Twice-Told Tales

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

  Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.

  TWICE-TOLD TALES

  by

  Nathaniel Hawthorne

  CONTENTS

  The Gray Champion The Wedding Knell The Minister's Black Veil The May-Pole of Merry Mount The Gentle Boy Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe Wakefield The Great Carbuncle David Swan The Hollow of the Three Hills Dr. Heidegger's Experiment Legends of the Province House I. Howe's Masquerade II. Edward Randolph's Portrait III. Lady Eleanore's Mantle IV. Old Esther Dudley The Ambitious Guest Peter Goldthwaite's Treasure The Shaker Bridal Endicott and the Red Cross

  FROM TWICE-TOLD TALES

  THE GRAY CHAMPION

  There was once a time when New England groaned under the actualpressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened ones whichbrought on the Revolution. James II, the bigoted successor ofCharles the Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all thecolonies, and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take awayour liberties and endanger our religion. The administration ofSir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single characteristic oftyranny: a Governor and Council, holding office from the King,and wholly independent of the country; laws made and taxes leviedwithout concurrence of the people immediate or by theirrepresentatives; the rights of private citizens violated, and thetitles of all landed property declared void; the voice ofcomplaint stifled by restrictions on the press; and, finally,disaffection overawed by the first band of mercenary troops thatever marched on our free soil. For two years our ancestors werekept in sullen submission by that filial love which hadinvariably secured their allegiance to the mother country,whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector, or PopishMonarch. Till these evil times, however, such allegiance had beenmerely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoyingfar more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the nativesubjects of Great Britain.

  At length a rumor reached our shores that the Prince of Orangehad ventured on an enterprise, the success of which would be thetriumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of NewEngland. It was but a doubtful whisper: it might be false, or theattempt might fail; and, in either case, the man that stirredagainst King James would lose his head. Still the intelligenceproduced a marked effect. The people smiled mysteriously in thestreets, and threw bold glances at their oppressors; while farand wide there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if theslightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggishdespondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avertit by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirmtheir despotism by yet harsher measures. One afternoon in April,1689, Sir Edmund Andros and his favorite councillors, being warmwith wine, assembled the red-coats of the Governor's Guard, andmade their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was nearsetting when the march commenced.

  The roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go throughthe streets, less as the martial music of the soldiers, than as amuster-call to the inhabitants themselves. A multitude, byvarious avenues, assembled in King Street, which was destined tobe the scene, nearly a century afterwards, of another encounterbetween the troops of Britain, and a people struggling againsther tyranny. Though more than sixty years had elapsed since thepilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed thestrong and sombre features of their character perhaps morestrikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions.There were the sober garb, the general severity of mien, thegloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech,and the confidence in Heaven's blessing on a righteous cause,which would have marked a band of the original Puritans, whenthreatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was notyet time for the old spirit to be extinct; since there were menin the street that day who had worshipped there beneath thetrees, before a house was reared to the God for whom they hadbecome exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too,smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strikeanother blow against the house of Stuart. Here, also, were theveterans of King Philip's war, who had burned villages andslaughtered young and old, with pious fierceness, while the godlysouls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. Severalministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all othermobs, regarded them with such reverence, as if there weresanctity in their very garments. These holy men exerted theirinfluence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them.Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, in disturbing the peace ofthe town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw thecountry into a ferment, was almost the universal subject ofinquiry, and variously explained.

  "Satan will strike his master-stroke presently," cried some,"because he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastorsare to be dragged to prison! We shall see them at a Smithfieldfire in King Street!"

  Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round theirminister, who looked calmly upwards and assumed a more apostolicdignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor ofhis profession, the crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied,at that period, that New England might have a John Rogers of herown to take the place of that worthy in the Primer.

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

  Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although the wiserclass believed the Governor's object somewhat less atrocious. Hispredecessor under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerablecompanion of the first settlers, was known to be in town. Therewere grounds for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros intended atonce to strike terror by a parade of military force, and toconfound the opposite faction by possessing himself of theirchief.

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

  While this cry was at the loudest, the people were surprised bythe well-known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarchof nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door,and, with characteristic mildness, besought them to submit to theconstituted authorities.

  "My children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothingrashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New England,and expect patiently what the Lord will do in this matter!"

  The event was soon to be decided. All this time, the roll of thedrum had been approaching through Cornhill, louder and deeper,till with reverberations from house to house, and the regulartramp of martial footsteps, it burst into the street. A doublerank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the wholebreadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks, and matchesburning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. Theirsteady march was like the progress of a machine, that would rollirresistibly over everything in its way. Next, moving slowly,with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party ofmounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund Andros,elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those around him were hisfavorite councillors, and the bitterest foes of New England. Athis right hand rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that"blasted wretch," as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved thedownfall of our ancient government, and was followed with asensible curse, through life and to his grave. On the other sidewas Bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he rode along.Dudley came behind, with a downcast look, dreading, as well hemight, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him,their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of hisnative land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor, and two orthree civil officers under the Crown, were also there. But thefigure which most attracted the public eye, and stirred up thedeepest feeling, was the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel,riding haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments,the fitting representatives of prelacy and persecution, the unionof church and state, and all those abomi
nations which had driventhe Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, indouble rank, brought up the rear.

  The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England,and its moral, the deformity of any government that does not growout of the nature of things and the character of the people. Onone side the religious multitude, with their sad visages and darkattire, and on the other, the group of despotic rulers, with thehigh churchman in the midst, and here and there a crucifix attheir bosoms, all magnificently clad, flushed with wine, proud ofunjust authority, and scoffing at the universal groan. And themercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the streetwith blood, showed the only means by which obedience could besecured.

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

  This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald'scry, to introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolledback, and were now huddled together nearly at the extremity ofthe street, while the soldiers had advanced no more than a thirdof its length. The intervening space was empty--a paved solitude,between lofty edifices, which threw almost a twilight shadow overit. Suddenly, there was seen the figure of an ancient man, whoseemed to have emerged from among the people, and was walking byhimself along the centre of the street, to confront the armedband. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark cloak and asteeplecrowned hat, in the fashion of at least fifty yearsbefore, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in hishand to assist the tremulous gait of age.

  When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turnedslowly round, displaying a face of antique majesty, rendereddoubly venerable by the hoary beard that descended on his breast.He made a gesture at once of encouragement and warning, thenturned again, and resumed his way.

  "Who is this gray patriarch?" asked the young men of their sires.

  "Who is this venerable brother?" asked the old men amongthemselves.

  But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those offourscore years and upwards, were disturbed, deeming it strangethat they should forget one of such evident authority, whom theymust have known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop,and all the old councillors, giving laws, and making prayers, andleading them against the savage. The elderly men ought to haveremembered him, too, with locks as gray in their youth, as theirown were now. And the young! How could he have passed so utterlyfrom their memories--that hoary sire, the relic of longdepartedtimes, whose awful benediction had surely been bestowed on theiruncovered heads, in childhood?

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

  Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuinghis solitary walk along the centre of the street. As he drew nearthe advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came fullupon his ears, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien,while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders,leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. Now, he marched onwardwith a warrior's step, keeping time to the military music. Thusthe aged form advanced on one side, and the whole parade ofsoldiers and magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twentyyards remained between, the old man grasped his staff by themiddle, and held it before him like a leader's truncheon.

  "Stand!" cried he.

  The eye, the face, and attitude of command; the solemn, yetwarlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule a host in thebattle-field or be raised to God in prayer, were irresistible. Atthe old man's word and outstretched arm, the roll of the drum washushed at once, and the advancing line stood still. A tremulousenthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately form,combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, insuch an ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion ofthe righteous cause, whom the oppressor's drum had summoned fromhis grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and lookedfor the deliverance of New England.

  The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceivingthemselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward,as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrightedhorses right against the hoary apparition. He, however, blenchednot a step, but glancing his severe eye round the group, whichhalf encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir EdmundAndros. One would have thought that the dark old man was chiefruler there, and that the Governor and Council, with soldiers attheir back, representing the whole power and authority of theCrown, had no alternative but obedience.

  "What does this old fellow here?" cried Edward Randolph,fiercely. "On, Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers forward, and give thedotard the same choice that you give all his countrymen--to standaside or be trampled on!"

  "Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grandsire," saidBullivant, laughing. "See you not, he is some old round-headeddignitary, who hath lain asleep these thirty years, and knowsnothing o' the change of times? Doubtless, he thinks to put usdown with a proclamation in Old Noll's name!"

  "Are you mad, old man?" demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud andharsh tones. "How dare you stay the march of King James'sGovernor?"

  "I have stayed the march of a King himself, ere now," replied thegray figure, with stern composure. "I am here, Sir Governor,because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in mysecret place; and beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, itwas vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth, in the good oldcause of his saints. And what speak ye of James? There is nolonger a Popish tyrant on the throne of England, and by to-morrownoon, his name shall be a byword in this very street, where yewould make it a word of terror. Back, thou wast a Governor, back!With this night thy power is ended--to-morrow, the prison!--back,lest I foretell the scaffold!"

  The people had been drawing nearer and nearer, and drinking inthe words of their champion, who spoke in accents long disused,like one unaccustomed to converse, except with the dead of manyyears ago. But his voice stirred their souls. They confronted thesoldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to convert the verystones of the street into deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Androslooked at the old man; then he cast his hard and cruel eye overthe multitude, and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, sodifficult to kindle or to quench; and again he fixed his gaze onthe aged form, which stood obscurely in an open space, whereneither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were histhoughts, he uttered no word which might discover. But whetherthe oppressor were overawed by the Gray Champion's look, orperceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the people, itis certain that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers tocommence a slow and guarded retreat. Before another sunset, theGovernor, and all that rode so proudly with him, were prisoners,and long ere it was known that James had abdicated, King Williamwas proclaimed throughout New England.

  But where was the Gray Champion? Some reported that, when thetroops had gone from King Street, and the people were throngingtumultuously in their rear, Bradstreet, the aged Governor, wasseen to embrace a form more aged than his own. Others soberlyaffirmed, that while they marvelled at the venerable grandeur ofhis aspect, the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowlyinto the hues of twilight, till, where he stood, there was anempty space. But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. Themen of that generation watched for his reappearance, in sunshineand in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when hisfuneral passed, nor where his gravestone was.

  And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name might be found inthe records of that stern Court of Justice, which passed asentence, too mighty for the age, but glorious in allafter-times, for its humbling lesson to the monarch and its highexample to the subject. I have heard, that whenever thedescendants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of theirsires, the old man appears again. When eighty years had passed,he walked once more in King Street. Five years later, in thetwilight of an April morning, he stood on the green, beside themeeting-house, at Lexington, where now the obelisk of granite,with a slab of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of theRevolutions. And when our fathers were toiling at the breastworkon Bunker's Hill, all through that n
ight the old warrior walkedhis rounds. Long, long may it be, ere he comes again! His hour isone of darkness, and adversity, and peril. But should domestictyranny oppress us, or the invader's step pollute our soil, stillmay the Gray Champion come, for he is the type of New England'shereditary spirit; and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger,must ever be the pledge, that New England's sons will vindicatetheir ancestry.