landscape in a soapbubble,build up a home about them. Therefore, the Italian boy would not be

discouraged by the heavy silence with which the old house seemed resolute to clog the vivacity of his

instrument. He persisted in his melodious appeals; he still looked upward, trusting that his dark, alien

countenance would soon be brightened by Phoebe's sunny aspect. Neither could he be willing to depart

without again beholding Clifford, whose sensibility, like Phoebe's smile, had talked a kind of heart's language

to the foreigner. He repeated all his music over and over again, until his auditors were getting weary. So were

the little wooden people in his showbox, and the monkey most of all. There was no response, save the

"No children live in this house," said a schoolboy, at last. "Nobody lives here but an old maid and an old

"You fool, you, why do you tell him?" whispered a shrewd little Yankee, caring nothing for the music, but a

"Let him play as he likes! If there's nobody to pay him, that's his own lookout!"

Once more, however, the Italian ran over his round of melodies. To the common observerwho could

understand nothing of the case, except the music and the sunshine on the hither side of the door it might

have been amusing to watch the pertinacity of the streetperformer. Will he succeed at last? Will that

stubborn door be suddenly flung open? Will a group of joyous children, the young ones of the house, come

dancing, shouting, laughing, into the open air, and cluster round the showbox, looking with eager merriment

at the puppets, and tossing each a copper for longtailed Mammon, the monkey, to pick up?

But to us, who know the inner heart of the Seven Gables as well as its exterior face, there is a ghastly effect in

this repetition of light popular tunes at its doorstep. It would be an ugly business, indeed, if Judge Pyncheon

(who would not have cared a fig for Paganini's fiddle in his most harmonious mood) should make his

appearance at the door, with a bloody shirtbosom, and a grim frown on his swarthily white visage, and

motion the foreign vagabond away! Was ever before such a grinding out of jigs and waltzes, where nobody

was in the cue to dance? Yes, very often. This contrast, or intermingling of tragedy with mirth, happens daily,

hourly, momently. The gloomy and desolate old house, deserted of life, and with awful Death sitting sternly

in its solitude, was the emblem of many a human heart, which, nevertheless, is compelled to hear the thrill

Before the conclusion of the Italian's performance, a couple of men happened to be passing, On their way to

dinner. "I say, you young French fellow!" called out one of them,"come away from that doorstep, and go

somewhere else with your nonsense! The Pyncheon family live there; and they are in great trouble, just about

this time. They don't feel musical today. It is reported all over town that Judge Pyncheon, who owns the

house, has been murdered; and the city marshal is going to look into the matter. So be off with you, at once!"

As the Italian shouldered his hurdygurdy, he saw on the doorstep a card, which had been covered, all the

morning, by the newpaper that the carrier had flung upon it, but was now shuffled into sight. He picked it up,

and perceiving something written in pencil, gave it to the man to read. In fact, it was an engraved card of

Judge Pyncheon's with certain pencilled memoranda on the back, referring to various businesses which it had

been his purpose to transact during the preceding day. It formed a prospective epitome of the day's history;

only that affairs had not turned out altogether in accordance with the programme. The card must have been

lost from the Judge's vestpocket in his preliminary attempt to gain access by the main entrance of the house.

"Look here; Dixey!" cried the man. "This has something to do with Judge Pyncheon. See!here's his name

"Let's go to the city marshal with it!" said Dixey. "It may give him just the clew he wants. After all,"

whispered he in his companion's ear," it would be no wonder if the Judge has gone into that door and never

come out again! A certain cousin of his may have been at his old tricks. And Old Maid Pyncheon having got

herself in debt by the centshop,and the Judge's pocketbook being well filled,and bad blood amongst

"Hush, hush!" whispered the other. "It seems like a sin to he the first to speak of such a thing. But I think,

"Yes, yes!" said Dixey. "Well!I always said there was something devilish in that woman's scowl!"

The men wheeled about, accordingly, and retraced their steps up the street. The Italian, also, made the best of

his way off, with a parting glance up at the arched window. As for the children, they took to their heels, with

one accord, and scampered as if some giant or ogre were in pursuit, until, at a good distance from the house,

they stopped as suddenly and simultaneously as they had set out. Their susceptible nerves took an indefinite

alarm from what they had overheard. Looking back at the grotesque peaks and shadowy angles of the old

mansion, they fancied a gloom diffused about it which no brightness of the sunshine could dispel. An

imaginary Hepzibah scowled and shook her finger at them, from several windows at the same moment. An

imaginary Cliffordfor (and it would have deeply wounded him to know it) he had always been a horror to

these small people stood behind the unreal Hepzibah, making awful gestures, in a faded dressinggown.

Children are even more apt, if possible, than grown people, to catch the contagion of a panic terror. For the

rest of the day, the more timid went whole streets about, for the sake of avoiding the Seven Gables; while the

bolder sig nalized their hardihood by challenging their comrades to race past the mansion at full speed.

It could not have been more than half an hour after the disappearance of the Italian boy, with his

unseasonable melodies, when a cab drove down the street. It stopped beneath the Pyncheon Elm; the cabman

took a trunk, a canvas bag, and a bandbox, from the top of his vehicle, and deposited them on the doorstep of

the old house; a straw bonnet, and then the pretty figure of a young girl, came into view from the interior of

the cab. It was Phoebe! Though not altogether so blooming as when she first tripped into our story, for, in

the few intervening weeks, her experiences had made her graver, more womanly, and deepereyed, in token

of a heart that had begun to suspect its depths,still there was the quiet glow of natural sunshine over her.

Neither had she forfeited her proper gift of making things look real, rather than fantastic, within her sphere.

Yet we feel it to be a questionable venture, even for Phoebe, at this juncture, to cross the threshold of the

Seven Gables. Is her healthful presence potent enough to chase away the crowd of pale, hideous, and sinful

phantoms, that have gained admittance there since her departure? Or will she, likewise, fade, sicken, sadden,

and grow into deformity, and be only another pallid phantom, to glide noiselessly up and down the stairs, and

At least, we would gladly forewarn the unsuspecting girl that there is nothing in human shape or substance to

receive her, unless it be the figure of Judge Pyncheon, whowretched spectacle that he is, and frightful in

our remembrance, since our nightlong vigil with him!still keeps his place in the oaken chair.

Phoebe first tried the shopdoor. It did not yield to her hand; and the white curtain, drawn across the window

which formed the upper section of the door, struck her quick perceptive faculty as something unusual.

Without making another effort to enter here, she betook herself to the great portal, under the arched window.

Finding it fastened, she knocked. A reverberation came from the emptiness within. She knocked again, and a

third time; and, listening intently, fancied that the floor creaked, as if Hepzibah were coming, with her

ordinary tiptoe movement, to admit her. But so dead a silence ensued upon this imaginary sound, that she

began to question whether she might not have mistaken the house, familiar as she thought herself with its

Her notice was now attracted by a child's voice, at some distance. It appeared to call her name. Looking in the

direction whence it proceeded, Phoebe saw little Ned Higgins, a good way down the street, stamping, shaking

his head violently, making deprecatory gestures with both hands, and shouting to her at mouthwide screech.

"No, no, Phoebe!" he screamed. "Don't you go in! There's something wicked there! Don'tdon'tdon't go

But, as the little personage could not be induced to approach near enough to explain himself, Phoebe

concluded that he had been frightened, on some of his visits to the shop, by her cousin Hepzibah; for the good

lady's manifestations, in truth, ran about an equal chance of scaring children out of their wits, or compelling

them to unseemly laughter. Still, she felt the more, for this incident, how unaccountably silent and

impenetrable the house had become. As her next resort, Phoebe made her way into the garden, where on so

warm and bright a day as the present, she had little doubt of finding Clifford, and perhaps Hepzibah also,

idling away the noontide in the shadow of the arbor. Immediately on her entering the garden gate, the family

of hens half ran, half flew to meet her; while a strange grimalkin, which was prowling under the parlor

window, took to his heels, clambered hastily over the fence, and vanished. The arbor was vacant, and its

floor, table, and circular bench were still damp, and bestrewn with twigs and the disarray of the past storm.

The growth of the garden seemed to have got quite out of bounds; the weeds had taken advantage of Phoebe's

absence, and the longcontinued rain, to run rampant over the flowers and kitchenvegetables. Maule's well

had overflowed its stone border, and made a pool of formidable breadth in that corner of the garden.

The impression of the whole scene was that of a spot where no human foot had left its print for many

preceding days,probably not since Phoebe's departure,for she saw a sidecomb of her own under the

table of the arbor, where it must have fallen on the last afternoon when she and Clifford sat there.

The girl knew that her two relatives were capable of far greater oddities than that of shutting themselves up in

their old house, as they appeared now to have done. Nevertheless, with indistinct misgivings of something

amiss, and apprehensions to which she could not give shape, she approached the door that formed the

customary communication between the house and garden. It was secured within, like the two which she had

already tried. She knocked, however; and immediately, as if the application had been expected, the door was

drawn open, by a considerable exertion of some unseen person's strength, not wide, but far enough to afford

her a sidelong entrance. As Hepzibah, in order not to expose herself to inspection from without, invariably

opened a door in this manner, Phoebe necessarily concluded that it was her cousin who now admitted her.

Without hesitation, therefore, she stepped across the threshold, and had no sooner entered than the door

PHOEBE, coming so suddenly from the sunny daylight, was altogether bedimmed in such density of shadow

as lurked in most of the passages of the old house. She was not at first aware by whom she had been

admitted. Before her eyes had adapted themselves to the obscurity, a hand grasped her own with a firm but

gentle and warm pressure, thus imparting a welcome which caused her heart to leap and thrill with an

indefinable shiver of enjoyment. She felt herself drawn along, not towards the parlor, but into a large and

unoccupied apartment, which had formerly been the grand receptionroom of the Seven Gables. The

sunshine came freely into all the uncurtained windows of this room, and fell upon the dusty floor; so that

Phoebe now clearly sawwhat, indeed, had been no secret, after the encounter of a warm hand with

hersthat it was not Hepzibah nor Clifford, but Holgrave, to whom she owed her reception. The subtile,

intuitive communication, or, rather, the vague and formless impression of something to be told, had made her

yield unresistingly to his impulse. Without taking away her hand, she looked eagerly in his face, not quick to

forebode evil, but unavoidably conscious that the state of the family had changed since her departure, and

The artist looked paler than ordinary; there was a thoughtful and severe contraction of his forehead, tracing a

deep, vertical line between the eyebrows. His smile, however, was full of genuine warmth, and had in it a joy,

by far the most vivid expression that Phoebe had ever witnessed, shining out of the New England reserve

with which Holgrave habitually masked whatever lay near his heart. It was the look wherewith a man,

brooding alone over some fearful object, in a dreary forest or illimitable desert, would recognize the familiar

aspect of his dearest friend, bringing up all the peaceful ideas that belong to home, and the gentle current of

everyday affairs. And yet, as he felt the necessity of responding to her look of inquiry, the smile

"I ought not to rejoice that you have come, Phoebe," said he. "We meet at a strange moment!"

"What has happened!" she exclaimed. "Why is the house so deserted? Where are Hepzibah and Clifford?"

"Gone! I cannot imagine where they are!" answered Holgrave. "We are alone in the house!"

"Hepzibah and Clifford gone?" cried Phoebe. "It is not possible! And why have you brought me into this

room, instead of the parlor? Ah, something terrible has happened! I must run and see!"

"No, no, Phoebe!" said Holgrave holding her back. "It is as I have told you. They are gone, and I know not

whither. A terrible event has, indeed happened, but not to them, nor, as I undoubtingly believe, through any

agency of theirs. If I read your character rightly, Phoebe," he continued, fixing his eyes on hers with stern

anxiety, intermixed with tenderness, "gentle as you are, and seeming to have your sphere among common

things, you yet possess remarkable strength. You have wonderful poise, and a faculty which, when tested,

will prove itself capable of dealing with matters that fall far out of the ordinary rule."

"Oh, no, I am very weak!" replied Phoebe, trembling. "But tell me what has happened!"

"You are strong!" persisted Holgrave. "You must be both strong and wise; for I am all astray, and need your

"Tell me!tell me!" said Phoebe, all in a tremble. "It oppresses, it terrifies me,this mystery! Anything

The artist hesitated. Notwithstanding what he had just said, and most sincerely, in regard to the

selfbalancing power with which Phoebe impressed him, it still seemed almost wicked to bring the awful

secret of yesterday to her knowledge. It was like dragging a hideous shape of death into the cleanly and

cheerful space before a household fire, where it would present all the uglier aspect, amid the decorousness of

everything about it. Yet it could not be concealed from her; she must needs know it.

"Phoebe," said he, "do you remember this?" He put into her hand a daguerreotype; the same that he had

shown her at their first interview in the garden, and which so strikingly brought out the hard and relentless

"What has this to do with Hepzibah and Clifford?" asked Phoebe, with impatient surprise that Holgrave

should so trifle with her at such a moment." It is Judge Pyncheon! You have shown it to me before!"

"But here is the same face, taken within this halfhour" said the artist, presenting her with another miniature.

"Such as there represented," said Holgrave, "he sits in the next room. The Judge is dead, and Clifford and

Hepzibah have vanished! I know no more. All beyond is conjecture. On returning to my solitary chamber,

last evening, I noticed no light, either in the parlor, or Hepzibah's room, or Clifford's; no stir nor footstep

about the house. This morning, there was the same deathlike quiet. From my window, I overheard the

testimony of a neighbor, that your relatives were seen leaving the house in the midst of yesterday's storm. A

rumor reached me, too, of Judge Pyncheon being missed. A feeling which I cannot describean indefinite

sense of some catastrophe, or consummation impelled me to make my way into this part of the house,

where I discovered what you see. As a point of evidence that may be useful to Clifford, and also as a

memorial valuable to myself,for, Phoebe, there are hereditary reasons that connect me strangely with that

man's fate,I used the means at my disposal to preserve this pictorial record of Judge Pyncheon's death."

Even in her agitation, Phoebe could not help remarking the calmness of Holgrave's demeanor. He appeared, it

is true, to feel the whole awfulness of the Judge's death, yet had received the fact into his mind without any

mixture of surprise, but as an event preordained, happening inevitably, and so fitting itself into past

"Why have you not thrown open the doors, and called in witnesses?" inquired she with a painful shudder. "It

"But Clifford!" suggested the artist. "Clifford and Hepzibah! We must consider what is best to be done in

their behalf. It is a wretched fatality that they should have disappeared! Their flight will throw the worst

coloring over this event of which it is susceptible. Yet how easy is the explanation, to those who know them!

Bewildered and terrorstricken by the similarity of this death to a former one, which was attended with such

disastrous consequences to Clifford, they have had no idea but of removing themselves from the scene. How

miserably unfortunate! Had Hepzibah but shrieked aloud,had Clifford flung wide the door, and proclaimed

Judge Pyncheon's death,it would have been, however awful in itself, an event fruitful of good

consequences to them. As I view it, it would have gone far towards obliterating the black stain on Clifford's

"Because," said the artist, "if the matter can be fairly considered and candidly interpreted, it must be evident

that Judge Pyncheon could not have come unfairly to his end. This mode of death had been an idiosyncrasy

with his family, for generations past; not often occurring, indeed, but, when it does occur, usually attacking

individuals about the Judge's time of life, and generally in the tension of some mental crisis, or, perhaps, in an

access of wrath. Old Maule's prophecy was probably founded on a knowledge of this physical predisposition

in the Pyncheon race. Now, there is a minute and almost exact similarity in the appearances connected with

the death that occurred yesterday and those recorded of the death of Clifford's uncle thirty years ago. It is

true, there was a certain arrangement of circumstances, unnecessary to be recounted, which made it possible

nay, as men look at these things, probable, or even certainthat old Jaffrey Pyncheon came to a violent

"Whence came those circumstances?" exclaimed Phoebe. "He being innocent, as we know him to be!"

"They were arranged," said Holgrave,"at least such has long been my conviction,they were arranged

after the uncle's death, and before it was made public, by the man who sits in yonder parlor. His own death,

so like that former one, yet attended by none of those suspicious circumstances, seems the stroke of God

upon him, at once a punishment for his wickedness, and making plain the innocence of Clifford, But this

flight,it distorts everything! He may be in concealment, near at hand. Could we but bring him back before

"We must not hide this thing a moment longer!" said Phoebe. "It is dreadful to keep it so closely in our

hearts. Clifford is innocent. God will make it manifest! Let us throw open the doors, and call all the

Yet the artist did not feel the horror, which was proper to Phoebe's sweet and orderloving character, at thus

finding herself at issue with society, and brought in contact with an event that transcended ordinary rules.

Neither was he in haste, like her, to betake himself within the precincts of common life. On the contrary, he

gathered a wild enjoyment,as it were, a flower of strange beauty, growing in a desolate spot, and

blossoming in the wind, such a flower of momentary happiness he gathered from his present position. It

separated Phoebe and himself from the world, and bound them to each other, by their exclusive knowledge of

Judge Pyncheon's mysterious death, and the counsel which they were forced to hold respecting it. The secret,

so long as it should continue such, kept them within the circle of a spell, a solitude in the midst of men, a

remoteness as entire as that of an island in midocean; once divulged, the ocean would flow betwixt them,

standing on its widely sundered shores. Meanwhile, all the circumstances of their situation seemed to draw

them together; they were like two children who go hand in hand, pressing closely to one another's side,

through a shadowhaunted passage. The image of awful Death, which filled the house, held them united by

These influences hastened the development of emotions that might not otherwise have flowered so. Possibly,

indeed, it had been Holgrave's purpose to let them die in their undeveloped germs. "Why do we delay so?"

"In all our lives there can never come another moment like this!" said Holgrave. "Phoebe, is it all

terror?nothing but terror? Are you conscious of no joy, as I am, that has made this the only point of life

"Could you but know, Phoebe, how it was with me the hour before you came!" exclaimed the artist. "A dark,

cold, miserable hour! The presence of yonder dead man threw a great black shadow over everything; he made

the universe, so far as my perception could reach, a scene of guilt and of retribution more dreadful than the

guilt. The sense of it took away my youth. I never hoped to feel young again! The world looked strange, wild,

evil, hostile; my past life, so lonesome and dreary; my future, a shapeless gloom, which I must mould into

gloomy shapes! But, Phoebe, you crossed the threshold; and hope, warmth, and joy came in with you! The

black moment became at once a blissful one. It must not pass without the spoken word. I love you!"

"How can you love a simple girl like me?" asked Phoebe, compelled by his earnestness to speak. "You have

many, many thoughts, with which I should try in vain to sympathize. And I, I, too,I have tendencies

with which you would sympathize as little. That is less matter. But I have not scope enough to make you

"You are my only possibility of happiness!" answered Holgrave. "I have no faith in it, except as you bestow it

"And thenI am afraid!" continued Phoebe, shrinking towards Holgrave, even while she told him so frankly

the doubts with which he affected her. "You will lead me out of my own quiet path. You will make me strive

to follow you where it is pathless. I cannot do so. It is not my nature. I shall sink down and perish!"

"Ah, Phoebe!" exclaimed Holgrave, with almost a sigh, and a smile that was burdened with thought.

"It will be far otherwise than as you forebode. The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The

happy man inevitably confines himself within ancient limits. I have a presentiment that, hereafter, it will be

my lot to set out trees, to make fences,perhaps, even, in due time, to build a house for another

generation,in a word, to conform myself to laws and the peaceful practice of society. Your poise will be

"Do you love me?" asked Holgrave. "If we love one another, the moment has room for nothing more. Let us

"You look into my heart," said she, letting her eyes drop. "You know I love you!"

And it was in this hour, so full of doubt and awe, that the one miracle was wrought, without which every

human existence is a blank. The bliss which makes all things true, beautiful, and holy shone around this

youth and maiden. They were conscious of nothing sad nor old. They transfigured the earth, and made it Eden

again, and themselves the two first dwellers in it. The dead man, so close beside them, was forgotten. At such

a crisis, there is no death; for immortality is revealed anew, and embraces everything in its hallowed

"Now let us meet the world!" said Holgrave. "No doubt, the rumor of Judge Pyncheon's visit to this house,

and the flight of Hepzibah and Clifford, is about to lead to the investigation of the premises. We have no way

But, to their surprise, before they could reach the street door,even before they quitted the room in which

the foregoing interview had passed,they heard footsteps in the farther passage. The door, therefore, which

they supposed to be securely locked, which Holgrave, indeed, had seen to be so, and at which Phoebe had

vainly tried to enter,must have been opened from without. The sound of footsteps was not harsh, bold,

decided, and intrusive, as the gait of strangers would naturally be, making authoritative entrance into a

dwelling where they knew themselves unwelcome. It was feeble, as of persons either weak or weary; there

And then, as if in sympathy with Phoebe's whispered ejaculation, they heard Hepzibah's voice more

"Well!Yes!thank God!" responded Clifford. "A dreary home, Hepzibah! But you have done well to

bring me hither! Stay! That parlor door is open. I cannot pass by it! Let me go and rest me in the arbor, where

I used,oh, very long ago, it seems to me, after what has befallen us,where I used to be so happy with

But the house was not altogether so dreary as Clifford imagined it. They had not made many steps,in truth,

they were lingering in the entry, with the listlessness of an accomplished purpose, uncertain what to do

next,when Phoebe ran to meet them. On beholding her, Hepzibah burst into tears. With all her might, she

had staggered onward beneath the burden of grief and responsibility, until now that it was safe to fling it

down. Indeed, she had not energy to fling it down, but had ceased to uphold it, and suffered it to press her to

"It is our own little Phoebe!Ah! and Holgrave with, her" exclaimed he, with a glance of keen and delicate

insight, and a smile, beautiful, kind, but melancholy. "I thought of you both, as we came down the street, and

beheld Alice's Posies in full bloom. And so the flower of Eden has bloomed, likewise, in this old, darksome

THE sudden death of so prominent a member of the social world as the Honorable Judge Jaffrey Pyncheon

created a sensation (at least, in the circles more immediately connected with the deceased) which had hardly

It may be remarked, however, that, of all the events which constitute a person's biography, there is scarcely

onenone, certainly, of anything like a similar importanceto which the world so easily reconciles itself as

to his death. In most other cases and contingencies, the individual is present among us, mixed up with the

daily revolution of affairs, and affording a definite point for observation. At his decease, there is only a

vacancy, and a momentary eddy,very small, as compared with the apparent magnitude of the ingurgitated

object,and a bubble or two, ascending out of the black depth and bursting at the surface. As regarded Judge

Pyncheon, it seemed probable, at first blush, that the mode of his final departure might give him a larger and

longer posthumous vogue than ordinarily attends the memory of a distinguished man. But when it came to be

understood, on the highest professional authority, that the event was a natural, andexcept for some

unimportant particulars, denoting a slight idiosyncrasyby no means an unusual form of death, the public,

with its customary alacrity, proceeded to forget that he had ever lived. In short, the honorable Judge was

beginning to be a stale subject before half the country newspapers had found time to put their columns in

Nevertheless, creeping darkly through the places which this excellent person had haunted in his lifetime,

there was a hidden stream of private talk, such as it would have shocked all decency to speak loudly at the

streetcorners. It is very singular, how the fact of a man's death often seems to give people a truer idea of his

character, whether for good or evil, than they have ever possessed while he was living and acting among

them. Death is so genuine a fact that it excludes falsehood, or betrays its emptiness; it is a touchstone that

proves the gold, and dishonors the baser metal. Could the departed, whoever he may be, return in a week after

his decease, he would almost invariably find himself at a higher or lower point than he had formerly

occupied, on the scale of public appreciation. But the talk, or scandal, to which we now allude, had reference

to matters of no less old a date than the supposed murder, thirty or forty years ago, of the late Judge

Pyncheon's uncle. The medical opinion with regard to his own recent and regretted decease had almost

entirely obviated the idea that a murder was committed in the former case. Yet, as the record showed, there

were circumstances irrefragably indicating that some person had gained access to old Jaffrey Pyncheon's

private apartments, at or near the moment of his death. His desk and private drawers, in a room contiguous to

his bedchamber, had been ransacked; money and valuable articles were missing; there was a bloody

handprint on the old man's linen; and, by a powerfully welded chain of deductive evidence, the guilt of the

robbery and apparent murder had been fixed on Clifford, then residing with his uncle in the House of the

Whencesoever originating, there now arose a theory that undertook so to account for these circumstances as

to exclude the idea of Clifford's agency. Many persons affirmed that the history and elucidation of the facts,

long so mysterious, had been obtained by the daguerreotypist from one of those mesmerical seers who,

nowadays, so strangely perplex the aspect of human affairs, and put everybody's natural vision to the blush,

According to this version of the story, Judge Pyncheon, exemplary as we have portrayed him in our narrative,

was, in his youth, an apparently irreclaimable scapegrace. The brutish, the animal instincts, as is often the

case, had been developed earlier than the intellectual qualities, and the force of character, for which he was

afterwards remarkable. He had shown himself wild, dissipated, addicted to low pleasures, little short of

ruffianly in his propensities, and recklessly expensive, with no other resources than the bounty of his uncle.

This course of conduct had alienated the old bachelor's affection, once strongly fixed upon him. Now it is

averred,but whether on authority available in a court of justice, we do not pretend to have

investigated,that the young man was tempted by the devil, one night, to search his uncle's private drawers,

to which he had unsuspected means of access. While thus criminally occupied, he was startled by the opening

of the chamberdoor. There stood old Jaffrey Pyncheon, in his nightclothes! The surprise of such a

discovery, his agitation, alarm, and horror, brought on the crisis of a disorder to which the old bachelor had

an hereditary liability; he seemed to choke with blood, and fell upon the floor, striking his temple a heavy

blow against the corner of a table. What was to be done? The old man was surely dead! Assistance would

come too late! What a misfortune, indeed, should it come too soon, since his reviving consciousness would

bring the recollection of the ignominious offence which he had beheld his nephew in the very act of

But he never did revive. With the cool hardihood that always pertained to him, the young man continued his

search of the drawers, and found a will, of recent date, in favor of Clifford, which he destroyed,and an

older one, in his own favor, which he suffered to remain. But before retiring, Jaffrey bethought himself of the

evidence, in these ransacked drawers, that some one had visited the chamber with sinister purposes.

Suspicion, unless averted, might fix upon the real offender. In the very presence of the dead man, therefore,

he laid a scheme that should free himself at the expense of Clifford, his rival, for whose character he had at

once a contempt and a repugnance. It is not probable, be it said, that he acted with any set purpose of

involving Clifford in a charge of murder. Knowing that his uncle did not die by violence, it may not have

occurred to him, in the hurry of the crisis, that such an inference might be drawn. But, when the affair took

this darker aspect, Jaffrey's previous steps had already pledged him to those which remained. So craftily had

he arranged the circumstances, that, at Clifford's trial, his cousin hardly found it necessary to swear to

anything false, but only to withhold the one decisive explanation, by refraining to state what he had himself

Thus Jaffrey Pyncheon's inward criminality, as regarded Clifford, was, indeed, black and damnable; while its

mere outward show and positive commission was the smallest that could possibly consist with so great a sin.

This is just the sort of guilt that a man of eminent respectability finds it easiest to dispose of. It was suffered

to fade out of sight or be reckoned a venial matter, in the Honorable Judge Pyncheon's long subsequent

survey of his own life. He shuffled it aside, among the forgotten and forgiven frailties of his youth, and

We leave the Judge to his repose. He could not be styled fortunate at the hour of death. Unknowingly, he was

a childless man, while striving to add more wealth to his only child's inheritance. Hardly a week after his

decease, one of the Cunard steamers brought intelligence of the death, by cholera, of Judge Pyncheon's son,

just at the point of embarkation for his native land. By this misfortune Clifford became rich; so did Hepzibah;

so did our little village maiden, and, through her, that sworn foe of wealth and all manner of conservatism,

It was now far too late in Clifford's life for the good opinion of society to be worth the trouble and anguish of

a formal vindication. What he needed was the love of a very few; not the admiration, or even the respect, of

the unknown many. The latter might probably have been won for him, had those on whom the guardianship

of his welfare had fallen deemed it advisable to expose Clifford to a miserable resuscitation of past ideas,

when the condition of whatever comfort he might expect lay in the calm of forgetfulness. After such wrong as

he had suffered, there is no reparation. The pitiable mockery of it, which the world might have been ready

enough to offer, coming so long after the agony had done its utmost work, would have been fit only to

provoke bitterer laughter than poor Clifford was ever capable of. It is a truth (and it would be a very sad one

but for the higher hopes which it suggests) that no great mistake, whether acted or endured, in our mortal

sphere, is ever really set right. Time, the continual vicissitude of circumstances, and the invariable

inopportunity of death, render it impossible. If, after long lapse of years, the right seems to be in our power,

we find no niche to set it in. The better remedy is for the sufferer to pass on, and leave what he once thought

The shock of Judge Pyncheon's death had a permanently invigorating and ultimately beneficial effect on

Clifford. That strong and ponderous man had been Clifford's nightmare. There was no free breath to be

drawn, within the sphere of so malevolent an influence. The first effect of freedom, as we have witnessed in

Clifford's aimless flight, was a tremulous exhilaration. Subsiding from it, he did not sink into his former

intellectual apathy. He never, it is true, attained to nearly the full measure of what might have been his

faculties. But he recovered enough of them partially to light up his character, to display some outline of the

marvellous grace that was abortive in it, and to make him the object of No less deep, although less

melancholy interest than heretofore. He was evidently happy. Could we pause to give another picture of his

daily life, with all the appliances now at command to gratify his instinct for the Beautiful, the garden scenes,

Very soon after their change of fortune, Clifford, Hepzibah, and little Phoebe, with the approval of the artist,

concluded to remove from the dismal old House of the Seven Gables, and take up their abode, for the present,

at the elegant countryseat of the late Judge Pyncheon. Chanticleer and his family had already been

transported thither, where the two hens had forthwith begun an indefatigable process of egglaying, with an

evident design, as a matter of duty and conscience, to continue their illustrious breed under better auspices

than for a century past. On the day set for their departure, the principal personages of our story, including

"The countryhouse is certainly a very fine one, so far as the plan goes," observed Holgrave, as the party

were discussing their future arrangements. "But I wonder that the late Judgebeing so opulent, and with a

reasonable prospect of transmitting his wealth to descendants of his ownshould not have felt the propriety

of embodying so excellent a piece of domestic architecture in stone, rather than in wood. Then, every

generation of the family might have altered the interior, to suit its own taste and convenience; while the

exterior, through the lapse of years, might have been adding venerableness to its original beauty, and thus

giving that impression of permanence which I consider essential to the happiness of any one moment."

"Why," cried Phoebe, gazing into the artist's face with infinite amazement, "how wonderfully your ideas are

changed! A house of stone, indeed! It is but two or three weeks ago that you seemed to wish people to live in

"Ah, Phoebe, I told you how it would be!" said the artist, with a halfmelancholy laugh."You find me a

conservative already! Little did I think ever to become one. It is especially unpardonable in this dwelling of

so much hereditary misfortune, and under the eye of yonder portrait of a model conservative, who, in that

"That picture!" said Clifford, seeming to shrink from its stern glance. "Whenever I look at it, there is an old

dreamy recollection haunting me, but keeping just beyond the grasp of my mind. Wealth, it seems to say!

boundless wealth!unimaginable wealth! I could fancy that, when I was a child, or a youth, that portrait

had spoken, and told me a rich secret, or had held forth its hand, with the written record of hidden opulence.

But those old matters are so dim with me, nowadays! What could this dream have been?"

"Perhaps I can recall it," answered Holgrave. "See! There are a hundred chances to one that no person,

"A secret spring!" cried Clifford. "Ah, I remember Now! I did discover it, one summer afternoon, when I was

idling and dreaming about the house, long, long ago. But the mystery escapes me."

The artist put his finger on the contrivance to which he had referred. In former days, the effect would

probably have been to cause the picture to start forward. But, in so long a period of concealment, the

machinery had been eaten through with rust; so that at Holgrave's pressure, the portrait, frame and all,

tumbled suddenly from its position, and lay face downward on the floor. A recess in the wall was thus

brought to light, in which lay an object so covered with a century's dust that it could not immediately be

recognized as a folded sheet of parchment. Holgrave opened it, and displayed an ancient deed, signed with

the hieroglyphics of several Indian sagamores, and conveying to Colonel Pyncheon and his heirs, forever, a

"This is the very parchment, the attempt to recover which cost the beautiful Alice Pyncheon her happiness

and life," said the artist, alluding to his legend. "It is what the Pyncheons sought in vain, while it was

"Poor Cousin Jaffrey! This is what deceived him," exclaimed Hepzibah. "When they were young together,

Clifford probably made a kind of fairytale of this discovery. He was always dreaming hither and thither

about the house, and lighting up its dark corners with beautiful stories. And poor Jaffrey, who took hold of

everything as if it were real, thought my brother had found out his uncle's wealth. He died with this delusion

"My dearest Phoebe," said Holgrave, "how will it please you to assume the name of Maule? As for the secret,

it is the only inheritance that has come down to me from my ancestors. You should have known sooner (only

that I was afraid of frightening you away) that, in this long drama of wrong and retribution, I represent the old

wizard, and am probably as much a wizard as ever he was. The son of the executed Matthew Maule, while

building this house, took the opportunity to construct that recess, and hide away the Indian deed, on which

depended the immense landclaim of the Pyncheons. Thus they bartered their eastern territory for Maule's

"And now" said Uncle Venner "I suppose their whole claim is not worth one man's share in my farm yonder!"

"Uncle Venner," cried Phoebe, taking the patched philosopher's hand, "you must never talk any more about

your farm! You shall never go there, as long as you live! There is a cottage in our new garden,the prettiest

little yellowishbrown cottage you ever saw; and the sweetestlooking place, for it looks just as if it were

made of gingerbread,and we are going to fit it up and furnish it, on purpose for you. And you shall do

nothing but what you choose, and shall be as happy as the day is long, and shall keep Cousin Clifford in

spirits with the wisdom and pleasantness which is always dropping from your lips!"

"Ah! my dear child," quoth good Uncle Venner, quite overcome, "if you were to speak to a young man as you

do to an old one, his chance of keeping his heart another minute would not be worth one of the buttons on my

waistcoat! Andsoul alive!that great sigh, which you made me heave, has burst off the very last of them!

But, never mind! It was the happiest sigh I ever did heave; and it seems as if I must have drawn in a gulp of

heavenly breath, to make it with. Well, well, Miss Phoebe! They'll miss me in the gardens hereabouts, and

round by the back doors; and Pyncheon Street, I'm afraid, will hardly look the same without old Uncle

Venner, who remembers it with a mowing field on one side, and the garden of the Seven Gables on the other.

But either I must go to your countryseat, or you must come to my farm,that's one of two things certain;

"Oh, come with us, by all means, Uncle Venner!" said Clifford, who had a remarkable enjoyment of the old

man's mellow, quiet, and simple spirit. "I want you always to be within five minutes, saunter of my chair.

You are the only philosopher I ever knew of whose wisdom has not a drop of bitter essence at the bottom!"

"Dear me!" cried Uncle Venner, beginning partly to realize what manner of man he was. "And yet folks used

to set me down among the simple ones, in my younger days! But I suppose I am like a Roxbury russet,a

great deal the better, the longer I can be kept. Yes; and my words of wisdom, that you and Phoebe tell me of,

are like the golden dandelions, which never grow in the hot months, but may be seen glistening among the

withered grass, and under the dry leaves, sometimes as late as December. And you are welcome, friends, to

A plain, but handsome, darkgreen barouche had now drawn up in front of the ruinous portal of the old

mansionhouse. The party came forth, and (with the exception of good Uncle Venner, who was to follow in a

few days) proceeded to take their places. They were chatting and laughing very pleasantly together; andas

proves to be often the case, at moments when we ought to palpitate with sensibilityClifford and Hepzibah

bade a final farewell to the abode of their forefathers, with hardly more emotion than if they had made it their

arrangement to return thither at teatime. Several children were drawn to the spot by so unusual a spectacle

as the barouche and pair of gray horses. Recognizing little Ned Higgins among them, Hepzibah put her hand

into her pocket, and presented the urchin, her earliest and staunchest customer, with silver enough to people

the Domdaniel cavern of his interior with as various a procession of quadrupeds as passed into the ark.

"Well, Dixey," said one of them, "what do you think of this? My wife kept a centshop three months, and lost

five dollars on her outlay. Old Maid Pyncheon has been in trade just about as long, and rides off in her

carriage with a couple of hundred thousand, reckoning her share, and Clifford's, and Phoebe's,and some

say twice as much! If you choose to call it luck, it is all very well; but if we are to take it as the will of

Maule's well, all this time, though left in solitude, was throwing up a succession of kaleidoscopic pictures, in

which a gifted eye might have seen foreshadowed the coming fortunes of Hepzibah and Clifford, and the

descendant of the legendary wizard, and the village maiden, over whom he had thrown Love's web of

sorcery. The Pyncheon Elm, moreover, with what foliage the September gale had spared to it, whispered

unintelligible prophecies. And wise Uncle Venner, passing slowly from the ruinous porch, seemed to hear a

strain of music, and fancied that sweet Alice Pyncheonafter witnessing these deeds, this bygone woe and

this present happiness, of her kindred mortalshad given one farewell touch of a spirit's joy upon her