No More Learning

was about to do.
It has already been observed that in the basement story of
the gable fronting on the street, an unworthy ancestor nearly
century ago had fitted up a shop. Ever since the old gentle-
man retired from trade and fell asleep under his coffin-lid, not
only the shop door but the inner arrangements had been suffered
to remain unchanged; while the dust of ages gathered inch-deep
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 half-open 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 hide-and-seek in its forsaken
precincts. So it had remained until within a few days past.
But now, though the shop window 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


## p. 7082 (#480) ###########################################

7082
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
cost a long ancestral succession of spiders their life's labor to
spin and weave, had been carefully brushed away from the ceil-
ing. 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 unavail-
ing 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 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 pine-wood, 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 pickle jar, 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 world-
renowned dance in gingerbread. A party of leaden dragoons
were galloping along one of the shelves, in equipments and uni-
form of modern cut; and there were some sugar figures, with no
strong resemblance to the humanity of any epoch, but less unsat-
isfactorily 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 instantaneous flame from
the nether fires of Tophet.
In short, to bring the matter at once to a point, it was incon-
trovertibly evident that somebody had taken the shop and fixtures
of the long-retired 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 ?


## p. 7083 (#481) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7083
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 Æolus
that morning, and stepped 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 story-and still more to the thick shadow of the Pyncheon
elm, which stood almost directly in front of the gable-the twi-
light 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 near-sighted
scowl as if frowning down some bitter enemy, she suddenly
projected herself into the shop. The haste, and as it were the
galvanic impulse, of the movement were really quite startling.
Nervously-in a sort of frenzy, we might almost say - she
began to busy herself in arranging some children's playthings
and other little wares, on the shelves and at the shop window.
In the aspect of this dark-arrayed, pale-faced, 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 ginger-
bread. There again she has upset a tumbler of marbles, all of
which roll different ways, and each individual marble, devil-
directed, 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 sym-
pathy, 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
-


## p. 7084 (#482) ###########################################

7084
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
in ordinary life. It was the final throe of what called itself old
gentility. A lady who 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. Pov-
erty, 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 trans-
formed into the plebeian woman.
In this republican country, amid the fluctuating waves of
our social life, somebody is always at the drowning-point. 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 a 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 there-
fore, 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 lady,-two 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 house to be the huck-
stress of a cent-shop!
--
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 near-sightedness and those tremu-
lous 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 her
self for the office of instructress. But the love of children had


## p. 7085 (#483) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7085
never been quickened in Hepzibah's heart, and was now torpid
if not extinct; she watched the little people of the neighborhood
from her chamber window, and doubted whether she could toler-
ate 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 Hepzi-
bah could teach the child. So, with many a cold, deep heart-
quake 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 hermitage, the poor thing bethought herself of the ancient
shop window, 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 prepara-
tions therefore were duly made, and the enterprise was now to
be commenced. Nor was she entitled to complain of any remark-
able 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 Pyncheon herself.
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 win-
dow, as cautiously as if she conceived some bloody-minded villain
to be watching behind the elm-tree with intent to take her life.
Stretching out her long, lank arm, she put a paper of pearl but-
tons, a jew's-harp, 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
awe-stricken 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 indi-
viduality; but like other sensitive persons, she could not bear to
be observed in the gradual process, and chose rather to flash
forth on the world's astonished gaze at once.
―――――
―


## p. 7086 (#484) ###########################################

7086
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
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 elm-tree and enlight-
ening 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 jingle-jangle 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 Hep-
zibah'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 shop door, leaving the
entrance free-more than free; welcome, as if all were house-
hold friends, to every passer-by whose eyes might be attracted
by the commodities of the window. This last act Hepzibah now
performed, letting the bar fall with what smote upon her excited
nerves as a most astounding clatter. Then, as if the only bar-
rier betwixt herself and the world had been thrown down, and a
flood of evil consequences would come tumbling through the gap,
she fled into the inner parlor, threw herself into the ancestral
elbow-chair, and wept.
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 color-
ing, 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 introduce - not a young and lovely
woman, nor even the stately remains of beauty, storm-shattered
by affliction, but a gaunt, sallow, rusty-jointed maiden, in a
long-waisted silk gown, and with the strange horror of a turban
on her head? Her visage is not even ugly. It is redeemed from
insignificance only by the contraction of her eyebrows into a
near-sighted scowl. And finally, her great life trial 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.
Never-
theless, if we look through all the heroic fortunes of mankind,


## p. 7087 (#485) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7087
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 ele-
ments, the beauty and the majesty which are compelled to
assume a garb so sordid.
THE OLD MANSE
From Mosses from an Old Manse>
B
ETWEEN two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone (the gate
itself having fallen from its hinges at some unknown epoch)
we beheld the gray front of the old parsonage terminating
the vista of an avenue of black-ash trees. It was now a twelve-
month since the funeral procession of the venerable clergyman,
its last inhabitant, had turned from that gateway toward the
village burying-ground. The wheel track leading to the door, as
well as the whole breadth of the avenue, was almost overgrown
with grass, affording dainty mouthfuls to two or three vagrant
cows and an old white horse who had his own living to pick up
along the roadside. The glimmering shadows that lay half asleep
between the door of the house and the public highway were a
kind of spiritual medium, seen through which the edifice had not
quite the aspect of belonging to the material world. Certainly,
it had little in common with those ordinary abodes which stand
so imminent upon the road that every passer-by can thrust his
head, as it were, into the domestic circle. From these quiet
windows the figures of passing travelers look too remote and dim
to disturb the sense of privacy. In its near retirement and access-
ible seclusion, it was the very spot for the residence of a clergy-
man-a man not estranged from human life, yet enveloped, in
the midst of it, with a veil woven of intermingled gloom and
brightness. It was worthy to have been one of the time-honored.
parsonages of England, in which through many generations a suc-
cession of holy occupants pass from youth to age, and bequeath
each an inheritance of sanctity to pervade the house and hover
over it as with an atmosphere.


## p. 7088 (#486) ###########################################

7088
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Nor, in truth, had the Old Manse ever been profaned by a
lay occupant until that memorable summer afternoon when I
entered it as my home. A priest had built it; a priest had suc-
ceeded to it; other priestly men from time to time had dwelt in
it; and children born in its chambers had grown up to assume
the priestly character. It was awful to reflect how many sermons
must have been written there. The latest inhabitant alone - he
by whose translation to Paradise the dwelling was left vacant —
had penned nearly three thousand discourses, besides the better.
if not the greater number that gushed living from his lips. How
often, no doubt, had he paced to and fro along the avenue,
attuning his meditations to the sighs and gentle murmurs and
deep and solemn peals of the wind among the tops of the lofty
trees! In that variety of natural utterances he could find some-
thing accordant with every passage of his sermon, were it of ten-
derness or reverential fear. The boughs over my head seemed
shadowy with solemn thoughts, as well as with rustling leaves.
I took shame to myself for having been so long a writer of idle
stories, and ventured to hope that wisdom would descend upon.
me with the falling leaves of the avenue, and that I should light
upon an intellectual treasure in the Old Manse well worth those
hoards of long-hidden gold which people seek for in moss-grown
houses. Profound treatises of morality, a layman's unprofessional
and therefore unprejudiced views of religion, histories (such as
Bancroft might have written had he taken up his abode here, as
he once purposed) bright with picture, gleaming over a depth
of philosophic thought,- these were the works that might fitly
have flowed from such a retirement. In the humblest event, I
resolved at least to achieve a novel that should evolve some deep
lesson, and should possess physical substance enough to stand
alone.
The study had three windows set with little old-fashioned
panes of glass, each with a crack across it. The two on the
western side looked or rather peeped between the willow
branches down into the orchard, with glimpses of the river
through the trees. The third, facing northward, commanded a
broader view of the river at a spot where its hitherto obscure
waters gleam forth into the light of history. It was at this
window that the clergyman who then dwelt in the manse stood
watching the outbreak of a long and deadly struggle between
two nations. He saw the irregular array of his parishioners on


## p. 7089 (#487) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7089
the farther side of the river, and the glittering line of the Brit-
ish on the hither bank; he awaited in an agony of suspense the
rattle of the musketry. It came; and there needed but a gentle
wind to sweep the battle smoke around this quiet house.
A youth in the service of the clergyman happened to be chop-
ping wood that April morning at the back door of the manse;
and when the noise of battle rang from side to side of the
bridge, he hastened across the intervening field to see what
might be going forward. It is rather strange, by the way, that
this lad should have been so diligently at work when the whole
population of town and country were startled out of their custom-
ary business by the advance of the British troops. Be that as it
might, the tradition says that the lad had now left his task and
hurried to the battle-field with the axe still in his hand. The
British had by this time retreated; the Americans were in pur-
suit; and the late scene of strife was thus deserted by both
parties. Two soldiers lay on the ground-one was a corpse; but
as the young New-Englander drew nigh, the other Briton raised
himself painfully on his hands and knees and gave a ghastly stare
into his face. The boy it must have been a nervous impulse
without purpose, without thought, and betokening a sensitive and
impressionable nature rather than a hardened one - the boy up-
lifted his axe and dealt the wounded soldier a fierce and fatal
-
blow upon the head. I could wish that the grave might be
opened; for I would fain know whether either of the skeleton.
soldiers has the ma
of an axe on his skull.
The story comes home to me like truth. Oftentimes as an
intellectual and moral exercise I have sought to follow that poor
youth through his subsequent career, and observe how his soul
was tortured by the blood-stain, contracted as it had been before
the long custom of war had robbed human life of its sanctity,
and while it still seemed murderous to slay a brother man. This
one circumstance has borne more fruit for me than all that his-
tory tells us of the fight.
When summer was dead and buried, the Old Manse became
as lonely as a hermitage. Not that ever-in my time at least-
it had been thronged with company; but at no rare intervals we
welcomed some friend out of the dusty glare and tumult of the
world, and rejoiced to share with him the transparent obscurity
that was floating over us. In one respect our precincts were like
the Enchanted Ground through which the pilgrim traveled on
XII-444
·


## p. 7090 (#488) ###########################################

7090
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
his way to the Celestial City. The guests, each and all, felt a
slumbrous influence upon them; they fell asleep in chairs, or
took a more deliberate siesta on the sofa, or were seen stretched
among the shadows of the orchard, looking up dreamily through
the boughs. They could not have paid a more acceptable
compliment to my abode, nor to my own qualities as a host.
I held it as a proof that they left their cares behind them as
they passed between the stone gate-posts at the entrance of our
avenue, and that the so powerful opiate was the abundance of
peace and quiet within and all around us. Others could give
them pleasures and amusement or instruction - these could be
picked up anywhere; but it was for me to give them rest—rest
in a life of trouble! What better could be done for those weary
and world-worn spirits? for him whose career of perpetual action
was impeded and harassed by the rarest of his powers and the
richest of his acquirements? for another, who had thrown his
ardent heart from earliest youth into the strife of politics, and
now, perchance, began to suspect that one lifetime is too brief
for the accomplishment of any lofty aim? for her on whose
feminine nature had been imposed the heavy gift of intellectual
power such as a strong man might have staggered under, and
with it the necessity to act upon the world? —in a word, not to
multiply instances, what better could be done for anybody who
came within our magic circle than to throw the spell of a tran-
quil spirit over him? And when it had wrought its full effect,
then we dismissed him with but misty reminiscences, as if he
had been dreaming of us.
These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither
by the wide-spreading influence of a great original thinker, who
had his earthly abode at the opposite extremity of our village.
His mind acted upon other minds of a certain constitution with
wonderful magnetism, and drew many men upon long pilgrim-
ages to speak with him face to face. Young visionaries, to whom
just so much of insight had been imparted as to make life all a
labyrinth around them, came to seek the clue that should guide
them out of their self-involved bewilderment. Gray-headed theo-
rists, whose systems, at first air, had finally imprisoned them in
an iron framework, traveled painfully to his door, not to ask
deliverance but to invite the free spirit into their own thraldom.
People that had lighted on a new thought, or a thought that
they fancied new, came to Emerson, as the finder of a glittering


## p. 7091 (#489) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7091
gem hastens to a lapidary to ascertain its quality and value.
Uncertain, troubled, earnest wanderers through the midnight of
a moral world beheld its intellectual fire as a beacon burning
on a hill-top, and climbing the difficult ascent, looked forth into
the surrounding obscurity more hopefully than hitherto. The
light revealed objects unseen before,-mountains, gleaming lakes,
glimpses of a creation among the chaos; but also, as was un-
avoidable, it attracted bats and owls and the whole host of night
birds, which flapped their dusky wings against the gazer's eyes,
and sometimes were mistaken for fowls of angelic feather. Such
delusions always hover nigh whenever a beacon fire of truth is
kindled.
For myself, there had been epochs of my life when I too
might have asked of this prophet the master word that should
solve me the riddle of the universe; but now, being happy, I
felt as if there were no question to be put, and therefore admired
Emerson as a poet of deep beauty and austere tenderness, but
sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It was good never-
theless to meet him in the wood paths, or sometimes in our
avenue, with that pure intellectual gleam diffused about his pres-
ence like the garment of a Shining One; and he so quiet, so
simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alike as if
expecting to receive more than he could impart. And in truth,
the heart of many an ordinary man had, perchance, inscriptions
which he could not read. But it was impossible to dwell in his
vicinity without inhaling more or less the mountain atmosphere
of his lofty thought, which in the brains of some people wrought
a singular giddiness,-new truth being as heady as new wine.
Never was a poor little country village infested with such a
variety of queer, strangely dressed, oddly behaved mortals, most
of whom took upon themselves to be important agents of the
world's destiny, yet were simply bores of a very intense water.
Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of persons who crowd
so closely about an original thinker as to draw in his unuttered.
breath, and thus to become imbued with a false originality. This
triteness of novelty is enough to make any man of common-sense
blaspheme at all ideas of less than a century's standing, and pray
that the world may be petrified and rendered immovable in pre-
cisely the worst moral and physical state that it ever yet arrived
at, rather than be benefited by such schemes of such philoso-
phers.


## p. 7092 (#490) ###########################################

7092
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Glancing back over what I have written, it seems but the
scattered reminiscences of a single summer. In fairyland there
is no measurement of time; and in a spot so sheltered from the
turmoil of life's ocean, three years hasten away with a noiseless
flight, as the breezy sunshine chases the cloud shadows across
the depths of a still valley. Now came hints, growing more and
more distinct, that the owner of the old house was pining for his
native air. Carpenters next appeared, making a tremendous
racket among the outbuildings, strewing the green grass with
pine shavings and chips of chestnut joists, and vexing the whole
antiquity of the place with their discordant renovations. Soon,
moreover, they divested our abode of the veil of woodbine which
had crept over a large portion of its southern face. All the
aged mosses were cleared unsparingly away, and there were hor-
rible whispers about brushing up the external walls with a coat
of paint,—a purpose as little to my taste as might be that of
rouging the venerable cheeks of one's grandmother. But the
hand that renovates is always more sacrilegious than that which
destroys. In fine, we gathered up our household goods, drank a
farewell cup of tea in our pleasant little breakfast-room,- deli-
cately fragrant tea, an unpurchasable luxury, one of the many
angel gifts that had fallen like dew upon us,—and passed forth
between the tall stone gate-posts, as uncertain as the wandering
Arabs where our tent might next be pitched. Providence took
me by the hand, and-an oddity of dispensation which, I trust,
there is no irreverence in smiling at-has led me, as the news-
papers announce, while I am writing from the Old Manse, into a
custom-house. As a story-teller I have often contrived strange
vicissitudes for my imaginary personages, but none like this.
THE FAUN'S TRANSFORMATION
From The Marble Faun'
TH
HE door of the court-yard swung slowly, and closed itself of
its own accord. Miriam and Donatello were now alone
there. She clasped her hands and looked wildly at the
young man, whose form seemed to have dilated, and whose eyes
blazed with the fierce energy that had suddenly inspired him. It
had kindled him into a man; it had developed within him an


## p. 7093 (#491) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7093
intelligence which was no native characteristic of the Donatello.
whom we have heretofore known. But that simple and joyous
creature was gone forever.
"What have you done? " said Miriam in a horror-stricken
whisper.
The glow of rage was still lurid on Donatello's face, and now
flashed out again from his eyes.
"I did what ought to be done to a traitor! " he replied. "I
did what your eyes bade me do, when I asked them with mine,
as I held the wretch over the precipice! "
These last words struck Miriam like a bullet. Could it be so?
had her eyes provoked or assented to this deed? She had not
known it. But alas! looking back into the frenzy and turmoil
of the scene just acted, she could not deny-she was not sure
whether it might be so or no- that a wild joy had flamed up in
her heart when she beheld her persecutor in his mortal peril.
Was it horror? or ecstasy? or both in one? Be the emotion what
it might, it had blazed up more madly when Donatello flung his
victim off the cliff, and more and more while his shriek went
quivering downward.
With the dead thump upon the stones
below had come an unutterable horror.
"And my eyes bade you do it! " repeated she.
They both leaned over the parapet, and gazed downward as
earnestly as if some inestimable treasure had fallen over, and
were yet recoverable. On the pavement below was a dark mass
lying in a heap, with little or nothing human in its appearance,
except that the hands were stretched out, as if they might have
clutched for a moment at the small square stones. But there was
no motion in them now. Miriam watched the heap of mortality
while she could count a hundred, which she took pains to do. No
stir; not a finger moved!
"You have killed him, Donatello! he is quite dead! " said she.
"Stone dead! Would I were so too! "
"Did you not mean that he should die? " sternly asked Dona-
tello, still in the glow of that intelligence which passion had
developed in him. "There was short time to weigh the matter;
but he had his trial in that breath or two while I held him over
the cliff, and his sentence in that one glance when your eyes
responded to mine! Say that I have slain him against your will,
say that he died without your whole consent,- and in another
breath you shall see me lying beside him. "


## p. 7094 (#492) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7094
"Oh, never! " cried Miriam. "My one, own friend! Never,
never, never! ”
She turned to him,-the guilty, blood-stained, lonely woman,
-she turned to her fellow criminal, the youth, so lately inno-
cent, whom she had drawn into her doom. She pressed him.
close, close to her bosom, with a clinging embrace that brought
their two hearts together, till the horror and agony of each was
combined into one emotion, and that a kind of rapture.
"Yes, Donatello, you speak the truth! " said she: "my heart
consented to what you did. We two slew yonder wretch. The
deed knots us together for time and eternity, like the coil of a
serpent! "
They threw one other glance at the heap of death below, to
assure themselves that it was there; so like a dream was the
whole thing. Then they turned from that fatal precipice, and
came out of the court-yard, arm in arm, heart in heart. In-
stinctively, they were heedful not to sever themselves so much
as a pace or two from one another, for fear of the terror and
deadly chill that would thenceforth wait for them in solitude.
Their deed-the crime which Donatello wrought, and Miriam
accepted on the instant-had wreathed itself, as she said, like a
serpent in inextricable links about both their souls, and drew
them into one, by its terrible contractile power. It was closer
than a marriage bond. So intimate in those first moments was
the union, that it seemed as if their new sympathy annihilated all
other ties, and that they were released from the chain of human-
ity; a new sphere, a special law, had been created for them
alone. The world could not come near them: they were safe!
When they reached the flight of steps leading downward from
the Capitol, there was a far-off noise of singing and laughter.
Swift indeed had been the rush of the crisis that was come and
gone! This was still the merriment of the party that had so
recently been their companions; they recognized the voices which,
a little while ago, had accorded and sung in cadence with their
own. But they were familiar voices no more; they sounded
strangely, and as it were, out of the depths of space; so remote
was all that pertained to the past life of these guilty ones, in the
moral seclusion that had suddenly extended itself around them.
But how close and ever closer did the breadth of the immeasur-
able waste that lay between them and all brotherhood or sister-
hood, now press them one within the other!


## p. 7095 (#493) ###########################################

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
7095
"O friend! " cried Miriam, so putting her soul into the word
that it took a heavy richness of meaning, and seemed never to
have been spoken before,-"O friend, are you conscious, as I
am, of this companionship that knits our heart-strings together? »
"I feel it, Miriam," said Donatello. "We draw one breath;
we live one life! "
"Only yesterday," continued Miriam,-"nay, only a short
half-hour ago, I shivered in an icy solitude. No friendship, no
sisterhood, could come near enough to keep the warmth within
my heart.
In an instant all is changed! There can be no more
loneliness! "
"None, Miriam! " said Donatello.
«< None, my beautiful one! " responded Miriam, gazing in his
face, which had taken a higher, almost an heroic aspect from
the strength of passion. "None, my innocent one! Surely it is
no crime that we have committed. One wretched and worthless
life has been sacrificed to cement two other lives for evermore. "
"For evermore, Miriam! " said Donatello; "cemented with his
blood! "
The young man started at the word which he had himself
spoken; it may be that it brought home to the simplicity of his
imagination what he had not before dreamed of,-the ever-
increasing loathsomeness of a union that consists in guilt. Ce-
mented with blood, which would corrupt and grow more noisome
for ever and for ever, but bind them none the less strictly for
that!
"Forget it! Cast it all behind you! " said Miriam, detecting
by her sympathy the pang that was in his heart. "The deed has
done its office, and has no existence any more. ”
They flung the past behind them, as she counseled, or else
distilled from it a fiery intoxication which sufficed to carry them
triumphantly through those first moments of their doom. For
guilt has its moment of rapture too. The foremost result of a
broken law is ever an ecstatic sense of freedom. And thus there
exhaled upward (out of their dark sympathy, at the base of which
lay a human corpse) a bliss, or an insanity, which the unhappy
pair imagined to be well worth the sleepy innocence that was
forever lost to them.
As their spirits rose to the solemn madness of the occasion
they went onward,-not stealthily, not fearfully, but with a
stately gait and aspect. Passion lent them (as it does to meaner


## p. 7096 (#494) ###########################################

7096
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
shapes) its brief nobility of carriage. They trode through the
streets of Rome as if they too were among the majestic and
guilty shadows, that from ages long gone by have haunted the
blood-stained city. And at Miriam's suggestion they turned aside,
for the sake of treading loftily past the old site of Pompey's
forum.
"For there was a great deed done here! " she said, "a deed
of blood, like ours! Who knows but we may meet the high and
ever sad fraternity of Cæsar's murderers, and exchange a saluta-
tion ? »
-
"Are they our brethren now? " asked Donatello.
"Yes; all of them," said Miriam; "and many another, whom
the world little dreams of, has been made our brother or our
sister by what we have done within this hour! "
And at the thought she shivered. Where then was the seclus-
ion, the remoteness, the strange, lonesome Paradise, into which
she and her one companion had been transported by their crime?
Was there indeed no such refuge, but only a crowded thorough-
fare and jostling throng of criminals? And was it true that
whatever hand had a blood-stain on it, or had poured out poison,
or strangled a babe at its birth, or clutched a grandsire's throat,
he sleeping, and robbed him of his few last breaths, had now the
right to offer itself in fellowship with their two hands? Too cer-
tainly that right existed. It is a terrible thought, that an indi-
vidual wrong-doing melts into the great mass of human crime,
and makes us, who dreamed only of our own little separate sin,-
makes us guilty of the whole. And thus Miriam and her lover
were not an insulated pair, but members of an innumerable con-
fraternity of guilty ones, all shuddering at each other.


## p. 7097 (#495) ###########################################

7097
JOHN HAY
(1838-)
B
ORN in 1838 at Salem, Indiana, of Scotch ancestry, John Hay
passed his early years as does the average intelligent West-
ern boy. When only twenty he was graduated from Brown
University, where his work in English composition was thought to
indicate literary ability. Studying law at Springfield, Illinois, he
began practice there in 1861; but soon after accompanied President
Lincoln to Washington as his assistant secretary, and acting as adju-
tant and aide also, grew into close intimacy with the statesman whose
biographer he became. Like most ardent
young men of his time, he entered the
army, attaining the brevet rank of colonel
and assistant adjutant-general. His large
opportunities for meeting men, his gift for
making friends, and his tactful good sense,
especially qualified him for his later diplo-
matic career.

Soon after the war Colonel Hay went
as Secretary of Legation to Paris, where his
careful study of French political conditions
appears in several of his poems; among
them Sunrise in the Place de la Concorde,'
JOHN HAY
The Sphinx of the Tuileries,' and 'A
Triumph of Order. ' Sent afterwards to
Vienna, he was presently transferred to Madrid as chargé d'affaires.
'Castilian Days' reflects in delightful colors the pleasure he found
in the history, the romance, and the beauty of Spain; a pleasure
which shows an odd background of American practicality, and a dem-
ocratic conviction that kings and nobles are as fallible as other men.
He greatly admired Castelar, whose acquaintance he made, and trans-
lated for American readers his treatise upon The Republican Move-
ment in Europe. '
Returning to New York in 1871, Hay joined the staff of the
New York Tribune. Pike County Ballads,' his second publication,
issued in 1871, celebrated in Western dialect the heroism of drinking
pilots, swearing engineers, and godless settlers, and caught the fancy
of the public by means of its vivid local color and dramatic quality.
Some years later these verses were republished in the same volume


## p. 7098 (#496) ###########################################

7098
JOHN HAY
with his miscellaneous poems, his 'Wanderlieder,' and his transla-
tions.
His most important work is the comprehensive history of the life
and times of Abraham Lincoln, written in collaboration with John
George Nicolay, the great President's private secretary. Appearing
first in the Century Magazine, this was published in ten large vol-
umes, which offer a careful historical survey of the whole period
of the Civil War, and of the conditions which made it inevitable.
Thoroughly understanding the character and motives of Lincoln, and
himself a spectator and an actor in the great drama he describes,
Colonel Hay's pages are vividly written, and often touched with per-
sonal emotion.
Valuable as this history may prove, however, to the serious reader,
in 'Castilian Days' lies the true obligation of the lover of literature
to Colonel Hay. When it appeared, the general voice of criticism
pronounced it the best book on Spain in the English language. Wide
knowledge of the great monarchy of the past, full sympathy with
the new republic of the hour, the point of view of the man of letters,
the poet, the curious student of social life, and the observer of poli-
tics rather than the politician, - these the Western critic brought to
the occasion. He saw everything; he weighed and measured customs,
institutions, and men; and he wrote down his descriptions and con-
clusions in a style whose brilliancy would have degenerated into hard-
ness, had it not been saved by a good-natured humor, and a temper
of unusual moderation. And if the republic in which the sound
republican so hopefully believed is long since swept away, his book
remains no less faithful an interpretation of the Spanish character,
and no less possible a forecast of the future of the Spanish people.
LINCOLN'S DEATH AND FAME
From Abraham Lincoln: a History. Copyright 1886 and 1890, by John G.
Nicolay and John Hay, and reprinted by permission of Mr. Hay and the
Century Co. , publishers, New York.
IN
IN FACT, it was among the common people of the entire civilized
world that the most genuine and spontaneous manifestations
of sorrow and appreciation were produced, and to this fact we
attribute the sudden and solid foundation of Lincoln's fame. It
requires years, perhaps centuries, to build the structure of a rep-
utation which rests upon the opinion of those distinguished for
learning or intelligence; the progress of opinion from the few to
the many is slow and painful. But in the case of Lincoln the
many imposed their opinion all at once; he was canonized, as he


## p. 7099 (#497) ###########################################

JOHN HAY
7099
lay on his bier, by the irresistible decree of countless millions.
The greater part of the aristocracy of England thought little of
him; but the burst of grief from the English people silenced in
an instant every discordant voice. It would have been as impru-
dent to speak slightingly of him in London as it was in New
York. Especially among the Dissenters was honor and reverence
shown to his name. The humbler people instinctively felt that
their order had lost its wisest champion.
Not only among those of Saxon blood was this outburst of
emotion seen. In France a national manifestation took place,
which the government disliked but did not think it wise to sup-
press. The students of Paris marched in a body to the American
Legation to express their sympathy. A two-cent subscription was
started to strike a massive gold medal; the money was soon
raised, but the committee was forced to have the work done in
Switzerland. A committee of French Liberals brought the medal
to the American minister, to be sent to Mrs. Lincoln. "Tell
her," said Eugène Pelletan, "the heart of France is in that little
box. "
The inscription had a double sense; while honoring the
dead republican, it struck at the Empire: "Lincoln- the Honest
Man; abolished Slavery, re-established the Union; Saved the Re-
public, without veiling the Statue of Liberty. "
Everywhere on the Continent the same swift apotheosis of the
people's hero was seen. An Austrian deputy said to the writer,
"Among my people his memory has already assumed superhuman
proportions; he has become a myth, a type of ideal democracy. ”
Almost before the earth closed over him he began to be the sub-
ject of fable. The Freemasons of Europe generally regard him
as one of them-his portrait in Masonic garb is often displayed;
yet he was not one of that brotherhood. The Spiritualists claim
him as their most illustrious adept, but he was not a Spiritualist;
and there is hardly a sect in the Western world, from the Calvin-
ist to the atheist, but affects to believe he was of their opinion.
A collection of the expressions of sympathy and condolence
which came to Washington from foreign governments, associa-
tions, and public bodies of all sorts, was made by the State De-
partment, and afterwards published by order of Congress. It
forms a large quarto of a thousand pages, and embraces the
utterances of grief and regret from every country under the sun,
in almost every language spoken by man.
But admired and venerated as he was in Europe, he was best
understood and appreciated at home. It is not to be denied that


## p. 7100 (#498) ###########################################

7100
JOHN HAY
He
in his case, as in that of all heroic personages who occupy a
great place in history, a certain element of legend mingles with
his righteous fame. He was a man, in fact, especially liable to
legend. We have been told by farmers in central Illinois that
the brown thrush did not sing for a year after he died.
He was
gentle and merciful, and therefore he seems in a certain class of
annals to have passed all his time in soothing misfortune and
pardoning crime. He had more than his share of the shrewd
native humor, and therefore the loose jest-books of two centuries
have been ransacked for anecdotes to be attributed to him. He
was a great and powerful lover of mankind, especially of those
not favored by fortune. One night he had a dream, which he
repeated the next morning to the writer of these lines, which
quaintly illustrates his unpretending and kindly democracy.
was in some great assembly; the people made a lane to let him
"He is a common-looking fellow," some one said. Lincoln
in his dream turned to his critic and replied in his Quaker phrase,
"Friend, the Lord prefers common-looking people; that is why
he made so many of them. " He that abases himself shall be
exalted. Because Lincoln kept himself in such constant sympathy
with the common people, whom he respected too highly to flatter
or mislead, he was rewarded by a reverence and a love hardly
ever given to a human being. Among the humble working
people of the South whom he had made free, this veneration
and affection easily passed into the supernatural. At a religious
meeting among the negroes of the Sea Islands a young man
expressed the wish that he might see Lincoln. A gray-headed
negro rebuked the rash aspiration: "No man see Linkum. Lin-
kum walk as Jesus walk; no man see Linkum. ”
pass.
But leaving aside these fables, which are a natural enough
expression of a popular awe and love, it seems to us that no
more just estimate of Lincoln's relation to his time has ever been
made, nor perhaps ever will be, than that uttered by one of the
wisest and most American of thinkers, Ralph Waldo Emerson, a
few days after the assassination. We cannot forbear quoting a
few words of this remarkable discourse, which shows how Lin-
coln seemed to the greatest of his contemporaries:-
――
"A plain man of the people, an extraordinary fortune attended.
him. Lord Bacon says, 'Manifest virtues procure reputation; occult
ones fortune. ' . . . His occupying the chair of State was a triumph
of the good sense of mankind and of the public conscience.
He grew according to the need; his mind mastered the problem of


## p. 7101 (#499) ###########################################

JOHN HAY
7101
the day; and as the problem grew, so did his comprehension of it.
Rarely was a man so fitted to the event.
It cannot be said
that there is any exaggeration of his worth. If ever a man was
fairly tested, he was. There was no lack of resistance, nor of slan-
der, nor of ridicule.
Then what an occasion was the whirl-
wind of the war! Here was no place for holiday magistrate, nor
fair-weather sailor; the new pilot was hurried to the helm in a tor-
nado. In four years—four years of battle days - his endurance, his
fertility of resources, his magnanimity, were sorely tried and never
found wanting. There by his courage, his justice, his even temper,
his fertile counsel, his humanity, he stood a heroic figure in the centre
of a heroic epoch. He is the true history of the American people in
his time; the true representative of this continent-father of his
country; the pulse of twenty millions throbbing in his heart, the
thought of their minds articulated by his tongue. "
·
The quick instinct by which the world recognized him even
at the moment of his death as one of its greatest men, was not
deceived. It has been confirmed by the sober thought of a
quarter of a century. The writers of each nation compare him
with their first popular hero. The French find points of resem-
blance in him to Henry IV. ; the Dutch liken him to William of
Orange: the cruel stroke of murder and treason by which all
three perished in the height of their power naturally suggests the
comparison, which is strangely justified in both cases, though
the two princes were so widely different in character. Lincoln
had the wit, the bonhomie, the keen practical insight into affairs,
of the Béarnais; and the tyrannous moral sense, the wide com-
prehension, the heroic patience of the Dutch patriot, whose motto
might have served equally well for the American President-
"Sævis tranquillus in undis. " European historians speak of him
in words reserved for the most illustrious names. Merle d'Au-
bigné says, "The name of Lincoln will remain one of the great-
est that history has to inscribe on its annals. " Henri Martin
predicts nothing less than a universal apotheosis: "This man
will stand out in the traditions of his country and the world as
an incarnation of the people, and of modern democracy itself. "
Emilio Castelar, in an oration against slavery in the Spanish
Cortes, called him "humblest of the humble before his con-
science, greatest of the great before history. "
In this country, where millions still live who were his con-
temporaries, and thousands who knew him personally; where the
-


## p. 7102 (#500) ###########################################

7102
JOHN HAY
envies and jealousies which dog the footsteps of success still
linger in the hearts of a few; where journals still exist that
loaded his name for four years with daily calumny, and writers
of memoirs vainly try to make themselves important by belittling
him, his fame has become as universal as the air, as deeply
rooted as the hills. The faint discords are not heard in the wide
chorus that hails him second to none and equaled by Washing-
ton alone. The eulogies of him form a special literature. Preach-
ers, poets, soldiers, and statesmen employ the same phrases of
unconditional love and reverence. Men speaking with the author-
ity of fame use unqualified superlatives. Lowell in an immortal
ode calls him "new birth of our new soil, the first American. "
General Sherman says, "Of all the men I ever met, he seemed
to possess more of the elements of greatness, combined with
goodness, than any other. " General Grant, after having met the
rulers of almost every civilized country on earth, said Lincoln
impressed him as the greatest intellectual force with which he
had ever come in contact.
―――――
He is spoken of with scarcely less of enthusiasm by the more
generous and liberal spirits among those who revolted against
his election and were vanquished by his power. General Long-
street calls him "the greatest man of Rebellion times, the one
matchless among forty millions for the peculiar difficulties of the
period. " An eminent Southern orator, referring to our mixed
Northern and Southern ancestry, says: "From the union of those
colonists, from the straightening of their purposes and the cross-
ing of their blood, slowly perfecting through a century, came he
who stands as the first typical American, the first who compre-
hended within himself all the strength and gentleness, all the
majesty and grace of this republic - Abraham Lincoln. "
It is not difficult to perceive the basis of this sudden and
world-wide fame, nor rash to predict its indefinite duration.
There are two classes of men whose names are more enduring
than any monument: the great writers, and the men of great
achievement, the founders of States, the conquerors. Lincoln
has the singular fortune to belong to both these categories; upon
these broad and stable foundations his renown is securely built.
Nothing would have more amazed him while he lived than to
hear himself called a man of letters; but this age has produced
few greater writers. We are only recording here the judgment
of his peers.