A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon,cares no more for twelve o’clock at night than for the corresponding hour of noon. However just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding pages, between his Puritan ancestor and himself, it fails in this point. The Pyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most of his contemporaries, professed his full belief in spiritual ministrations, although reckoning them chiefly of a malignant character. The Pyncheon of to-night, who sits in yonder arm-chair, believes in no such nonsense. Such, at least, was his creed, some few hours since. His hair will not bristle, therefore, at the stories which—in times when chimney-corners had benches in them, where old people sat poking into the ashes of the past, and raking out traditions like live coals—used to be told about this very room of his ancestral house. In fact, these tales are too absurd to bristle even childhood’s hair. What sense, meaning, or moral, for example, such as even ghost-stories should be susceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at midnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor?And, pray, for what?Why, to see whether the portrait of their ancestor still keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with his testamentary directions!Is it worth while to come out of their graves for that?
We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea.Ghost-stories are hardly to be treated seriously any longer.The family-party of the defunct Pyncheons, we presume,goes off in this wise.
First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak,steeple-hat, and trunk-breeches,girt about the waist with a leathern belt,in which hangs his steel-hilted sword;he has a long staff in his hand,such as gentlemen in advanced life used to carry,as much for the dignity of the thing as for the support to be derived from it.He looks up at the portrait; a thing of no substance,gazing at its own painted image!All is safe. The picture is still there.The purpose of his brain has been kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up in graveyard grass. See!he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the frame. All safe!But is that a smile?—is it not, rather a frown of deadly import,that darkens over the shadow of his features?The stout Colonel is dissatisfied!So decided is his look of discontent as to impart additional distinctness to his features; through which, nevertheless, the moonlight passes, and flickers on the wall beyond. Something has strangely vexed the ancestor!With a grim shake of the head, he turns away.Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe,in their half a dozen generations,jostling and elbowing one another,to reach the picture. We behold aged men and grandames,a clergyman with the Puritanic stiffness still in his garb and mien,and a red-coated officer of the old French war;and there comes the shop-keeping Pyncheon of a century ago,with the ruffles turned back from his wrists;and there the periwigged and brocaded gentleman of the artist’s legend,with the beautiful and pensive Alice,who brings no pride out of her virgin grave.All try the picture-frame.What do these ghostly people seek?A mother lifts her child,that his little hands may touch it!There is evidently a mystery about the picture,that perplexes these poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest.In a corner, meanwhile,stands the figure of an elderly man,in a leathern jerkin and breeches,with a carpenter’s rule sticking out of his side pocket;he points his finger at the bearded Colonel and his descendants,nodding, jeering, mocking,and finally bursting into obstreperous,though inaudible laughter.
Indulging our fancy in this freak,we have partly lost the power of restraint and guidance.We distinguish an unlooked-for figure in our visionary 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 patent leather,and has a finely wrought gold chain across his breast,and a little silver-headed whalebone stick in his hand.Were we to meet this figure at noonday,we should greet him as young Jaffrey Pyncheon,the Judge’s only surviving child,who has been spending the last two years in foreign travel.If still in life, how comes his shadow hither?If dead, what a misfortune!The old Pyncheon property,together with the great estate acquired by the young man’s father,would devolve on whom?On poor, foolish Clifford, gaunt Hepzibah,and rustic little Phœbe!But another and a greater marvel greets us!Can we believe our eyes?A stout, elderly gentleman has made his appearance;he has an aspect of eminent respectability,wears a black coat and pantaloons, of roomy width,and might be pronounced scrupulously neat in his attire,but for a broad crimson stain across his snowy neckcloth and down his shirt-bosom. Is it the Judge, or no?How can it be Judge Pyncheon?We discern his figure,as plainly as the flickering moonbeams can show us anything,still seated in the oaken chair!Be the apparition whose it may,it advances to the picture, seems to seize the frame,tries to peep behind it, and turns away,with a frown as black as the ancestral one.
The fantastic scene just hinted at must by no means be considered as forming an actual portion of our story. We were betrayed into this brief extravagance by the quiver of the moonbeams; they dance hand-in-hand with shadows, and are reflected in the looking-glass, which, you are aware, is always a kind of window or doorway into the spiritual world. We needed relief, moreover, from our too long and exclusive contemplation of that figure in the chair. This wild wind, too, has tossed our thoughts into strange confusion, but without tearing them away from their one determined centre. Yonder leaden Judge sits immovably upon our soul. Will he never stir again?We shall go mad unless he stirs!You may the better estimate his quietude by the fearlessness of a little mouse,which sits on its hind legs, in a streak of moonlight,close by Judge Pyncheon’s foot,and seems to meditate a journey of exploration over this great black bulk. Ha!what has startled the nimble little mouse?It is the visage of grimalkin, outside of the window,where he appears to have posted himself for a deliberate watch.This grimalkin has a very ugly look.Is it a cat watching for a mouse,or the devil for a human soul?Would we could scare him from the window!
Thank Heaven, the night is well-nigh past!The moonbeams have no longer so silvery a gleam,nor contrast so strongly with the blackness of the shadows among which they fall. They are paler now; the shadows look gray, not black. The boisterous wind is hushed. What is the hour?Ah!the watch has at last ceased to tick;for the Judge’s forgetful fingers neglected to wind it up,as usual, at ten o’clock,being half an hour or so before his ordinary bedtime,—and it has run down, for the first time in five years.But the great world-clock of Time still keeps its beat.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 finds its way into this always dusky parlor—seems part of the universal benediction, annulling evil, and rendering all goodness possible, and happiness attainable. Will Judge Pyncheon now rise up from his chair?Will he go forth, and receive the early sunbeams on his brow?Will he begin this new day,—which God has smiled upon,and blessed, and given to mankind,—will he begin it with better purposes than the many that have been spent amiss?Or are all the deep-laid schemes of yesterday as stubborn in his heart,and as busy in his brain, as ever?