XVIII Governor Pyncheon
JUDGE PYNCHEON, while his two relatives have fled away with suchill-considered haste, still sits in the old parlor, keeping house, asthe familiar phrase is, in the absence of its ordinary occupants. Tohim, and to the venerable House of the Seven Gables, does our story nowbetake itself, like an owl, bewildered in the daylight, and hasteningback to his hollow tree.
The Judge has not shifted his position for a long while now. He hasnot stirred hand or foot, nor withdrawn his eyes so much as ahair's-breadth from their fixed gaze towards the corner of the room,since the footsteps of Hepzibah and Clifford creaked along the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 holdshis watch in his left hand, but clutched in such a manner that youcannot see the dial-plate. How profound a fit of meditation! Or,supposing him asleep, how infantile a quietude of conscience, and whatwholesome order in the gastric region, are betokened by slumber soentirely undisturbed with starts, cramp, twitches, muttered dreamtalk,trumpet-blasts through the nasal organ, or any slightest irregularityof breath! You must hold your own breath, to satisfy yourself whetherhe breathes at all. It is quite inaudible. You hear the ticking ofhis watch; his breath you do not hear. A most refreshing slumber,doubtless! And yet, the Judge cannot be asleep. His eyes are open! Aveteran politician, such as he, would never fall asleep with wide-openeyes, lest some enemy or mischief-maker, taking him thus at unawares,should peep through these windows into his consciousness, and makestrange discoveries among the reminiscences, projects, hopes,apprehensions, weaknesses, and strong points, which he has heretoforeshared with nobody. A cautious man is proverbially said to sleep withone eye open. That may be wisdom. But not with both; for this wereheedlessness! No, no! Judge Pyncheon cannot be asleep.
It is odd, however, that a gentleman so burdened with engagements,--andnoted, too, for punctuality,--should linger thus in an old lonelymansion, which he has never seemed very fond of visiting. The oakenchair, to be sure, may tempt him with its roominess. It is, indeed, aspacious, and, allowing for the rude age that fashioned it, amoderately easy seat, with capacity enough, at all events, and offeringno restraint to the Judge's breadth of beam. A bigger man might findample accommodation in it. His ancestor, now pictured upon the wall,with all his English beef about him, used hardly to present a frontextending from elbow to elbow of this chair, or a base that would coverits whole cushion. But there are better chairs than this,--mahogany,black walnut, rosewood, spring-seated and damask-cushioned, with variedslopes, and innumerable artifices to make them easy, and obviate theirksomeness of too tame an ease,--a score of such might be at JudgePyncheon's service. Yes! in a score of drawing-rooms he would be morethan 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 theJudge, and do her pretty utmost to make him comfortable. For the Judgeis a prosperous man. He cherishes his schemes, moreover, like otherpeople, and reasonably brighter than most others; or did so, at least,as he lay abed this morning, in an agreeable half-drowse, planning thebusiness of the day, and speculating on the probabilities of the nextfifteen years. With his firm health, and the little inroad that agehas made upon him, fifteen years or twenty--yes, or perhapsfive-and-twenty!--are no more than he may fairly call his own.Five-and-twenty years for the enjoyment of his real estate in town andcountry, his railroad, bank, and insurance shares, his United Statesstock,--his wealth, in short, however invested, now in possession, orsoon to be acquired; together with the public honors that have fallenupon him, and the weightier ones that are yet to fall! It is good! Itis excellent! It is enough!
Still lingering in the old chair! If the Judge has a little time tothrow away, why does not he visit the insurance office, as is hisfrequent custom, and sit awhile in one of their leathern-cushionedarm-chairs, listening to the gossip of the day, and dropping somedeeply designed chance-word, which will be certain to become the gossipof to-morrow. And have not the bank directors a meeting at which itwas 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 oughtto be, in Judge Pyncheon's right vest-pocket. Let him go thither, andloll at ease upon his moneybags! He has lounged long enough in the oldchair!
This was to have been such a busy day. In the first place, theinterview with Clifford. Half an hour, by the Judge's reckoning, wasto suffice for that; it would probably be less, but--taking intoconsideration that Hepzibah was first to be dealt with, and that thesewomen are apt to make many words where a few would do much better--itmight be safest to allow half an hour. Half an hour? Why, Judge, it isalready two hours, by your own undeviatingly accurate chronometer.Glance your eye down at it and see! Ah; he will not give himself thetrouble either to bend his head, or elevate his hand, so as to bringthe faithful time-keeper 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'saffair arranged, he was to meet a State Street broker, who hasundertaken to procure a heavy percentage, and the best of paper, for afew loose thousands which the Judge happens to have by him, uninvested.The wrinkled note-shaver will have taken his railroad trip in vain.Half an hour later, in the street next to this, there was to be anauction of real estate, including a portion of the old Pyncheonproperty, originally belonging to Maule's garden ground. It has beenalienated from the Pyncheons these four-score years; but the Judge hadkept it in his eye, and had set his heart on reannexing it to the smalldemesne still left around the Seven Gables; and now, during this oddfit of oblivion, the fatal hammer must have fallen, and transferred ourancient patrimony to some alien possessor. Possibly, indeed, the salemay have been postponed till fairer weather. If so, will the Judgemake it convenient to be present, and favor the auctioneer with hisbid, On the proximate occasion?
The next affair was to buy a horse for his own driving. The oneheretofore his favorite stumbled, this very morning, on the road totown, and must be at once discarded. Judge Pyncheon's neck is tooprecious to be risked on such a contingency as a stumbling steed.Should all the above business be seasonably got through with, he mightattend the meeting of a charitable society; the very name of which,however, in the multiplicity of his benevolence, is quite forgotten; sothat this engagement may pass unfulfilled, and no great harm done. Andif he have time, amid the press of more urgent matters, he must takemeasures for the renewal of Mrs. Pyncheon's tombstone, which, thesexton tells him, has fallen on its marble face, and is cracked quitein twain. She was a praiseworthy woman enough, thinks the Judge, inspite of her nervousness, and the tears that she was so oozy with, andher foolish behavior about the coffee; and as she took her departure soseasonably, he will not grudge the second tombstone. It is better, atleast, than if she had never needed any! The next item on his list wasto give orders for some fruit-trees, of a rare variety, to bedeliverable at his country-seat in the ensuing autumn. Yes, buy them,by all means; and may the peaches be luscious in your mouth, JudgePyncheon! After this comes something more important. A committee ofhis political party has besought him for a hundred or two of dollars,in addition to his previous disbursements, towards carrying on the fallcampaign. The Judge is a patriot; the fate of the country is staked onthe November election; and besides, as will be shadowed forth inanother paragraph, he has no trifling stake of his own in the samegreat game. He will do what the committee asks; nay, he will beliberal beyond their expectations; they shall have a check for fivehundred dollars, and more anon, if it be needed. What next? A decayedwidow, whose husband was Judge Pyncheon's early friend, has laid hercase of destitution before him, in a very moving letter. She and herfair daughter have scarcely bread to eat. He partly intends to call onher to-day,--perhaps so--perhaps not,--accordingly as he may happen tohave leisure, and a small bank-note.
Another business, which,
however, he puts no great weight on (it iswell, you know, to be heedful, but not over-anxious, as respects one'spersonal health),--another business, then, was to consult his familyphysician. About what, for Heaven's sake? Why, it is rather difficultto describe the symptoms. A mere dimness of sight and dizziness ofbrain, was it?--or disagreeable choking, or stifling, or gurgling, orbubbling, in the region of the thorax, as the anatomists say?--or wasit a pretty severe throbbing and kicking of the heart, rathercreditable to him than otherwise, as showing that the organ had notbeen left out of the Judge's physical contrivance? No matter what itwas. The doctor probably would smile at the statement of such triflesto his professional ear; the Judge would smile in his turn; and meetingone another's eyes, they would enjoy a hearty laugh together! But a figfor medical advice. The Judge will never need it.
Pray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch, Now! What--not aglance! It is within ten minutes of the dinner hour! It surely cannothave slipped your memory that the dinner of to-day is to be the mostimportant, in its consequences, of all the dinners you ever ate. Yes,precisely the most important; although, in the course of your somewhateminent career, you have been placed high towards the head of thetable, at splendid banquets, and have poured out your festive eloquenceto ears yet echoing with Webster's mighty organ-tones. No publicdinner this, however. It is merely a gathering of some dozen or so offriends from several districts of the State; men of distinguishedcharacter and influence, assembling, almost casually, at the house of acommon friend, likewise distinguished, who will make them welcome to alittle better than his ordinary fare. Nothing in the way of Frenchcookery, but an excellent dinner, nevertheless. Real turtle, weunderstand, and salmon, tautog, canvas-backs, pig, English mutton, goodroast beef, or dainties of that serious kind, fit for substantialcountry gentlemen, as these honorable persons mostly are. Thedelicacies of the season, in short, and flavored by a brand of oldMadeira which has been the pride of many seasons. It is the Junobrand; a glorious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; abottled-up happiness, put by for use; a golden liquid, worth more thanliquid gold; so rare and admirable, that veteran wine-bibbers count itamong their epochs to have tasted it! It drives away the heart-ache,and substitutes no head-ache! Could the Judge but quaff a glass, itmight enable him to shake off the unaccountable lethargy which (for theten intervening minutes, and five to boot, are already past) has madehim such a laggard at this momentous dinner. It would all but revive adead man! Would you like to sip it now, Judge Pyncheon?
Alas, this dinner. Have you really forgotten its true object? Thenlet 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 inwhich Moll Pitcher imprisoned your own grandfather. But ambition is atalisman more powerful than witchcraft. Start up, then, and, hurryingthrough the streets, burst in upon the company, that they may beginbefore the fish is spoiled! They wait for you; and it is little foryour interest that they should wait. These gentlemen--need you be toldit?--have assembled, not without purpose, from every quarter of theState. They are practised politicians, every man of them, and skilledto adjust those preliminary measures which steal from the people,without its knowledge, the power of choosing its own rulers. Thepopular voice, at the next gubernatorial election, though loud asthunder, will be really but an echo of what these gentlemen shallspeak, under their breath, at your friend's festive board. They meetto decide upon their candidate. This little knot of subtle schemerswill control the convention, and, through it, dictate to the party.And what worthier candidate,--more wise and learned, more noted forphilanthropic liberality, truer to safe principles, tried oftener bypublic trusts, more spotless in private character, with a larger stakein the common welfare, and deeper grounded, by hereditary descent, inthe faith and practice of the Puritans,--what man can be presented forthe suffrage of the people, so eminently combining all these claims tothe chief-rulership as Judge Pyncheon here before us?
Make haste, then! Do your part! The meed for which you have toiled, andfought, and climbed, and crept, is ready for your grasp! Be present atthis dinner!--drink a glass or two of that noble wine!--make yourpledges in as low a whisper as you will!--and you rise up from tablevirtually governor of the glorious old State! Governor Pyncheon ofMassachusetts!
And is there no potent and exhilarating cordial in a certainty likethis? It has been the grand purpose of half your lifetime to obtain it.Now, when there needs little more than to signify your acceptance, whydo you sit so lumpishly in your great-great-grandfather's oaken chair,as if preferring it to the gubernatorial one? We have all heard of KingLog; but, in these jostling times, one of that royal kindred willhardly win the race for an elective chief-magistracy.
Well; it is absolutely too late for dinner! Turtle, salmon, tautog,woodcock, boiled turkey, South-Down mutton, pig, roast-beef, havevanished, or exist only in fragments, with lukewarm potatoes, andgravies crusted over with cold fat. The Judge, had he done nothingelse, 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 ogre-likeappetite, that his Creator made him a great animal, but that thedinner-hour made him a great beast. Persons of his large sensualendowments must claim indulgence, at their feeding-time. But, foronce, 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 Free-Soilershave him, they will fix upon another candidate. Were our friend now tostalk in among them, with that wide-open stare, at once wild andstolid, his ungenial presence would be apt to change their cheer.Neither would it be seemly in Judge Pyncheon, generally so scrupulousin his attire, to show himself at a dinner-table with that crimsonstain upon his shirt-bosom. By the bye, how came it there? It is anugly sight, at any rate; and the wisest way for the Judge is to buttonhis coat closely over his breast, and, taking his horse and chaise fromthe livery stable, to make all speed to his own house. There, after aglass of brandy and water, and a mutton-chop, a beefsteak, a broiledfowl, or some such hasty little dinner and supper all in one, he hadbetter spend the evening by the fireside. He must toast his slippers along while, in order to get rid of the chilliness which the air of thisvile old house has sent curdling through his veins.
Up, therefore, Judge Pyncheon, up! You have lost a day. But to-morrowwill be here anon. Will you rise, betimes, and make the most of it?To-morrow. To-morrow! To-morrow. We, that are alive, may rise betimesto-morrow. As for him that has died to-day, his morrow will be theresurrection morn.
Meanwhile the twilight is glooming upward out of the corners of theroom. The shadows of the tall furniture grow deeper, and at firstbecome more definite; then, spreading wider, they lose theirdistinctness of outline in the dark gray tide of oblivion, as it were,that creeps slowly over the various objects, and the one human figuresitting 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 andsingularly white, refuses to melt into this universal solvent. Fainterand fainter grows the light. It is as if another double-handful ofdarkness had been scattered through the air. Now it is no longer gray,but sable. There is still a faint appearance at the window; neither aglow, nor a gleam, nor a glimmer,--any phrase of light would expresssomething far brighter than this doubtful perception, or sense, rather,that there is a window there. Has it yet vanished? No!--yes!--notquite! And there is still the swarthy whiteness,--we shall venture tomarry these ill-agreeing words,--the swarthy whiteness of JudgePyncheon's face. The features are all gone: there is only the palenessof them left. And how looks it now? There is no window! There is noface! An infinite, inscrutable blackness has annihilated sight! Whereis our universe? All crumbled away from us; and we, adrift in chaos,may hearken to the gusts of homeless wind, that go sighing andmurmuring about in quest of what was once a world!
Is there no other so
und? One other, and a fearful one. It is theticking of the Judge's watch, which, ever since Hepzibah left the roomin search of Clifford, he has been holding in his hand. Be the causewhat it may, this little, quiet, never-ceasing throb of Time's pulse,repeating its small strokes with such busy regularity, in JudgePyncheon's motionless hand, has an effect of terror, which we do notfind in any other accompaniment of the scene.
But, listen! That puff of the breeze was louder. It had a tone unlikethe dreary and sullen one which has bemoaned itself, and afflicted allmankind with miserable sympathy, for five days past. The wind hasveered about! It now comes boisterously from the northwest, and, takinghold of the aged framework of the Seven Gables, gives it a shake, likea wrestler that would try strength with his antagonist. Another andanother sturdy tussle with the blast! The old house creaks again, andmakes a vociferous but somewhat unintelligible bellowing in its sootythroat (the big flue, we mean, of its wide chimney), partly incomplaint at the rude wind, but rather, as befits their century and ahalf of hostile intimacy, in tough defiance. A rumbling kind of abluster roars behind the fire-board. A door has slammed above stairs.A window, perhaps, has been left open, or else is driven in by anunruly gust. It is not to be conceived, before-hand, what wonderfulwind-instruments are these old timber mansions, and how haunted withthe strangest noises, which immediately begin to sing, and sigh, andsob, and shriek,--and to smite with sledge-hammers, airy but ponderous,in some distant chamber,--and to tread along the entries as withstately footsteps, and rustle up and down the staircase, as with silksmiraculously stiff,--whenever the gale catches the house with a windowopen, and gets fairly into it. Would that we were not an attendantspirit here! It is too awful! This clamor of the wind through thelonely house; the Judge's quietude, as he sits invisible; and thatpertinacious ticking of his watch!
As regards Judge Pyncheon's invisibility, however, that matter willsoon be remedied. The northwest wind has swept the sky clear. Thewindow is distinctly seen. Through its panes, moreover, we dimly catchthe sweep of the dark, clustering foliage outside, fluttering with aconstant irregularity of movement, and letting in a peep of starlight,now here, now there. Oftener than any other object, these glimpsesilluminate the Judge's face. But here comes more effectual light.Observe that silvery dance upon the upper branches of the pear-tree,and now a little lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while,through their shifting intricacies, the moonbeams fall aslant into theroom. They play over the Judge's figure and show that he has notstirred throughout the hours of darkness. They follow the shadows, inchangeful sport, across his unchanging features. They gleam upon hiswatch. His grasp conceals the dial-plate,--but we know that thefaithful hands have met; for one of the city clocks tells midnight.
A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon, cares no more fortwelve 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. ThePyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most of hiscontemporaries, professed his full belief in spiritual ministrations,although reckoning them chiefly of a malignant character. The Pyncheonof to-night, who sits in yonder arm-chair, believes in no suchnonsense. Such, at least, was his creed, some few hours since. Hishair will not bristle, therefore, at the stories which--in times whenchimney-corners had benches in them, where old people sat poking intothe ashes of the past, and raking out traditions like live coals--usedto be told about this very room of his ancestral house. In fact, thesetales are too absurd to bristle even childhood's hair. What sense,meaning, or moral, for example, such as even ghost-stories should besusceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, atmidnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor?And, pray, for what? Why, to see whether the portrait of their ancestorstill keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with histestamentary directions! Is it worth while to come out of their gravesfor that?
We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea. Ghost-stories arehardly to be treated seriously any longer. The family-party of thedefunct Pyncheons, we presume, goes off in this wise.
First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak, steeple-hat, andtrunk-breeches, girt about the waist with a leathern belt, in whichhangs his steel-hilted sword; he has a long staff in his hand, such asgentlemen in advanced life used to carry, as much for the dignity ofthe thing as for the support to be derived from it. He looks up at theportrait; a thing of no substance, gazing at its own painted image! Allis safe. The picture is still there. The purpose of his brain hasbeen kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up ingraveyard grass. See! he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries theframe. All safe! But is that a smile?--is it not, rather a frown ofdeadly import, that darkens over the shadow of his features? The stoutColonel is dissatisfied! So decided is his look of discontent as toimpart 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 thehead, he turns away. Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe, intheir half a dozen generations, jostling and elbowing one another, toreach the picture. We behold aged men and grandames, a clergyman withthe Puritanic stiffness still in his garb and mien, and a red-coatedofficer of the old French war; and there comes the shop-keepingPyncheon of a century ago, with the ruffles turned back from hiswrists; and there the periwigged and brocaded gentleman of the artist'slegend, with the beautiful and pensive Alice, who brings no pride outof her virgin grave. All try the picture-frame. What do these ghostlypeople seek? A mother lifts her child, that his little hands may touchit! There is evidently a mystery about the picture, that perplexesthese poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest. In a corner,meanwhile, stands the figure of an elderly man, in a leathern jerkinand 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 ofrestraint and guidance. We distinguish an unlooked-for figure in ourvisionary scene. Among those ancestral people there is a young man,dressed in the very fashion of to-day: he wears a dark frock-coat,almost destitute of skirts, gray pantaloons, gaiter boots of patentleather, and has a finely wrought gold chain across his breast, and alittle silver-headed whalebone stick in his hand. Were we to meet thisfigure at noonday, we should greet him as young Jaffrey Pyncheon, theJudge's only surviving child, who has been spending the last two yearsin foreign travel. If still in life, how comes his shadow hither? Ifdead, what a misfortune! The old Pyncheon property, together with thegreat 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? Astout, elderly gentleman has made his appearance; he has an aspect ofeminent respectability, wears a black coat and pantaloons, of roomywidth, and might be pronounced scrupulously neat in his attire, but fora broad crimson stain across his snowy neckcloth and down hisshirt-bosom. Is it the Judge, or no? How can it be Judge Pyncheon? Wediscern his figure, as plainly as the flickering moonbeams can show usanything, still seated in the oaken chair! Be the apparition whose itmay, it advances to the picture, seems to seize the frame, tries topeep behind it, and turns away, with a frown as black as the ancestralone.
The fantastic scene just hinted at must by no means be considered asforming an actual portion of our story. We were betrayed into thisbrief extravagance by the quiver of the moonbeams; they dancehand-in-hand with shadows, and are reflected in the looking-glass,which, you are aware, is always a kind of window or doorway into thespiritual world. We needed relief, moreover, from our too long andexclusive contemplation of that figure in the chair. This wild wind,too, has tossed our thoughts into strange confusion, but withouttearing them away from their one
determined centre. Yonder leadenJudge sits immovably upon our soul. Will he never stir again? We shallgo mad unless he stirs! You may the better estimate his quietude by thefearlessness of a little mouse, which sits on its hind legs, in astreak of moonlight, close by Judge Pyncheon's foot, and seems tomeditate a journey of exploration over this great black bulk. Ha! whathas startled the nimble little mouse? It is the visage of grimalkin,outside of the window, where he appears to have posted himself for adeliberate watch. This grimalkin has a very ugly look. Is it a catwatching for a mouse, or the devil for a human soul? Would we couldscare him from the window!
Thank Heaven, the night is well-nigh past! The moonbeams have no longerso silvery a gleam, nor contrast so strongly with the blackness of theshadows among which they fall. They are paler now; the shadows lookgray, 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 fingersneglected to wind it up, as usual, at ten o'clock, being half an houror so before his ordinary bedtime,--and it has run down, for the firsttime in five years. But the great world-clock of Time still keeps itsbeat. The dreary night--for, oh, how dreary seems its haunted waste,behind us!--gives place to a fresh, transparent, cloudless morn.Blessed, blessed radiance! The daybeam--even what little of it findsits way into this always dusky parlor--seems part of the universalbenediction, annulling evil, and rendering all goodness possible, andhappiness attainable. Will Judge Pyncheon now rise up from his chair?Will he go forth, and receive the early sunbeams on his brow? Will hebegin this new day,--which God has smiled upon, and blessed, and givento mankind,--will he begin it with better purposes than the many thathave been spent amiss? Or are all the deep-laid schemes of yesterday asstubborn in his heart, and as busy in his brain, as ever?
In this latter case, there is much to do. Will the Judge still insistwith Hepzibah on the interview with Clifford? Will he buy a safe,elderly gentleman's horse? Will he persuade the purchaser of the oldPyncheon property to relinquish the bargain in his favor? Will he seehis family physician, and obtain a medicine that shall preserve him, tobe an honor and blessing to his race, until the utmost term ofpatriarchal longevity? Will Judge Pyncheon, above all, make dueapologies to that company of honorable friends, and satisfy them thathis absence from the festive board was unavoidable, and so fullyretrieve himself in their good opinion that he shall yet be Governor ofMassachusetts? And all these great purposes accomplished, will he walkthe streets again, with that dog-day smile of elaborate benevolence,sultry enough to tempt flies to come and buzz in it? Or will he, afterthe tomb-like seclusion of the past day and night, go forth a humbledand repentant man, sorrowful, gentle, seeking no profit, shrinking fromworldly honor, hardly daring to love God, but bold to love his fellowman, and to do him what good he may? Will he bear about with him,--noodious grin of feigned benignity, insolent in its pretence, andloathsome in its falsehood,--but the tender sadness of a contriteheart, broken, at last, beneath its own weight of sin? For it is ourbelief, whatever show of honor he may have piled upon it, that therewas heavy sin at the base of this man's being.
Rise up, Judge Pyncheon! The morning sunshine glimmers through thefoliage, and, beautiful and holy as it is, shuns not to kindle up yourface. Rise up, thou subtle, worldly, selfish, iron-hearted hypocrite,and make thy choice whether still to be subtle, worldly, selfish,iron-hearted, and hypocritical, or to tear these sins out of thynature, though they bring the lifeblood with them! The Avenger is uponthee! Rise up, before it be too late!
What! Thou art not stirred by this last appeal? No, not a jot! Andthere we see a fly,--one of your common house-flies, such as are alwaysbuzzing on the window-pane,--which has smelt out Governor Pyncheon, andalights, now on his forehead, now on his chin, and now, Heaven help us!is creeping over the bridge of his nose, towards the would-bechief-magistrate's wide-open eyes! Canst thou not brush the fly away?Art thou too sluggish? Thou man, that hadst so many busy projectsyesterday! Art thou too weak, that wast so powerful? Not brush away afly? Nay, then, we give thee up!
And hark! the shop-bell rings. After hours like these latter ones,through which we have borne our heavy tale, it is good to be madesensible that there is a living world, and that even this old, lonelymansion retains some manner of connection with it. We breathe morefreely, emerging from Judge Pyncheon's presence into the street beforethe Seven Gables.