Produced by Rick Niles, John Hagerson, and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.
TWICE-TOLD TALES.
BY
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
PHILADELPHIA:DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER,23 SOUTH NINTH STREET.
1889.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE GRAY CHAMPION 5
SUNDAY AT HOME 15
THE WEDDING-KNELL 23
THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL 33
THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT 49
THE GENTLE BOY 63
MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE 99
LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE 113
WAKEFIELD 123
A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP 133
THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 141
THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 159
DAVID SWAN 175
SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE 183
THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS 191
THE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY 197
THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN 204
FANCY'S SHOW-BOX 211
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 218
LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE: I.--HOWE'S MASQUERADE 233 II.--EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT 249 III.--LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE 263 IV.--OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 281
THE HAUNTED MIND 294
THE VILLAGE UNCLE 300
THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 313
THE SISTER-YEARS 323
SNOWFLAKES 332
THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 338
THE WHITE OLD MAID 358
PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE 370
CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 393
THE SHAKER BRIDAL 405
NIGHT-SKETCHES 412
ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS 419
THE LILY'S QUEST 427
FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 435
EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD 447
THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 455
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 which brought onthe Revolution. James II., the bigoted successor of Charles theVoluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies and sent aharsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endangerour religion. The administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcelya single characteristic of tyranny--a governor and council holdingoffice from the king and wholly independent of the country; laws madeand taxes levied without concurrence of the people, immediate or bytheir representatives; the rights of private citizens violated and thetitles of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaintstifled by restrictions on the press; and finally, disaffectionoverawed by the first band of mercenary troops that ever marched onour free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in sullensubmission by that filial love which had invariably secured theirallegiance to the mother-country, whether its head chanced to be aParliament, Protector or popish monarch. Till these evil times,however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonistshad ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet theprivilege of the native subjects of Great Britain.
At length a rumor reached our shores that the prince of Orange hadventured on an enterprise the success of which would be the triumph ofcivil and religious rights and the salvation of New England. It wasbut a doubtful whisper; it might be false or the attempt might fail,and in either case the man that stirred against King James would losehis head. Still, the intelligence produced a marked effect. The peoplesmiled mysteriously in the streets and threw bold glances at theiroppressors, while far and wide there was a subdued and silentagitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land fromits sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolvedto avert it 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 favoritecouncillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of thegovernor's guard and made their appearance in the streets of Boston.The sun was near setting when the march commenced. The roll of thedrum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets less asthe martial music of the soldiers than as a muster-call to theinhabitants themselves. A multitude by various avenues assembled inKing street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a centuryafterward, of another encounter between the troops of Britain and apeople struggling against her tyranny.
Though more than sixty years had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, thiscrowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre featuresof their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergencythan on happier occasions. There was the sober garb, the generalseverity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scripturalforms of speech and the confidence in Heaven's blessing on a righteouscause which would have marked a band of the original Puritans whenthreatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yettime for the old spirit to be extinct, since there were men in thestreet that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees before ahouse was reared to the God for whom they had become exiles. Oldsoldiers of the Parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at thethought that their aged arms might strike another blow against thehouse of Stuart. Here, also, were the veterans of King Philip's war,who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old with piousfierceness while the godly souls throughout the land were helping themwith prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which,unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence as if therewere sanctity 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 of thetown at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the countryinto a ferment was almost the Universal subject of inquiry, andvariously explained.
"Satan will strike his master-stroke presently," cried some, "becausehe knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastors are to bedragged to prison. We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in Kingstreet."
Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round theirminister, who looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolicdignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of hisprofession--a crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied at thatperiod that New England might have a John Rogers of her own to takethe place of that worthy in the _Primer_.
"The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew," criedothers. "We are to be massacred, man and male-child."
Neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser classbelieved the governor's object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessorunder the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the firstsettlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturingthat Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade ofmilitary force and to confound the opposite faction by p
ossessinghimself of their chief.
"Stand firm for the old charter-governor!" shouted the crowd, seizingupon the idea--"the good old Governor Bradstreet!"
While this cry was at the loudest the people were surprised by thewell-known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarch ofnearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door and withcharacteristic mildness besought them to submit to the constitutedauthorities.
"My children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothing rashly.Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New England and expectpatiently what the Lord will do in this matter."
The event was soon to be decided. All this time the roll of the drumhad been approaching through Cornhill, louder and deeper, till withreverberations from house to house and the regular tramp of martialfootsteps it burst into the street. A double rank of soldiers madetheir appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, withshouldered matchlocks and matches burning, so as to present a row offires in the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress of amachine that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next,moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rodea party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir EdmundAndros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those around him were hisfavorite councillors and the bitterest foes of New England. At hisright hand rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that "blastedwretch," as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of ourancient government and was followed with a sensible curse-through lifeand to his grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jestsand mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind with a downcast look,dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people,who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressorsof his native land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor and two orthree civil officers under the Crown were also there. But the figurewhich most attracted the public eye and stirred up the deepest feelingwas the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel riding haughtily amongthe magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representativeof prelacy and persecution, the union of Church and State, and allthose abominations which had driven the Puritans to the wilderness.Another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear.
The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England, and itsmoral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of thenature of things and the character of the people--on one side thereligious multitude with their sad visages and dark attire, and on theother the group of despotic rulers with the high churchman in themidst and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificentlyclad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority and scoffing at theuniversal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word todeluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obediencecould be secured.
"O Lord of hosts," cried a voice among the crowd, "provide a championfor thy people!"
This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry tointroduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolled back, and werenow huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while thesoldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. Theintervening space was empty--a paved solitude between lofty edificeswhich threw almost a twilight shadow over it. Suddenly there was seenthe figure of an ancient man who seemed to have emerged from among thepeople and was walking by himself along the centre of the street toconfront the armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress--a dark cloakand a steeple-crowned hat in the fashion of at least fifty yearsbefore, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand toassist the tremulous gait of age.
When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowlyround, displaying a face of antique majesty rendered doubly venerableby the hoary beard that descended on his breast. He made a gesture atonce of encouragement and warning, then turned again and resumed hisway.
"Who is this gray patriarch?" asked the young men of their sires.
"Who is this venerable brother?" asked the old men among themselves.
But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those offourscore years and upward, were disturbed, deeming it strange thatthey should forget one of such evident authority whom they must haveknown in their early days, the associate of Winthrop and all the oldcouncillors, giving laws and making prayers and leading them againstthe savage. The elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, withlocks as gray in their youth as their own were now. And the young! Howcould he have passed so utterly from their memories--that hoary sire,the relic of long-departed times, whose awful benediction had surelybeen bestowed on their uncovered heads in childhood?
"Whence did he come? What is his purpose? Who can this old man be?"whispered the wondering crowd.
Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing hissolitary walk along the centre of the street. As he drew near theadvancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came full upon hisear, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while thedecrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him ingray but unbroken dignity. Now he marched onward with a warrior'sstep, keeping time to the military music. Thus the aged form advancedon one side and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on theother, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old mangrasped his staff by the middle and held it before him like a leader'struncheon.
"Stand!" cried he.
The eye, the face and attitude of command, the solemn yet warlike pealof that voice--fit either to rule a host in the battle-field or beraised to God in prayer--were irresistible. At the old man's word andoutstretched arm the roll of the drum was hushed at once and theadvancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon themultitude. That stately form, combining the leader and the saint, sogray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong tosome old champion of the righteous cause whom the oppressor's drum hadsummoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation,and looked for the deliverance of New England.
The governor and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselvesbrought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they wouldhave pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against thehoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, but, glancing hissevere eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bentit sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the darkold man was chief ruler there, and that the governor and council withsoldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority ofthe Crown, had no alternative but obedience.
"What does this old fellow here?" cried Edward Randolph, fiercely.--"On,Sir Edmund! Bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the samechoice that you give all his countrymen--to stand aside or be trampledon."
"Nay, nay! Let us show respect to the good grandsire," said Bullivant,laughing. "See you not he is some old round-headed dignitary who hathlain asleep these thirty years and knows nothing of the change oftimes? Doubtless he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in OldNoll's name."
"Are you mad, old man?" demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and harshtones. "How dare you stay the march of King James's governor?"
"I have stayed the march of a king himself ere now," replied the grayfigure, with stern composure. "I am here, Sir Governor, because thecry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place, and,beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me toappear once again on earth in the good old cause of his saints. Andwhat speak ye of James? There is no longer a popish tyrant on thethrone of England, and by to-morrow noon his name shall be a by-wordin this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror. Back,thou that wast a governor, back! With this night thy power is ended.To-morrow, the prison! Back, lest I foretell the scaffold!"
The people had been drawing nearer and nearer and drinking in thewords of their champion, who spoke in accents long disused, like oneunaccustomed to converse except with the dead of many years ago. Buthis voice stirred their souls. They confronted the soldiers,
notwholly without arms and ready to convert the very stones of the streetinto deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man; then hecast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude and beheld them burningwith that lurid wrath so difficult to kindle or to quench, and againhe fixed his gaze on the aged form which stood obscurely in an openspace where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were histhoughts he uttered no word which might discover, but, whether theoppressor were overawed by the Gray Champion's look or perceived hisperil in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that hegave back and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and guardedretreat. Before another sunset the governor and all that rode soproudly with him were prisoners, and long ere it was known that Jameshad abdicated King William was proclaimed throughout New England.
But where was the Gray Champion? Some reported that when the troopshad gone from King street and the people were thronging tumultuouslyin their rear, Bradstreet, the aged governor, was seen to embrace aform more aged than his own. Others soberly affirmed that while theymarvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect the old man hadfaded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, tillwhere he stood there was an empty space. But all agreed that the hoaryshape was gone. The men of that generation watched for hisreappearance in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, norknew when his funeral passed nor where his gravestone was.
And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name might be found in therecords of that stern court of justice which passed a sentence toomighty for the age, but glorious in all after-times for its humblinglesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. I haveheard that whenever the descendants of the Puritans are to show thespirit of their sires the old man appears again. When eighty years hadpassed, 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 aslab of slate inlaid commemorates the first-fallen of the Revolution.And when our fathers were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker's Hill,all through that night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, longmay it be ere he comes again! His hour is one of darkness andadversity and peril. But should domestic tyranny oppress us or theinvader's step pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come! forhe is the type of New England's hereditary spirit, and his shadowymarch on the eve of danger must ever be the pledge that New England'ssons will vindicate their ancestry.
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