“These things have not the merit which many good people attribute to them,” replied Clifford.“They may be said, in few and pithy words, to have ill served a poor purpose. My impression is,that our wonderfully increased and still increasing facilities of locomotion are destined to bring us around again to the nomadic state.You are aware, my dear sir,—you must have observed it in your own experience,—that all human progress is in a circle; or, to use a more accurate and beautiful figure,in an ascending spiral curve. While we fancy ourselves going straight forward, and attaining,at every step, an entirely new position of affairs,we do actually return to something long ago tried and abandoned,but which we now find etherealized, refined, and perfected to its ideal.The past is but a coarse and sensual prophecy of the present and the future.To apply this truth to the topic now under discussion. In the early epochs of our race,men dwelt in temporary huts, of bowers of branches, as easily constructed as a bird’s-nest,and which they built,—if it should be called building,when such sweet homes of a summer solstice rather grew than were made with hands,—which Nature,we will say, assisted them to rear where fruit abounded, where fish and game were plentiful, or,most especially, where the sense of beauty was to be gratified by a lovelier shade than elsewhere,and a more exquisite arrangement of lake, wood, and hill. This life possessed a charm which,ever since man quitted it, has vanished from existence.And it typified something better than itself. It had its drawbacks; such as hunger and thirst,inclement weather, hot sunshine, and weary and foot-blistering marches over barren and ugly tracts,that lay between the sites desirable for their fertility and beauty. But in our ascending spiral,we escape all this. These railroads—could but the whistle be made musical,and the rumble and the jar got rid of—are positively the greatest blessing that the ages have wrought out for us.They give us wings; they annihilate the toil and dust of pilgrimage; they spiritualize travel!Transition being so facile, what can be any man’s inducement to tarry in one spot?Why, therefore, should he build a more cumbrous habitation than can readily be carried off with him?Why should he make himself a prisoner for life in brick, and stone, and old worm-eaten timber,when he may just as easily dwell, in one sense, nowhere,—in a better sense,wherever the fit and beautiful shall offer him a home?”
Clifford’s countenance glowed, as he divulged this theory;a youthful character shone out from within,converting the wrinkles and pallid duskiness of age into an almost transparent mask.The merry girls let their ball drop upon the floor, and gazed at him. They said to themselves,perhaps, that, before his hair was gray and the crow’s-feet tracked his temples,this now decaying man must have stamped the impress of his features on many a woman’s heart. But, alas!no woman’s eye had seen his face while it was beautiful.
“I should scarcely call it an improved state of things,” observed Clifford’s new acquaintance, “to live everywhere and nowhere!”
“Would you not?” exclaimed Clifford, with singular energy. “It is as clear to me as sunshine,—were there any in the sky,—that the greatest possible stumbling-blocks in the path of human happiness and improvement are these heaps of bricks and stones,consolidated with mortar, or hewn timber, fastened together with spike-nails,which men painfully contrive for their own torment, and call them house and home!The soul needs air; a wide sweep and frequent change of it. Morbid influences,in a thousand-fold variety, gather about hearths, and pollute the life of households.There is no such unwholesome atmosphere as that of an old home,rendered poisonous by one’s defunct forefathers and relatives. I speak of what I know.There is a certain house within my familiar recollection,—one of those peaked-gable (there are seven of them), projecting-storied edifices,such as you occasionally see in our older towns,—a rusty, crazy, creaky, dry-rotted, dingy, dark,and miserable old dungeon, with an arched window over the porch,and a little shop-door on one side, and a great, melancholy elm before it!Now, sir, whenever my thoughts recur to this seven-gabled mansion (the fact is so very curious that I must needs mention it),immediately I have a vision or image of an elderly man, of remarkably stern countenance,sitting in an oaken elbow-chair, dead, stone-dead, with an ugly flow of blood upon his shirt-bosom!Dead, but with open eyes!He taints the whole house, as I remember it. I could never flourish there, nor be happy,nor do nor enjoy what God meant me to do and enjoy.”
His face darkened, and seemed to contract, and shrivel itself up, and wither into age.
“Never, sir!” he repeated. “I could never draw cheerful breath there!”
“I should think not,” said the old gentleman, eyeing Clifford earnestly, and rather apprehensively.“I should conceive not, sir, with that notion in your head!”
“Surely not,” continued Clifford; “and it were a relief to me if that house could be torn down,or burnt up, and so the earth be rid of it, and grass be sown abundantly over its foundation.Not that I should ever visit its site again!for, sir, the farther I get away from it, the more does the joy, the lightsome freshness,the heart-leap, the intellectual dance, the youth, in short,—yes, my youth, my youth!—the more does it come back to me. No longer ago than this morning, I was old.I remember looking in the glass, and wondering at my own gray hair, and the wrinkles,many and deep, right across my brow, and the furrows down my cheeks,and the prodigious trampling of crow’s-feet about my temples!It was too soon!I could not bear it!Age had no right to come!I had not lived!But now do I look old?If so, my aspect belies me strangely; for—a great weight being off my mind—I feel in the very heyday of my youth,with the world and my best days before me!”
“I trust you may find it so,” said the old gentleman, who seemed rather embarrassed,and desirous of avoiding the observation which Clifford’s wild talk drew on them both. “You have my best wishes for it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, dear Clifford, be quiet!” whispered his sister. “They think you mad.”
“Be quiet yourself, Hepzibah!” returned her brother. “No matter what they think!I am not mad. For the first time in thirty years my thoughts gush up and find words ready for them. I must talk, and I will!”
He turned again towards the old gentleman, and renewed the conversation.
“Yes, my dear sir,” said he, “it is my firm belief and hope that these terms of roof and hearth-stone,which have so long been held to embody something sacred, are soon to pass out of men’s daily use,and be forgotten. Just imagine, for a moment, how much of human evil will crumble away, with this one change!What we call real estate—the solid ground to build a house on—is the broad foundation on which nearly all the guilt of this world rests.A man will commit almost any wrong,—he will heap up an immense pile of wickedness,as hard as granite, and which will weigh as heavily upon his soul, to eternal ages,—only to build a great, gloomy, dark-chambered mansion, for himself to die in,and for his posterity to be miserable in. He lays his own dead corpse beneath the underpinning,as one may say, and hangs his frowning picture on the wall, and,after thus converting himself into an evil destiny,expects his remotest great-grandchildren to be happy there. I do not speak wildly.I have just such a house in my mind’s eye!”
“Then, sir,” said the old gentleman, getting anxious to drop the subject, “you are not to blame for leaving it.”
“Within the lifetime of the child already born,” Clifford went on, “all this will be done away.The world is growing too ethereal and spiritual to bear these enormities a great while longer.To me, though, for a considerable period of time, I have lived chiefly in retirement,and know less of such things than most men,—even to me,the harbingers of a better era are unmistakable. Mesmerism, now!Will that effect nothing, think you, towards purging away the grossness out of human life?”
“All a humbug!” growled the old gentleman.
“These rapping spirits, that little Phœbe told us of, the other day,” said Clifford,—“what are these but the messengers of the spiritual world, knocking at the door of substance?And it shall be flung wide open!”
“A humbug, again!” cried the old gentleman, growing more and more testy at these glimpses of Clifford’s metaphysics.“I should like to rap with a good stick on the empty pates of the dolts who circulate such nonsense!”
“Then there is electricity,—the demon, the angel, the mighty physical power, the all-pervading intelligence!” exclaimed Clifford. “Is that a humbug, too?Is it a fact—or have I dreamt it—that, by means of electricity,the world of matter has become a great nerve,vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless point of time?Rather, the round globe is a vast head, a brain, instinct with intelligence!Or, shall we say, it is itself a thought, nothing but thought,and no longer the substance which we deemed it!”
“If you mean the telegraph,” said the old gentleman, glancing his eye toward its wire,alongside the rail-track, “it is an excellent thing,—that is, of course,if the speculators in cotton and politics don’t get possession of it. A great thing, indeed, sir,particularly as regards the detection of bank-robbers and murderers.”
“I don’t quite like it, in that point of view,” replied Clifford. “A bank-robber,and what you call a murderer, likewise, has his rights,which men of enlightened humanity and conscience should regard in so much the more liberal spirit,because the bulk of society is prone to controvert their existence. An almost spiritual medium,like the electric telegraph, should be consecrated to high, deep, joyful, and holy missions.Lovers, day by day—hour by hour, if so often moved to do it,—might send their heart-throbs from Maine to Florida,with some such words as these ‘I love you forever!’—‘My heart runs over with love!’—‘I love you more than I can!’ and, again, at the next message ‘I have lived an hour longer, and love you twice as much!’ Or, when a good man has departed, his distant friend should be conscious of an electric thrill,as from the world of happy spirits, telling him ‘Your dear friend is in bliss!’ Or, to an absent husband, should come tidings thus ‘An immortal being, of whom you are the father, has this moment come from God!’ and immediately its little voice would seem to have reached so far,and to be echoing in his heart. But for these poor rogues, the bank-robbers,—who, after all,are about as honest as nine people in ten, except that they disregard certain formalities,and prefer to transact business at midnight rather than ’Change-hours,—and for these murderers,as you phrase it, who are often excusable in the motives of their deed,and deserve to be ranked among public benefactors, if we consider only its result,—for unfortunate individuals like these,I really cannot applaud the enlistment of an immaterial and miraculous power in the universal world-hunt at their heels!”
“You can’t, hey?” cried the old gentleman, with a hard look.
“Positively, no!” answered Clifford. “It puts them too miserably at disadvantage. For example, sir, in a dark, low,cross-beamed, panelled room of an old house, let us suppose a dead man, sitting in an arm-chair,with a blood-stain on his shirt-bosom,—and let us add to our hypothesis another man,issuing from the house, which he feels to be over-filled with the dead man’s presence,—and let us lastly imagine him fleeing, Heaven knows whither, at the speed of a hurricane, by railroad!Now, sir, if the fugitive alight in some distant town,and find all the people babbling about that self-same dead man,whom he has fled so far to avoid the sight and thought of,will you not allow that his natural rights have been infringed?He has been deprived of his city of refuge, and, in my humble opinion, has suffered infinite wrong!”
“You are a strange man; Sir!” said the old gentleman, bringing his gimlet-eye to a point on Clifford,as if determined to bore right into him. “I can’t see through you!”
“No, I’ll be bound you can’t!” cried Clifford, laughing. “And yet, my dear sir, I am as transparent as the water of Maule’s well!But come, Hepzibah!We have flown far enough for once. Let us alight, as the birds do,and perch ourselves on the nearest twig, and consult wither we shall fly next!”
Just then, as it happened, the train reached a solitary way-station.Taking advantage of the brief pause, Clifford left the car, and drew Hepzibah along with him.A moment afterwards, the train—with all the life of its interior,amid which Clifford had made himself so conspicuous an object—was gliding away in the distance,and rapidly lessening to a point which, in another moment, vanished.The world had fled away from these two wanderers. They gazed drearily about them.At a little distance stood a wooden church, black with age,and in a dismal state of ruin and decay, with broken windows,a great rift through the main body of the edifice,and a rafter dangling from the top of the square tower. Farther off was a farm-house,in the old style, as venerably black as the church,with a roof sloping downward from the three-story peak, to within a man’s height of the ground.It seemed uninhabited. There were the relics of a wood-pile, indeed, near the door,but with grass sprouting up among the chips and scattered logs.The small rain-drops came down aslant; the wind was not turbulent, but sullen, and full of chilly moisture.
Clifford shivered from head to foot. The wild effervescence of his mood—which had so readily supplied thoughts,fantasies, and a strange aptitude of words,and impelled him to talk from the mere necessity of giving vent to this bubbling-up gush of ideas had entirely subsided.A powerful excitement had given him energy and vivacity. Its operation over, he forthwith began to sink.
“You must take the lead now, Hepzibah!” murmured he, with a torpid and reluctant utterance. “Do with me as you will!” She knelt down upon the platform where they were standing and lifted her clasped hands to the sky.The dull, gray weight of clouds made it invisible; but it was no hour for disbelief,—no juncture this to question that there was a sky above, and an Almighty Father looking from it!
“O God!”—ejaculated poor, gaunt Hepzibah,—then paused a moment, to consider what her prayer should be,—“O God,—our Father,—are we not thy children?Have mercy on us!”
XVIII. Governor Pyncheon
Judge Pyncheon, while his two relatives have fled away with such ill-considered haste,still sits in the old parlor, keeping house, as the familiar phrase is,in the absence of its ordinary occupants. To him, and to the venerable House of the Seven Gables,does our story now betake itself, like an owl, bewildered in the daylight, and hastening back to his hollow tree.
The Judge has not shifted his position for a long while now. He has not stirred hand or foot,nor withdrawn his eyes so much as a hair’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 holds his watch in his left hand,but clutched in such a manner that you cannot see the dial-plate. How profound a fit of meditation!Or, supposing him asleep, how infantile a quietude of conscience,and what wholesome order in the gastric region,are betokened by slumber so entirely undisturbed with starts, cramp, twitches, muttered dreamtalk,trumpet-blasts through the nasal organ, or any slightest irregularity of breath!You must hold your own breath, to satisfy yourself whether he breathes at all.It is quite inaudible. You hear the ticking of his watch; his breath you do not hear. A most refreshing slumber, doubtless!And yet, the Judge cannot be asleep. His eyes are open!A veteran politician, such as he, would never fall asleep with wide-open eyes,lest some enemy or mischief-maker, taking him thus at unawares,should peep through these windows into his consciousness,and make strange discoveries among the reminiscences, projects, hopes, apprehensions, weaknesses,and strong points, which he has heretofore shared with nobody.A cautious man is proverbially said to sleep with one eye open. That may be wisdom.But not with both; for this were heedlessness!No, no!Judge Pyncheon cannot be asleep.
It is odd, however, that a gentleman so burdened with engagements,—and noted, too, for punctuality,—should linger thus in an old lonely mansion, which he has never seemed very fond of visiting.The oaken chair, to be sure, may tempt him with its roominess. It is, indeed, a spacious, and,allowing for the rude age that fashioned it, a moderately easy seat, with capacity enough,at all events, and offering no restraint to the Judge’s breadth of beam.A bigger man might find ample accommodation in it. His ancestor, now pictured upon the wall,with all his English beef about him, used hardly to present a front extending from elbow to elbow of this chair,or a base that would cover its whole cushion. But there are better chairs than this,—mahogany,black walnut, rosewood, spring-seated and damask-cushioned, with varied slopes,and innumerable artifices to make them easy, and obviate the irksomeness of too tame an ease,—a score of such might be at Judge Pyncheon’s service. Yes!in a score of drawing-rooms he would be more than 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 the Judge,and do her pretty utmost to make him comfortable. For the Judge is a prosperous man.He cherishes his schemes, moreover, like other people, and reasonably brighter than most others;or did so, at least, as he lay abed this morning, in an agreeable half-drowse,planning the business of the day, and speculating on the probabilities of the next fifteen years.With his firm health, and the little inroad that age has made upon him,fifteen years or twenty—yes, or perhaps five-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 and country, his railroad, bank,and insurance shares, his United States stock,—his wealth, in short, however invested,now in possession, or soon to be acquired;together with the public honors that have fallen upon him,and the weightier ones that are yet to fall!It is good!It is excellent!It is enough!
Still lingering in the old chair!If the Judge has a little time to throw away, why does not he visit the insurance office,as is his frequent custom, and sit awhile in one of their leathern-cushioned arm-chairs,listening to the gossip of the day, and dropping some deeply designed chance-word,which will be certain to become the gossip of to-morrow.And have not the bank directors a meeting at which it was 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 ought to be,in Judge Pyncheon’s right vest-pocket. Let him go thither, and loll at ease upon his moneybags!He has lounged long enough in the old chair!
This was to have been such a busy day. In the first place, the interview with Clifford.Half an hour, by the Judge’s reckoning, was to suffice for that; it would probably be less,but—taking into consideration that Hepzibah was first to be dealt with,and that these women are apt to make many words where a few would do much better—it might be safest to allow half an hour. Half an hour?Why, Judge, it is already two hours, by your own undeviatingly accurate chronometer. Glance your eye down at it and see!Ah; he will not give himself the trouble either to bend his head, or elevate his hand,so as to bring the 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’s affair arranged, he was to meet a State Street broker,who has undertaken to procure a heavy percentage, and the best of paper,for a few 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 an auction of real estate,including a portion of the old Pyncheon property, originally belonging to Maule’s garden ground.It has been alienated from the Pyncheons these four-score years;but the Judge had kept it in his eye, and had set his heart on reannexing it to the small demesne still left around the Seven Gables;and now, during this odd fit of oblivion, the fatal hammer must have fallen,and transferred our ancient patrimony to some alien possessor. Possibly, indeed,the sale may have been postponed till fairer weather. If so,will the Judge make it convenient to be present, and favor the auctioneer with his bid, on the proximate occasion?
The next affair was to buy a horse for his own driving. The one heretofore his favorite stumbled,this very morning, on the road to town, and must be at once discarded.Judge Pyncheon’s neck is too precious to be risked on such a contingency as a stumbling steed.Should all the above business be seasonably got through with,he might attend the meeting of a charitable society; the very name of which, however,in the multiplicity of his benevolence, is quite forgotten;so that this engagement may pass unfulfilled, and no great harm done. And if he have time,amid the press of more urgent matters, he must take measures for the renewal of Mrs.Pyncheon’s tombstone, which, the sexton tells him, has fallen on its marble face,and is cracked quite in twain. She was a praiseworthy woman enough, thinks the Judge,in spite of her nervousness, and the tears that she was so oozy with,and her foolish behavior about the coffee; and as she took her departure so seasonably,he will not grudge the second tombstone. It is better, at least, than if she had never needed any!The next item on his list was to give orders for some fruit-trees, of a rare variety,to be deliverable at his country-seat in the ensuing autumn. Yes, buy them, by all means;and may the peaches be luscious in your mouth, Judge Pyncheon!After this comes something more important.A committee of his political party has besought him for a hundred or two of dollars,in addition to his previous disbursements, towards carrying on the fall campaign.The Judge is a patriot; the fate of the country is staked on the November election; and besides,as will be shadowed forth in another paragraph,he has no trifling stake of his own in the same great game. He will do what the committee asks;nay, he will be liberal beyond their expectations;they shall have a check for five hundred dollars, and more anon, if it be needed. What next?A decayed widow, whose husband was Judge Pyncheon’s early friend,has laid her case of destitution before him, in a very moving letter.She and her fair daughter have scarcely bread to eat. He partly intends to call on her to-day,—perhaps so—perhaps not,—accordingly as he may happen to have leisure, and a small bank-note.
Another business, which, however, he puts no great weight on (it is well, you know, to be heedful,but not over-anxious, as respects one’s personal health),—another business, then,was to consult his family physician. About what, for Heaven’s sake?Why, it is rather difficult to describe the symptoms.A mere dimness of sight and dizziness of brain, was it?—or disagreeable choking, or stifling, or gurgling, or bubbling, in the region of the thorax, as the anatomists say?—or was it a pretty severe throbbing and kicking of the heart,rather creditable to him than otherwise,as showing that the organ had not been left out of the Judge’s physical contrivance?No matter what it was. The doctor probably would smile at the statement of such trifles to his professional ear;the Judge would smile in his turn; and meeting one another’s eyes,they would enjoy a hearty laugh together!But a fig for medical advice. The Judge will never need it.
Pray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch, Now!What—not a glance!It is within ten minutes of the dinner hour!It surely cannot have slipped your memory that the dinner of to-day is to be the most important,in its consequences, of all the dinners you ever ate. Yes, precisely the most important; although,in the course of your somewhat eminent career,you have been placed high towards the head of the table, at splendid banquets,and have poured out your festive eloquence to ears yet echoing with Webster’s mighty organ-tones.No public dinner this, however. It is merely a gathering of some dozen or so of friends from several districts of the State;men of distinguished character and influence, assembling, almost casually,at the house of a common friend, likewise distinguished,who will make them welcome to a little better than his ordinary fare.Nothing in the way of French cookery, but an excellent dinner, nevertheless. Real turtle,we understand, and salmon, tautog, canvas-backs, pig, English mutton, good roast beef,or dainties of that serious kind, fit for substantial country gentlemen,as these honorable persons mostly are. The delicacies of the season, in short,and flavored by a brand of old Madeira which has been the pride of many seasons.It is the Juno brand; a glorious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; a bottled-up happiness,put by for use; a golden liquid, worth more than liquid gold; so rare and admirable,that veteran wine-bibbers count it among their epochs to have tasted it!It drives away the heart-ache, and substitutes no head-ache!Could the Judge but quaff a glass, it might enable him to shake off the unaccountable lethargy which (for the ten intervening minutes,and five to boot, are already past) has made him such a laggard at this momentous dinner. It would all but revive a dead man!Would you like to sip it now, Judge Pyncheon?
Alas, this dinner. Have you really forgotten its true object?Then let 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 in which Moll Pitcher imprisoned your own grandfather.But ambition is a talisman more powerful than witchcraft. Start up, then, and,hurrying through the streets, burst in upon the company,that they may begin before the fish is spoiled!They wait for you; and it is little for your interest that they should wait. These gentlemen—need you be told it?—have assembled, not without purpose, from every quarter of the State.They are practised politicians, every man of them,and skilled to adjust those preliminary measures which steal from the people,without its knowledge, the power of choosing its own rulers. The popular voice,at the next gubernatorial election, though loud as thunder,will be really but an echo of what these gentlemen shall speak, under their breath,at your friend’s festive board. They meet to decide upon their candidate.This little knot of subtle schemers will control the convention, and, through it,dictate to the party. And what worthier candidate,—more wise and learned,more noted for philanthropic liberality, truer to safe principles, tried oftener by public trusts,more spotless in private character, with a larger stake in the common welfare, and deeper grounded,by hereditary descent, in the faith and practice of the Puritans,—what man can be presented for the suffrage of the people,so eminently combining all these claims to the chief-rulership as Judge Pyncheon here before us?
Make haste, then!Do your part!The meed for which you have toiled, and fought, and climbed, and crept, is ready for your grasp!Be present at this dinner!—drink a glass or two of that noble wine!—make your pledges in as low a whisper as you will!—and you rise up from table virtually governor of the glorious old State!Governor Pyncheon of Massachusetts!
And is there no potent and exhilarating cordial in a certainty like this?It has been the grand purpose of half your lifetime to obtain it. Now,when there needs little more than to signify your acceptance,why do 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 King Log; but, in these jostling times,one of that royal kindred will hardly win the race for an elective chief-magistracy.