SELECTIONS FROM GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS
_"He cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play and old
men from the chimney corner."_
--SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
* * * * *
WASHINGTON IRVING
"Washington's work is ended and the child shall be named after him," so
said the mother of Washington Irving at his birth in New York, April 3,
1783. When, six years later, all New York was enthusiastically greeting the
first President of the United States, a Scotch servant in the Irving family
followed the President into a shop with the youngest son of the family and
approaching him said, "Please, your honor, here's a bairn was named for
you." Washington, putting his hand upon the boy's head, gave him his
blessing. It seems eminently fitting that this boy, who became known as the
Father of American Letters, should write the biography of the man whose
name he bore, and whom we know as the Father of his Country.
New York was then the capital of the country, a city of about twenty-five
thousand inhabitants, small enough so that it was an easy matter for the
city boy to get into the country. New York itself retained many traces of
its Dutch origin, and upon its streets could be seen men from all parts of
the world. Here the boy grew up happy, seeing many sides of American life,
both in the city and in the country. He was fun-loving and social, and
could hardly be called a student. He greatly preferred "Robinson Crusoe"
and "Sinbad" to the construing of Latin. Best of all, he liked to go
exploring down to the water front to see the tall ships setting sail for
the other side of the world, or, as he grew older, up the Hudson and into
the Catskills, or to that very Sleepy Hollow which lives for us now because
of him. Irving liked people, and had many warm friends.
These three tastes--for people, for books, and for travel--his life was
destined to gratify. His health being delicate, he was sent abroad at
twenty-one, and the captain of the ship he sailed in, noting his fragile
appearance, said, "There's one who'll go overboard before we get across,"
but he happily proved a mistaken prophet. Irving not only survived the
voyage, but spent two years traveling in Italy, France, Sicily, and the
Netherlands. The romantic spirit strong within him eagerly absorbed
mediæval history and tradition. "My native country was full of youthful
promise; Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age."
Upon his return home, Irving was admitted to the bar, but he never
seriously turned his attention to law. In 1809 he published "A History of
New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker." It was a humorous history of New
Amsterdam, a delicious mingling of sense and nonsense, over which Walter
Scott said his "sides were absolutely sore with laughing." While writing
this history a great sorrow touched his life--the death of a young girl to
whom he was deeply attached.
Ten years later, upon his second visit to Europe, Irving published "The
Sketch Book." It rapidly won favor both in England and America. Byron said
of it: "I know it by heart; at least there is not a passage that I cannot
refer to immediately." This second visit to Europe was to be a short
business trip, but as it chanced, it lasted seventeen years. The first five
years were spent in England. Later he went to Spain, and as a result of
this visit, we have a series of books dealing with Spanish history and
tradition--"The Alhambra," "The Conquest of Granada" and "The Life of
Columbus." During all these years and in all these places, he met and won
the regard of hosts of interesting people. Everyone praised his books, and
everyone liked the likable American, with his distinguished face and gentle
manners.
In 1832 Irving was gladly welcomed back to America, for many had feared
that his long absence might mean permanent residence abroad. The next ten
years were spent in his beautiful home, Sunnyside, at
Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. Daniel Webster, Secretary of State, could find no
person more gratifying to the Spanish people, than the author of the "Life
of Columbus" and, in 1842, persuaded Irving to represent us at the Spanish
court. After four years, he returned to America and passed his time almost
exclusively in writing. The work which he finished just before his death,
in November, 1859, was the "Life of Washington." He was buried on a hill
overlooking the river and a portion of the Sleepy Hollow Valley.
Because of the ease and smoothness of his style, and his delicate sense of
form, Irving delighted his own and succeeding generations of both his
countrymen and his British cousins. All his work is pervaded by the strong
and winning personal quality that brought him the love and admiration of
all. Charles Dudley Warner says of him: "The author loved good women and
little children and a pure life; he had faith in his fellow-men, a kindly
sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience to the highest. His
books are wholesome, full of sweetness and charm, of humor without any
sting, of amusement without any stain; and their more solid qualities are
marred by neither pedantry nor pretension."
* * * * *
RIP VAN WINKLE
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER
FROM "THE SKETCH BOOK," BY WASHINGTON IRVING
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday.
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre.
--CARTWRIGHT.
The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the
Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much
among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his
favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their
wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever,
therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its
low-roofed farmhouse under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a
little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a
book worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years
since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his
work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be.
Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little
questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely
established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a
book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now
that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that
his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He,
however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and
then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the
spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and
affection; yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than
in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure
or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is
still held dear by many folk, whose good opinion is worth having;
particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint
his likeness on their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for
immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a
Queen Anne's Farthing.
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill
Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family,
and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height,
and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every
change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in
the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by
all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather
is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their
bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the
landscape is cloudless they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up
like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the
light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the
trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity,
having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the
province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter
Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of
the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow
bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,
surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the
precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many
years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a
simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous
days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of
his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he
was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed,
to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which
gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be
obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews
at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all
the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and
long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be
considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, rip Van Winkle was thrice
blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the
village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family
squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in
their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached.
He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly
kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a
troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all
kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or
perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece
on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would
never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building
stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run
their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging
husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to
anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping
his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most
pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it
went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among
the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere
else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some
out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled
away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left
than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the
worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody.
His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit
the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of father's
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with, one hand, as
a fine lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown,
whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have
whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he
was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night her tongue was
incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a
torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all
lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing.
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house--the only
side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as
his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness,
and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an
honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the
woods--but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting
terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest
fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he
sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly
to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled
on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only
edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to
console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual
club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village;
which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a
rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in
the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have
been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions
that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their
hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the
contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school-master, a dapper
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in
the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events
some months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a
patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he
took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid
the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could
tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true
he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His
adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly
understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was
read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe
vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in
light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and
letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head
in token of perfect approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the
assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this
terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative,
to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take
gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat
himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized, as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor
Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by
thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if
dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all
his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously
scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was
after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had
echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he
threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with
mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening
between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile
of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below
him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a
purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its
glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely,
and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw
that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved
a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van
Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing
but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his
fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard
the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van
Winkle!"--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low
growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen.
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in
the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the
rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He
was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place;
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance,
he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the
stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick
bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch
fashion: a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several pair of breeches,
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the
sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him
with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one another,
they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals
like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He
paused for a moment, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those
transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small
amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of
which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses
of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip
and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild
mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the
unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves.
On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages
playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and
most of them had enormous breeches of similar style with that of the
guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large beard, broad
face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist
entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off
with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and
colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old
gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet,
broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the
figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the
village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the
settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed
along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their
play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such
strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within
him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents
of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in
profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no
eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of
the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was
soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he
reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were
overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he
fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the
old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright, sunny morning.
The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought
Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before
he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor--the mountain
ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the woe-begone party at
ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought
Rip--"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted
with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected
that the grave roisterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and,
having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge.
He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he
met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk,
he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity.
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a
blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into
the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the
preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now
foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with
babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working
his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witchhazel, and
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their
coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his
path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to
the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks
presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling
in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to
a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry
tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation,
seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to
be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of
his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet
his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his
head, shouldered the rusty fire-lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and
anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he
knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted
with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with
equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him,
invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture
induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he
found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children
ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The
dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked
at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more
populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and
those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names
were over the doors--strange faces at the windows,--everything was strange.
His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world
around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he
had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains--there ran
the silver Hudson at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as
it had always been--Rip was sorely perplexed--"That flagon last night,"
thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which
he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill
voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the roof fallen
in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog
that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but
the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut
indeed--"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always
kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This
desolateness overcame all his connubial fears--he called loudly for his
wife and children--the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice,
and then again all was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn--but
it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place,
with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and
petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something
on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a
flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes--all this was
strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby
face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but
even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a
busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas
Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering
clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the
schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place
of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand
bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of
citizens--elections--members of congress--liberty--Bunker's Hill--heroes of
seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the
bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled heard, his rusty
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern-politicians. They crowded
round him, eying him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator
bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side
he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little
fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear,
"Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to
comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van
Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an
austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder
and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the
village?"--"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor
quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God
bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders--"A tory! a tory! a spy! a
refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the
self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a
tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he
came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him
that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his
neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well--who are they?--name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin,
piping voice: "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen
years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all
about him, but that's rotten and gone too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was
killed at the storming of Stony Point--others say he was drowned in a
squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know--he never came back
again."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in
Congress."
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled
him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which
he could not understand: war--Congress--Stony Point; he had no courage to
ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here
know Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip
Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the
mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was
now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was
himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself--I'm somebody
else--that's me yonder--no--that's somebody else got into my shoes--I was
myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed
my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's
my name, or who I am!"
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly,
and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also,
about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at
the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat
retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to
cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt
you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice,
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my
good woman?" asked he.
"Judith Gardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he
went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since,--his
dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away
by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."
Rip had but one question more to ask; and he put it with a faltering
voice:--
"Where's your mother?"
"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a
fit of passion at a New England peddler."
There was a drop of comfort at least, in this intelligence. The honest man
could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in
his arms. "I am your father!" cried he--"Young Rip Van Winkle once--old Rip
Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd,
put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment,
exclaimed, "Sure enough, it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself! Welcome home
again, old neighbor--Why, where have you been these twenty long years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but
as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth and shook his
head--upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the
assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk,
who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the
historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He
recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most
satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down
from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always
been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind
of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being
permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a
guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his
father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in
a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer
afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more
important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live
with her; she had a snug well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to
climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the
farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but
his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former
cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and
preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon
grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once
more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the
war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of
gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken
place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war--that
the country had thrown off the yoke of old England--and that, instead of
being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen
of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of
states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that
was--petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck
out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased,
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was
mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up
his eyes, which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his
fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's
hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told
it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at
last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man,
woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of
his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty.
The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit.
Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their
game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the
neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
HELPS TO STUDY.
The three stages of the story are: The sleep, the return, the recognition.
Through them all personal identity remains.
Notes and Questions.
Rip Van Winkle--the man: his characteristics, habits, family.
The place: the village, the inn, the surroundings, the times.
The autumn ramble: the woods, the dog, the gun, the Hudson, the stranger,
the "ninepins" company, the flagon, the waking--the changed scenes.
The afternoon of the day, the afternoon of the year (autumn), and the
afternoon of life (old man) are chosen by the author.
What is the fitness in selecting a village near the mountains? Why choose a
village at all?
Note the civic progress of the people--the change from a royal dependency
to an independent republic.
Locate on the map the scene of this selection and tell the period in which
it occurred. Point out parts of the story that tell you when it happened.
Select descriptions in this selection that are especially pleasing.
Words and Phrases, for Discussion
"puzzled"
"peddler"
"self-important man"
"enormous"
"austere"
"vacant stupidity"
"fatigued"
"Tory"
"well-oiled disposition"
"grizzled"
"cocked hat"
"torrent of household eloquence"
"transient"
"ruby face"
"desolateness"
"gaping windows"
* * * * *
THE VOYAGE
From "The Sketch Book," by
WASHINGTON IRVING
Ships, ships, I will descrie you
Amidst the main,
I will come and try you,
What you are protecting,
And projecting,
What's your end and aim.
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading.
Another stays to keep his country from invading,
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading.
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?
--OLD POEM.
To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an
excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and
employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and
vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres
is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend
almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight
of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite
shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another
world.
In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene and a connected
succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and
lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, "a
lengthening chain," at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is
unbroken: we can trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last
still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It
makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled
life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not
merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes--a gulf subject to
tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and return
precarious.
Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my
native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had
closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for
meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my
view, which contained all most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might
occur in it--what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it
again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven
by the uncertain currents of existence; or when he may return; or whether
it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood?
I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the expression. To one
given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage
is full of subjects for meditation: but then they are the wonders of the
deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly
themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the
maintop, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom
of a summer's sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering
above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with, a
creation of my own;--to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their
silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores.
There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I
looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their
uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship,
the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous
shark, darting, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination
would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath
me; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless
monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth; and of those
wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors.
Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be
another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a
world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What a glorious
monument of human invention; which has in a manner triumphed over wind and
wave; has brought the ends of the world into communion; has established an
interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all
the luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge and the
charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered
portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an
insurmountable barrier.
We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea,
everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts
attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been
completely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which
some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their
being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the
ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many
months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds
flaunted at its sides! But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle
has long been over--they have gone down amidst the roar of the
tempest--their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence,
oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the
story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship! what
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the
mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some
casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened
into anxiety--anxiety into dread--and dread into despair! Alas! not one
memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known,
is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of more!"
The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This
was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had
hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave
indications of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes break in
upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a
lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale
of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one
related by the captain.
"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship across the banks of
Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which prevail in those parts rendered
it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night the
weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the
length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch
forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were
going at a great fate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm
of 'a sail ahead!'--it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She
was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew
were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just
amidships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel bore her down
below the waves; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the
crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three
half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started from their
beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of
all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before
we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as
nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We
cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and
listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors: but all was
silent--we never saw or heard anything of them more."
I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The
storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous
confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken
surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black column of clouds overhead
seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the
foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The
thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and
prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging
among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her
balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water: her
bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge
appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of
the helm preserved her from the shock.
When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. The
whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funereal wailings.
The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the
ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves
rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed
as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey:
the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him
entrance.
A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all
these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the
gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is
decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over
the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears--how she seems to
lord it over the deep!
I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is
almost a continual reverie--but it is time to get to shore.
It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land!" was given
from the mast-head. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea
of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom,
when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations
with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of
which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have
pondered.
From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish excitement.
The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the
headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains,
towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we
sailed up the Mersey I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye
dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green
grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and
the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring
hill--all were characteristic of England.
The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to come at
once to the pier. It was thronged with people; some, idle lookers-on,
others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the
merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow
and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling
thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded
him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were
repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the
ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed
one young woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning
forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared
the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed
and agitated; when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor
sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of
every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a
mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so
increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that
he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came
up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance
so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of
affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye
darted on his features; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow; she
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in
silent agony.
All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances--the greetings
of friends--the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and
idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the
land of my forefathers--but felt that I was a stranger in the land.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
Why did the author realize so clearly the extent of the journey he had
undertaken?
How many days do you think Irving was on the ocean?
What change has taken place in the method of ocean travel since he made
this voyage?
Find words and lines which tell you the kind of vessel in which he crossed
the ocean.
Had Irving greater opportunity for observing "the monsters of the deep"
than is afforded people crossing the ocean at the present day? Why do you
think so?
What does Irving say is a "glorious monument of human invention"?
Name some inventions which seem to you more worthy of this designation.
Find the paragraph which describes the mast of a ship that was wrecked.
How does this description compare with his description of the "monsters of
the deep"?
Which description in this selection do you like best? Why?
What do you think of Irving's powers of description?
What does this sketch tell you of Irving's own character?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"undulating billows"
"idle speculation"
"reconnoitred"
"delicious sensation"
"dread"
"abbey"
"wild phantasms"
"despair"
"anxiety"
"monument of human invention"
"prowled like guardian giants"
"light of knowledge"
"insurmountable barrier"
"dismal anecdotes"
* * * * *
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
The ancestors of Hawthorne, unlike those of most of the New England
writers, were not of the clergy, but were seamen, soldiers, and
magistrates. Concerning one of these, a judge who dealt harshly with the
Salem witches, Hawthorne writes: "I take shame upon myself for their sakes
and yet strong traits of their nature have intertwined themselves with
mine." Hawthorne was born in Salem, Massachusetts, July 4, 1804, and when
only four years old lost his father, a sea captain.
The happiest years of his boyhood were spent at his uncle's home in the
forests of Maine. Here he loved to wander through the woods, afterwards
recording carefully his observations. His early education was rather
irregular; however, for a time he had for schoolmaster, Worcester, the
author of the dictionary. At Bowdoin college his studies were largely
literary. His life at college is chiefly remarkable for the friendships
formed there. Both Franklin Pierce, who later became president of the
United States, and Longfellow, the poet, were members of his class.
After graduation in 1825, while Longfellow was traveling in many lands and
yielding himself to the charm of mediæval history and legend, Hawthorne
drifted into a strange mode of life, virtually disappearing from the world
for a dozen years and living in actual solitude. "I have made a captive of
myself," he wrote to Longfellow, "and put me into a dungeon; and now I
cannot find the key to let myself out." But the key was found. The
appreciation of Elizabeth and Sophia Peabody and the deep affection for the
latter acted as a spur to get him into active life. At thirty-eight he
married Sophia Peabody and took up courageously enough a life of poverty
and hard literary work at Concord in the Old Manse, which had formerly been
Emerson's home. There he came to know and value the friendship of Emerson,
who we may well believe was the inspiration of the allegory of the Great
Stone Face.
In curious contradiction with his natural love for solitude, Hawthorne
became interested in the experiment of communal life and spent the year
before his marriage at Brook Farm, where a number of literary men tried to
live simply and happily by combining intellectual and manual work.
During the years of his solitude he wrote incessantly and composed many of
those sketches of the fancy which won for him his peculiar place in
literature. Many of these sketches appeared in the collection "Twice Told
Tales." For children he has written the little stories and biographies of
"Grandfather's Chair" and the story of Greek and Roman Myths in his
"Wonder-Book" and "Tanglewood Tales." Sin and the effect of guilt upon
human conduct are the problems in his great romances.
Many of our literary men have held public positions, sometimes to help out
the meager financial returns of literary work, but more often because they
would bring honor to these positions. Hawthorne successively filled the
offices of weigher and gauger in the Boston Custom House, collector of
customs at Salem, and American consul at Liverpool, having been appointed
as consul by his old friend President Pierce. After four years' residence
in England he resigned his consulship and spent several years in travel on
the continent, spending two winters in Rome. Here he conceived his "Marble
Faun," which, though given an Italian setting, embodies the same problem of
conscience that we find in his earlier "Scarlet Letter."
In June, 1860, he returned to America. He was deeply agitated by the Civil
War, the more so because his sympathies were not entirely with his Northern
friends. In May, 1864, his old friend General Pierce suggested that they
make a journey to the scenes of their college days. On their way they
stopped at Plymouth, New Hampshire, and there, early on the morning of the
nineteenth, he passed quietly away.
* * * * *
THE GREAT STONE FACE
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat
at the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had
but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles
away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.
And what was the Great Stone Face?
Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so
spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. Some of these good
people dwelt in log-huts, with the black forest all around them, on the
steep and difficult hillsides. Others had their homes in comfortable
farm-houses, and cultivated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level
surfaces of the valley. Others, again, were congregated into populous
villages, where some wild, highland rivulet, tumbling down from its
birthplace in the upper mountain region, had been caught and tamed by human
cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton-factories. The
inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of
life. But all of them, grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity
with the Great Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of
distinguishing this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of
their neighbors.
The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestic
playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense
rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at
a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human
countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured
his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the
forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the
vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their
thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other. True it is, that
if the spectator approached too near, he lost the outline of the gigantic
visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks,
piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the
wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther he withdrew from
them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity intact,
did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and
glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the Great Stone Face
seemed positively to be alive.
It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the
Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and
the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a
vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room
for more. It was an education only to look at it. According to the belief
of many people, the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect
that was continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing
its tenderness into the sunshine.
As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their
cottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The
child's name was Ernest.
"Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, "I wish that it
could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs be
pleasant. If I were to see a man with such a face, I should love him
dearly."
"If an old prophecy should come to pass," answered his mother, "we may see
a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that."
"What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?" eagerly inquired Ernest. "Pray
tell me all about it!"
So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when
she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that
were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old,
that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it
from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by
the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. The
purport was, that, at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts,
who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time,
and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the
Great Stone Face. Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise,
in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this old
prophecy. But others, who had seen more of the world, had watched and
waited till they were weary, and had beheld no man with such a face, nor
any man that proved to be much greater or nobler than his neighbors,
concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. At all events, the great man
of the prophecy had not yet appeared.
"O mother, dear mother!" cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head,
"I do hope that I shall live to see him!"
His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it was
wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. So she only
said to him, "Perhaps you may."
And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always
in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his
childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his
mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his
little hands, and more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy
yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy,
and sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence
brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have been taught at
famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great
Stone Face became one to him. When the toil of the day was over, he would
gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features
recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement,
responsive to his own look of veneration. We must not take upon us to
affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no more
kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. But the secret was that the
boy's tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not
see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar
portion.
About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the great
man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the
Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years before, a
young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport,
where, after getting together a little money, he had set up as a
shopkeeper. His name--but I could never learn whether it was his real one,
or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life--was
Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed by Providence with that
inscrutable faculty which develops itself in what the world calls luck, he
became an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet of
bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands
for the mere purpose of adding heap after heap to the mountainous
accumulation of this one man's wealth. The cold regions of the north,
almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their
tribute in the shape of furs; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands of
her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of
the forests; the East came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and
teas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large
pearls. The ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her
mighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit
on it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was gold within his
grasp. It might be said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever he
touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was
changed at once into sterling metal, or, which suited him still better,
into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich that
it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he
bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither,
and end his days where he was born. With this purpose in view, he sent a
skilful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of
his vast wealth to live in.
As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr.
Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly
looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable similitude
of the Great Stone Face. People were the more ready to believe that this
must needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as
if by enchantment, on the site of his father's old weather-beaten
farm-house. The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed
as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those
humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young play-days, before his
fingers were gifted with the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to
build of snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall
pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and
made of a kind of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the
sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment,
were composed, respectively, of but one enormous pane of glass, so
transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even the
vacant atmosphere. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of
this palace; but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be
far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or
brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr. Gathergold's
bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance that no ordinary
man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand,
Mr. Gathergold was now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he could not have
closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way
beneath his eyelids.
In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with
magnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the
harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected
to arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred
by the idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after
so many ages of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native
valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which
Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel
of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as wide and
benignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope,
Ernest doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he was
to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the
mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying,
as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked
kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along
the winding road.
"Here he comes!" cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the
arrival. "Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!" A carriage, drawn by four
horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of
the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow
as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small,
sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips,
which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.
"The very image of the Great Stone Face!" shouted the people. "Sure enough,
the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come, at last!"
And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that
here was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to
be an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some
far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands
and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A
yellow claw--the very same that had clawed together so much wealth--poked
itself out of the coach-window, and dropt some copper coins upon the
ground; so that, though the great man's name seems to have been Gathergold,
he might just as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still,
nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith
as ever, the people bellowed,--
"He is the very image of the Great Stone Pace!"
But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage,
and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last
sun beams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had
impressed themselves into his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the
benign lips seem to say?
"He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!"
The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown, to be a
young man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the
valley; for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, save that, when
the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and
meditate upon the Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the matter,
it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as Ernest was industrious,
kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this
idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to
him, and that the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the
young man's heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other
hearts. They knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than could be
learned from books, and a better life than could be moulded on the defaced
example of other human lives. Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and
affections which came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the
fireside, and wherever he communed with himself, were of a higher tone than
those which all men shared with him. A simple soul,--simple as when his
mother first taught him the old prophecy,--he beheld the marvelous features
beaming adown the valley, and still wondered that their human counterpart
was so long in making his appearance.
By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part
of the matter was, that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his
existence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a
living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the
melting away of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that there
was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features
of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountainside. So the
people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned him
to forgetfulness after his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory
was brought up in connection with the magnificent palace which he had
built, and which had long ago been turned into a hotel for the
accommodation of strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit
that famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. Gathergold
being discredited and thrown into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to
come.
It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had
enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now
become an illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he
was known in camps and on the battle-field under the nickname of Old
Blood-and-Thunder. This war-worn veteran, being now infirm with age and
wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military life, and of the roll of the
drum and the clangor of the trumpet, that had so long been ringing in his
ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning to his native valley,
hoping to find repose where he remembered to have left it. The inhabitants,
his old neighbors and their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the
renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a public dinner; and all the
more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of
the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An aid-de-camp of Old
Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley, was said to have been
struck with the resemblance. Moreover the schoolmates and early
acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the
best of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like
the majestic image, even when a boy, only that the idea had never occurred
to them at that period. Great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the
valley; and many people, who had never once thought of glancing at the
Great Stone Face for years before, now spent their time in gazing at it,
for the sake of knowing exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked.
On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of the
valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet
was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast
was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on
the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. The
tables were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the
surrounding trees, except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a
distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the general's chair, which was a
relic from the home of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs,
with the laurel profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country's
banner, beneath which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised
himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest;
but there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts
and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from the general in
reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly
with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. So
Ernest, being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into the
background, where he could see no more of Old Blood-and-Thunder's
physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on the battle-field. To
console himself, he turned towards the Great Stone Face, which, like a
faithful and long-remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him
through the vista of the forest. Meanwhile, however, he could overhear the
remarks of various individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero
with the face on the distant mountain-side.
"'Tis the same face, to a hair!" cried one man, cutting a caper for joy.
"Wonderfully like, that's a fact!" responded another.
"Like! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous
looking-glass!" cried a third. "And why not? He's the greatest man of this
or any other age, beyond a doubt."
And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicated
electricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thousand voices,
that went reverberating for miles among the mountains, until you might have
supposed that the Great Stone Face had poured its thunder-breath into the
cry. All these comments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the more to
interest our friend; nor did he think of questioning that now, at length,
the mountain-visage had found its human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had
imagined that this long-looked-for personage would appear in the character
of a man of peace, uttering wisdom, and doing good, and making people
happy. But, taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he
contended that Providence should choose its own method of blessing mankind,
and could conceive that this great end might be effected even by a warrior
and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so.
"The general! the general!" was now the cry. "Hush! silence! Old
Blood-and-Thunder's going to make a speech."
Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general's health had been drunk,
amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the
company. Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd,
from the two glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the
arch of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if
to shade his brow! And there, too, visible in the same glance, through the
vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone Face! And was there, indeed,
such a resemblance as the crowd had testified? Alas, Ernest could not
recognize it! He beheld a war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of
energy, and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep,
broad, tender sympathies, were altogether wanting in Old
Blood-and-Thunder's visage; and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed
his look of stern command, the milder traits would still have tempered it.
"This is not the man of prophecy," sighed Ernest to himself, as he made his
way out of the throng. "And must the world wait longer yet?"
The mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, and there were
seen the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but
benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and enrobing
himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could
hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a
radiance still brightening, although without motion of the lips. It was
probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting through the thinly
diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object that he gazed at.
But--as it always did--the aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest as
hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.
"Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the Great Face were
whispering him,--"fear not, Ernest; he will come." More years sped swiftly
and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a
man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he had become known among the
people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same
simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thought and felt so
much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes
for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had been
talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom
unawares. It was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his
daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all
along its course. Not a day passed by, that the world was not the better
because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from
his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost
involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity
of his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in the good
deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth in speech. He
uttered truths that wrought upon and moulded the lives of those who heard
him. His auditors, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own
neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man; least of all
did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as the murmur of a rivulet,
came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken.
When the people's minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready
enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between
General Blood-and-Thunder's truculent physiognomy and the benign visage on
the mountain-side. But now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs
in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face had
appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. He, like
Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the valley, but
had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and politics.
Instead of the rich man's wealth and the warrior's sword, he had but a
tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was
he, that whatever he might choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to
believe him; wrong looked like right, and right like wrong; for when it
pleased him, he could make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath,
and obscure the natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic
instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled
like the sweetest music. It was the blast of war,--the song of peace; and
it seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no such matter. In good
truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all
other imaginable success,--when it had been heard in halls of state, and in
the courts of princes and potentates,--after it had made him known all over
the world, even as a voice crying from shore to shore,--it finally
persuaded his countrymen to select him for the Presidency. Before this
time,--indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated,--his admirers had
found out the resemblance between him and the Great Stone Face; and so much
were they struck by it, that throughout the country this distinguished
gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase was
considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his political prospects;
for, as is likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody ever becomes
President without taking a name other than his own.
While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony
Phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born.
Of course, he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow
citizens, and neither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress
through the country might have upon the election. Magnificent preparations
were made to receive the illustrious statesman; a cavalcade of horsemen set
forth to meet him at the boundary line of the State, and all the people
left their business and gathered along the wayside to see him pass. Among
these was Ernest. Though more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he
had such a hopeful and confiding nature, that he was always ready to
believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart
continually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high when
it should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold
the likeness of the Great Stone Face. The cavalcade came prancing along the
road, with a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which
rose up so dense and high that the visage of the mountain-side was
completely hidden from Ernest's eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood
were there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; the member of
Congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a
farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his
back. It really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were
numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were
gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great Stone Face,
smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. If the pictures were
to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvelous.
We must not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made
the echoes of the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud triumph of
its strains; so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all
the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a
voice, to welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when
the far-off mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the Great
Stone Face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in
acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy was come.
All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with
enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he
likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, "Huzza
for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony Phiz!" But as yet he had not seen
him.
"Here he is, now!" cried those who stood near Ernest. "There! There! Look
at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if they
are not as like as two twin-brothers!"
In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four
white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the
illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.
"Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to him, "the Great Stone Face
has met its match at last!"
Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which
was bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a
resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain-side.
The brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features,
indeed, were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than
heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sublimity and stateliness, the grand
expression of a divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage and
etherealized its ponderous granite substance into spirit, might here be
sought in vain. Something had been originally left out, or had departed.
And therefore the marvelously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in
the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its
playthings or a man of mighty faculties and little aims, whose life, with
all its high performances, was vague and empty, because no high purpose had
endowed it with reality.
Still, Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and
pressing him for an answer.
"Confess! confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the
Mountain?"
"No!" said Ernest, bluntly, "I see little or no likeness."
"Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!" answered his neighbor;
and again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.
But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent: for this was the
saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled
the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the
banners, the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous
crowd in the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone
Face to be revealed again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold
centuries.
"Lo, here I am, Ernest!" the benign lips seemed to say. "I have waited
longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come."
The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's heels.
And now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of
Ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his
cheeks. He was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old: more than the
white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles
and furrows were inscriptions that Time had graved, and in which he had
written legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. And
Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the fame
which so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond the
limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. College professors,
and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and converse with
Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had
ideas unlike those of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher
tone,--a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with the
angels as his daily friends. Whether it were sage, statesman, or
philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity
that had characterized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of
whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While
they talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them,
as with a mild evening light. Pensive with the fulness of such discourse,
his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the valley, paused
to look at the Great Stone Face, imagining that they had seen its likeness
in a human countenance, but could not remember where.
While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence
had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the
valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that
romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of
cities. Often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in
his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his
poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten, for the poet had
celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have been uttered by its
own majestic lips. This man of genius, we may say, had come down from
heaven with wonderful endowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all
mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to
its summit, than had before been seen there. If his theme were a lovely
lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam forever on
its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its
dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the
song. Thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that
the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed him, as
the last best touch to his own handiwork. Creation was not finished till
the poet came to interpret, and so complete it.
The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human brethren were the
subject of his verse. The man or woman, sordid with the common dust of
life, who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in it,
were glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the
golden links of the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic
kindred; he brought out the hidden traits of a celestial birth that made
them worthy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the
soundness of their judgment by affirming that all the beauty and dignity of
the natural world existed only in the poet's fancy. Let such men speak for
themselves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature
with a contemptuous bitterness; she having plastered them up out of her
refuse stuff, after all the swine were made. As respects all things else,
the poet's ideal was the truest truth.
The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his
customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage-door, where for such
a length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the
Great Stone Face. And now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill
within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so
benignantly.
"O majestic friend," he murmured, addressing the Great Stone Face, "is not
this man worthy to resemble thee?"
The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.
Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only
heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed
nothing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand
in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning,
therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the
afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from Ernest's
cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace of Mr.
Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his carpetbag on his arm,
inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be accepted as his
guest.
Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in
his hand, which alternately he read, and then, with a finger between the
leaves, looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face.
"Good evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveler a night's lodging?"
"Willingly," answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, "Methinks I never
saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger."
The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked
together. Often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the
wisest, but never before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and
feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths
so familiar by his simple utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often
said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels
seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and, dwelling with angels as
friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and
imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. So thought the
poet. And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated by the living
images which the poet flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air
about the cottage-door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. The
sympathies of these two men instructed them with a profounder sense than
either could have attained alone. Their minds accorded into one strain, and
made delightful music which neither of them could have claimed as all his
own, nor distinguished his own share from the other's. They led one
another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so remote, and
hitherto so dim, that they had never entered it before, and so beautiful
that they desired to be there always.
As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was
bending forward to listen too. He gazed earnestly into the poet's glowing
eyes.
"Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?" he said. The poet laid his finger
on the volume that Ernest had been reading.
"You have read these poems," said he. "You know me, then,--for I wrote
them."
Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet's
features; then turned towards the Great Stone Face; then back, with an
uncertain aspect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he shook his
head, and sighed.
"Wherefore are you sad?" inquired the poet.
"Because," replied Ernest, "all through life I have awaited the fulfilment
of a prophecy; and, when I read these poems, I hoped that it might be
fulfilled in you."
"You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in me the
likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly
with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes,
Ernest, it is my doom. You must add my name to the illustrious three, and
record another failure of your hopes. For--in shame and sadness do I speak
it, Ernest--I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic
image."
"And why?" asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. "Are not those thoughts
divine?"
"They have a strain of the Divinity," replied the poet. "You can hear in
them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, has not
corresponded with my thought. I have had grand dreams, but they have been
only dreams, because I have lived--and that, too, by my own choice--among
poor and mean realities. Sometimes even--shall I dare to say it?--I lack
faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, which my own works are
said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then, pure
seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me, in yonder image
of the divine?"
The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were
those of Ernest.
At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to
discourse to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air.
He and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along,
proceeded to the spot. It was a small nook among the hills, with a gray
precipice behind, the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant
foliage of many creeping plants that made a tapestry for the naked rock, by
hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At a small elevation
above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there appeared a
niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure, with freedom for such
gestures as spontaneously accompany earnest thought and genuine emotion.
Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar
kindness around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the
grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine falling
obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the
solemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which
the golden rays were constrained to pass. In another direction was seen the
Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in
its benignant aspect.
Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and
mind. His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his
thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which
he had always lived. It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered;
they were the words of life, because a life of good deeds and holy love was
melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich, had been dissolved into this
precious draught. The poet, as he listened, felt that the being and
character of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had ever
written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially at the
venerable man, and said within himself that never was there an aspect so
worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance,
with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a distance, but
distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun,
appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the white
hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of grand beneficence seemed to
embrace the world.
At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the
face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with
benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms
aloft, and shouted,--
"Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone Face!"
Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said
was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he
had to say, took the poet's arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping
that some wiser and better man than himself would by and by appear, bearing
a resemblance to the GREAT STONE FACE.
HELPS TO STUDY.
Notes and Questions.
What part of the description of the Great Stone Face do you like the best?
What influence had this Face upon the valley? Upon the clouds? Upon the
sunshine?
Show how each of the four characters failed to realize the ideal.
What purpose do you think Hawthorne had in creating these characters?
Why did so many people think that each of these men was the image of the
Great Stone Face?
Why did not Ernest think so?
What were the characteristics of the ideal? What words name them?
What does the Great Stone Face symbolize?
What words tell you the source of Ernest's power?
What lines tell you of his humility?
Summarize his characteristics.
What pictures do you find in the selection?
Point out sentences that contain examples of alliteration.
Find a humorous sentence.
Who were the Titans?
Who was Midas?
Words and Phrases for Discussion.
"infusing its tenderness into the sunshine"
"transform himself into an angel of beneficence"
"the mountain visage had found its human counterpart"
"a kind of illuminated fog"
"the prophecy was fulfilled"
* * * * *
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Never did a pilgrim approach Niagara with deeper enthusiasm than mine. I
had lingered away from it, and wandered to other scenes, because my
treasury of anticipated enjoyments, comprising all the wonders of the
world, had nothing else so magnificent, and I was loath to exchange the
pleasures of hope for those of memory so soon. At length the day came. The
stage-coach, with a Frenchman and myself on the back seat, had already left
Lewiston, and in less than an hour would set us down in Manchester. I began
to listen for the roar of the cataract, and trembled with a sensation like
dread, as the moment drew nigh, when its voice of ages must roll, for the
first time, on my ear. The French gentleman stretched himself from the
window, and expressed loud admiration, while, by a sudden impulse, I threw
myself back and closed my eyes. When the scene shut in, I was glad to
think, that for me the whole burst of Niagara was yet in futurity. We
rolled on, and entered the village of Manchester, bordering on the falls.
I am quite ashamed of myself here. Not that I ran like a madman to the
falls, and plunged into the thickest of the spray,--never stopping to
breathe, till breathing was impossible; not that I committed this, or any
other suitable extravagance. On the contrary, I alighted with perfect
decency and composure, gave my cloak to the black waiter, pointed out my
baggage, and inquired, not the nearest way to the cataract, but about the
dinner-hour. The interval was spent in arranging my dress. Within the last
fifteen minutes, my mind had grown strangely benumbed, and my spirits
apathetic, with a slight depression, not decided enough to be termed
sadness. My enthusiasm was in a deathlike slumber. Without aspiring to
immortality, as he did, I could have imitated that English traveller, who
turned back from the point where he first heard the thunder of Niagara,
after crossing the ocean to behold it. Many a Western trader, by the by,
has performed a similar act of heroism with more heroic simplicity, deeming
it no such wonderful feat to dine at the hotel and resume his route to
Buffalo or Lewiston, while the cataract was roaring unseen.
Such has often been my apathy, when objects, long sought, and earnestly
desired, were placed within my reach. After dinner--at which an unwonted
and perverse epicurism detained me longer than usual--I lighted a cigar and
paced the piazza, minutely attentive to the aspect and business of a very
ordinary village. Finally, with reluctant step, and the feeling of an
intruder, I walked towards Goat Island. At the toll-house, there were
farther excuses for delaying the inevitable moment. My signature was
required in a huge ledger, containing similar records innumerable, many of
which I read. The skin of a great sturgeon, and other fishes, beasts, and
reptiles; a collection of minerals, such as lie in heaps near the falls;
some Indian moccasins, and other trifles, made of deer-skin and embroidered
with beads; several newspapers, from Montreal, New York, and Boston,--all
attracted me in turn. Out of a number of twisted sticks, the manufacture of
a Tuscarora Indian, I selected one of curled maple, curiously convoluted,
and adorned with the carved images of a snake and a fish. Using this as my
pilgrim's staff, I crossed the bridge. Above and below me were the rapids,
a river of impetuous snow, with here and there a dark rock amid its
whiteness, resisting all the physical fury, as any cold spirit did the
moral influences of the scene. On reaching Goat Island, which separates the
two great segments of the falls, I chose the right-hand path, and followed
it to the edge of the American cascade. There, while the falling sheet was
yet invisible, I saw the vapor that never vanishes, and the Eternal Rainbow
of Niagara.
It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine, without a cloud, save those of
the cataracts. I gained an insulated rock, and beheld a broad sheet of
brilliant and unbroken foam, not shooting in a curbed line from the top of
the precipice, but falling, headlong down from height to depth. A narrow
stream diverged from the main branch, and hurried over the crag by a
channel of its own, leaving a little pine-clad island and a streak of
precipice between itself and the larger sheet. Below arose the mist, on
which was painted a dazzling sunbow with two concentric shadows,--one,
almost as perfect as the original brightness; and the other, drawn faintly
round the broken edge of the cloud.
Still I had not half seen Niagara. Following the verge of the island, the
path led me to the Horseshoe, where the real, broad St. Lawrence, rushing
along on a level with its banks, pours its whole breadth over a concave
line of precipice, and thence pursues its course between lofty crags
towards Ontario. A sort of bridge, two or three feet wide, stretches out
along the edge of the descending sheet, and hangs upon the rising mist, as
if that were the foundation of the frail structure. Here I stationed myself
in the blast of wind, which the rushing river bore along with it. The
bridge was tremulous beneath me, and marked the tremor of the solid earth.
I looked along the whitening rapids, and endeavored to distinguish a mass
of water far above the falls, to follow it to their verge, and go down with
it, in fancy, to the abyss of clouds and storm. Casting my eyes across the
river, and every side, I took in the whole scene at a glance, and tried to
comprehend it in one vast idea. After an hour thus spent, I left the
bridge, and by a staircase, winding almost interminably round a post,
descended to the base of the precipice. From that point, my path lay over
slippery stones, and among great fragments of the cliff, to the edge of the
cataract, where the wind at once enveloped me in spray, and perhaps dashed
the rainbow round me. Were my long desires fulfilled? And had I seen
Niagara?