Chiefly About War Matters / Nathaniel Hawthorne

There is no remoteness of life and thought, no hermetically sealed

seclusion, except, possibly, that of the grave, into which the

disturbing influences of this war do not penetrate. Of course, the

general heart-quake of the country long ago knocked at my cottage-door,

and compelled me, reluctantly, to suspend the contemplation of certain

fantasies, to which, according to my harmless custom, I was endeavoring

to give a sufficiently life-like aspect to admit of their figuring in a

romance. As I make no pretensions to state-craft or soldiership, and

could promote the common weal neither by valor nor counsel, it seemed,

at first, a pity that I should be debarred from such unsubstantial

business as I had contrived for myself, since nothing more genuine was

to be substituted for it.

The Wives of The Dead / Nathaniel Hawthorne

The following story, the simple and domestic incidents of which may be

deemed scarcely worth relating, after such a lapse of time, awakened some

degree of interest, a hundred years ago, in a principal seaport of the

Bay Province. The rainy twilight of an autumn day,--a parlor on the

second floor of a small house, plainly furnished, as beseemed the

middling circumstances of its inhabitants, yet decorated with little

curiosities from beyond the sea, and a few delicate specimens of Indian

manufacture,--these are the only particulars to be premised in regard to

scene and season. Two young and comely women sat together by the

fireside, nursing their mutual and peculiar sorrows. They were the

recent brides of two brothers, a sailor and a landsman, and two

successive days had brought tidings of the death of each, by the chances

of Canadian warfare and the tempestuous Atlantic.

The White Old Maid / Nathaniel Hawthorne

The moonbeams came through two deep and narrow windows, and showed a

spacious chamber, richly furnished in an antique fashion. From one

lattice, the shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon the floor;

the ghostly light, through the other, slept upon a bed, falling

between the heavy silken curtains, and illuminating the face of a

young man. But, how quietly the slumberer lay! how pale his features!

and how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his frame! Yes; it

was a corpse, in its burial-clothes.

The Vision of the Fountain / Nathaniel Hawthorne

At fifteen, I became a resident in a country village, more than a hundred

miles from home. The morning after my arrival--a September morning, but

warm and bright as any in July--I rambled into a wood of oaks, with a few

walnut-trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. The

ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young

saplings, and traversed only by cattle-paths. The track, which I chanced

to follow, led me to a crystal spring, with a border of grass, as freshly

green as on May morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak.

One solitary sunbeam found its way down, and played like a goldfish in

the water.

A Virtuoso's Collection / Nathaniel Hawthorne

The other day, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I stepped into

a new museum, to which my notice was casually drawn by a small and

unobtrusive sign: "TO BE SEEN HERE, A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION." Such

was the simple yet not altogether unpromising announcement that

turned my steps aside for a little while from the sunny sidewalk of

our principal thoroughfare. Mounting a sombre staircase, I pushed

open a door at its summit, and found myself in the presence of a

person, who mentioned the moderate sum that would entitle me to

admittance.

"Three shillings, Massachusetts tenor," said he. "No, I mean half a

dollar, as you reckon in these days."

The Village Uncle / Nathaniel Hawthorne

An Imaginary Retrospect.

Come! another log upon the hearth. True, our little parlor is

comfortable, especially here, where the old man sits in his old arm-

chair; but on Thanksgiving night the blaze should dance high up the

chimney, and send a shower of sparks into the outer darkness. Toss

on an armful of those dry oak chips, the last relics of the Mermaid's

knee-timbers, the bones of your namesake, Susan. Higher yet, and

clearer be the blaze, till our cottage windows glow the ruddiest in

the village, and the light of our household mirth flash far across

the bay to Nahant. And now, come, Susan, come, my children, draw

your chairs round me, all of you. There is a dimness over your

figures! You sit quivering indistinctly with each motion of the

blaze, which eddies about you like a flood, so that you all have the

look of visions, or people that dwell only in the fire light, and

will vanish from existence, as completely as your own shadows, when

the flame shall sink among the embers.

The Toll Gatherer's Day / Nathaniel Hawthorne

A Sketch of Transitory Life.

Methinks, for a person whose instinct bids him rather to pore over the

current of life, than to plunge into its tumultuous waves, no

undesirable retreat were a toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare

of the land. In youth, perhaps, it is good for the observer to run

about the earth, to leave the track of his footsteps far and wide,--

to mingle himself with the action of numberless vicissitudes,--and,

finally, in some calm solitude, to feed a musing spirit on all that lie

has seen and felt. But there are natures too indolent, or too

sensitive, to endure the dust, the sunshine, or the rain, the turmoil of

moral and physical elements, to which all the wayfarers of the world

expose themselves. For such a mail, how pleasant a miracle, could life

be made to roll its variegated length by the threshold of his own

hermitage, and the great globe, as it were, perform its revolutions and

shift its thousand scenes before his eyes without whirling him onward in

its course. If any mortal be favored with a lot analogous to this, it is

the toll-gatherer.

Time's Portraiture / Nathaniel Hawthorne

Being the Carrier's Address to the Patrons of "The Salem Gazette" for

the 1st of January, 1838.

ADDRESS.

Kind Patrons:---We newspaper carriers are Time's errand-boys; and all

the year round, the old gentleman sends us from one of your doors to

another, to let you know what he is talking about and what he is doing.

We are a strange set of urchins; for, punctually on New Year's morning,

one and all of us are seized with a fit of rhyme, and breakforth in such

hideous strains, that it would be no wonder if the infant Year, with her

step upon the threshold, were frightened away by the discord with which

we strive to welcome her. On these occasions, most generous patrons,

you never fail to give us a taste of your bounty; but whether as a

reward for our verses, or to purchase a respite from further infliction

of them, is best known to your worshipful selves. Moreover, we, Time's

errand-boys as aforesaid, feel it incumbent upon us, on the first day of

every year, to present a sort of summary of our master's dealings with

the world, throughout the whole of the preceding twelvemonth.

The Threefold Destiny / Nathaniel Hawthorne

A Fairy Legend

I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing effect, so far

as my own mind was concerned, by imagining a train of incidents, in

which the spirit and mechanism of the fairy legend should be combined

with the characters and manners of familiar life. In the little tale

which follows, a subdued tinge of the wild and wonderful is thrown

over a sketch of New England personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped,

without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. Rather than a

story of events claiming to be real, it may be considered as an

allegory, such as the writers of the last century would have expressed

in the shape of an Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored to

give a more life-like warmth than could be infused into those fanciful

productions.

Sylph Etherege / Nathaniel Hawthorne

On a bright summer evening, two persons stood among the shrubbery of a

garden, stealthily watching a young girl, who sat in the window seat of a

neighboring mansion. One of these unseen observers, a gentleman, was

youthful, and had an air of high breeding and refinement, and a face

marked with intellect, though otherwise of unprepossessing aspect. His

features wore even an ominous, though somewhat mirthful expression, while

he pointed his long forefinger at the girl, and seemed to regard her as a

creature completely within the scope of his influence.

"The charm works!" said he, in a low, but emphatic whisper.

Sunday at Home / Nathaniel Hawthorne

Every Sabbath morning in the summer time I thrust back the curtain, to

watch the sunrise stealing down a steeple, which stands opposite my

chamber-window. First, the weathercock begins to flash; then, a fainter

lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the tower,

and causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold, as it points to

the gilded figure of the hour. Now, the loftiest window gleams, and now

the lower. The carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out.

At length, the morning glory, in its descent from heaven, comes down the

stone steps, one by one; and there stands the steeple, glowing with fresh

radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the

nooks of the adjacent buildings. Methinks, though the same sun brightens

it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar robe of brightness

for the Sabbath.

Snow Flakes / Nathaniel Hawthorne

There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning!-and, through

the partially frosted window-panes, I love to watch the gradual

beginning of the storm. A few feathery flakes are scattered widely

through the air, and hover downward with uncertain flight, now almost

alighting on the earth, now whirled again aloft into remote regions of

the atmosphere. These are not the big flakes, heavy with moisture,

which melt as they touch the ground, and are portentous of a soaking

rain. It is to be, in good earnest, a wintry storm. The two or three

people, visible on the side-walks, have an aspect of endurance, a

blue-nosed, frosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in

anticipation of a comfortless and blustering day. By nightfall, or at

least before the sun sheds another glimmering smile upon us, the

street and our little garden will be heaped with mountain snow-

drifts. The soil, already frozen for weeks past, is prepared to

sustain whatever burden may be laid upon it; and, to a northern eye,

the landscape will lose its melancholy bleakness and acquire a beauty

of its own, when Mother Earth, like her children, shall have put on

the fleecy garb of her winter's wear.

The Sister Years / Nathaniel Hawthorne

Last night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, when the Old Year was

leaving her final foot prints on the borders of Time's empire, she

found herself in possession of a few spare moments, and sat down--of

all places in the world--on the steps of our new City Hall. The

wintry moonlight showed that she looked weary of body, and sad of

heart, like many another wayfarer of earth. Her garments, having been

exposed to much foul weather, and rough usage, were in very ill

condition; and as the hurry of her journey had never before allowed

her to take an instant's rest, her shoes were so worn as to be

scarcely worth the mending. But, after trudging only a little

distance farther, this poor Old Year was destined to enjoy a long,

long sleep. I forgot to mention, that when she seated herself on the

steps, she deposited by her side a very capacious bandbox, in which,

as is the custom among travellers of her sex, she carried a great deal

of valuable property. Besides this luggage, there was a folio book

under her arm, very much resembling the annual volume of a newspaper.

Placing this volume across her knees, and resting her elbows upon it,

with her forehead in her hands, the weary, bedraggled, world-worn Old

Year heaved a heavy sigh, and appeared to be taking no very pleasant

retrospect of her past existence.

Sights From A Steeple / Nathaniel Hawthorne

O! I have climbed high, and my reward is small. Here I stand, with

wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far,

far beyond me still. O that I could soar up into the very zenith, where

man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and where the ethereal azure

melts away from the eye, and appears only a deepened shade of

nothingness! And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. What

clouds are gathering in the golden west, with direful intent against the

brightness and the warmth of this dimmer afternoon! They are ponderous

air-ships, black as death, and freighted with the tempest; and at

intervals their thunder, the signal-guns of that unearthly squadron,

rolls distant along the deep of heaven. These nearer heaps of fleecy

vapor--methinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day long!--

seem scattered here and there, for the repose of tired pilgrims through

the sky.

The Seven Vagabonds / Nathaniel Hawthorne

Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer of the year,

I came one afternoon to a point which gave me the choice of three

directions. Straight before me, the main road extended its dusty

length to Boston; on the left a branch went towards the sea, and would

have lengthened my journey a trifle of twenty or thirty miles; while

by the right-hand path, I might have gone over hills and lakes to

Canada, visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. On a

level spot of grass, at the foot of the guidepost, appeared an object,

which, though locomotive on a different principle, reminded me of

Gulliver's portable mansion among the Brobdignags. It was a huge

covered wagon, or, more properly, a small house on wheels, with a door

on one side and a window shaded by green blinds on the other. Two

horses, munching provender out of the baskets which muzzled them, were

fastened near the vehicle: a delectable sound of music proceeded from

the interior; and I immediately conjectured that this was some

itinerant show, halting at the confluence of the roads to intercept

such idle travellers as myself. A shower had long been climbing up

the western sky, and now hung so blackly over my onward path that it

was a point of wisdom to seek shelter here.

A Select Party / Nathaniel Hawthorne

The man of fancy made an entertainment at one of his castles in the

air, and invited a select number of distinguished personages to

favor him with their presence. The mansion, though less splendid

than many that have been situated in the same region, was

nevertheless of a magnificence such as is seldom witnessed by those

acquainted only with terrestrial architecture. Its strong

foundations and massive walls were quarried out of a ledge of heavy

and sombre clouds which had hung brooding over the earth, apparently

as dense and ponderous as its own granite, throughout a whole

autumnal day. Perceiving that the general effect was gloomy,--so

that the airy castle looked like a feudal fortress, or a monastery

of the Middle Ages, or a state prison of our own times, rather than

the home of pleasure and repose which he intended it to be,--the

owner, regardless of expense, resolved to gild the exterior from top

to bottom. Fortunately, there was just then a flood of evening

sunshine in the air. This being gathered up and poured abundantly

upon the roof and walls, imbued them with a kind of solemn

cheerfulness; while the cupolas and pinnacles were made to glitter

with the purest gold, and all the hundred windows gleamed with a

glad light, as if the edifice itself were rejoicing in its heart.

A Rill From the Town Pump / Nathaniel Hawthorne

(SCENE.--The corner of two principal streets.--[Essex and Washington

Streets, Salem.]--The Town Pump talking through its nose.)

NOON, by the North clock! Noon, by the east! High noon, too, by these

hot sunbeams, which fall, scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost

make the water bubble and smoke, in the trough under my nose. Truly, we

public characters have a tough time of it! And, among all the town

officers, chosen at March meeting, where is he that sustains, for a

single year, the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed, in

perpetuity, upon the Town Pump? The title of "town treasurer" is

rightfully mine, as guardian of the best treasure that the town has.

P.'s Correspondence / Nathaniel Hawthorne

My unfortunate friend P. has lost the thread of his life by the

interposition of long intervals of partially disordered reason. The

past and present are jumbled together in his mind in a manner often

productive of curious results, and which will be better understood

after the perusal of the following letter than from any description

that I could give. The poor fellow, without once stirring from the

little whitewashed, iron-grated room to which he alludes in his

first paragraph, is nevertheless a great traveller, and meets in his

wanderings a variety of personages who have long ceased to be

visible to any eye save his own. In my opinion, all this is not so

much a delusion as a partly wilful and partly involuntary sport of

the imagination, to which his disease has imparted such morbid

energy that he beholds these spectral scenes and characters with no

less distinctness than a play upon the stage, and with somewhat more

of illusive credence. Many of his letters are in my possession, some

based upon the same vagary as the present one, and others upon

hypotheses not a whit short of it in absurdity.

The Prophetic Pictures / Nathaniel Hawthorne

[This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart, related in Dunlap's

History of the Arts of Design,--a most entertaining book to the general

reader, and a deeply interesting one, we should think, to the artist,]

"But this painter!" cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. "He not only

excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements in all other

learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather, and gives

lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the best

instructed man among us, on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished

gentleman,--a citizen of the world,--yes, a true cosmopolite; for he will

speak like a native of each clime and country on the globe, except our

own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all this what I most admire

in him."

The Old Apple Dealer / Nathaniel Hawthorne

The lover of the moral picturesque may sometimes find what he, seeks

in a character which is nevertheless of too negative a description

to be seized upon and represented to the imaginative vision by word-

painting. As an instance, I remember an old man who carries on a

little trade of gingerbread and apples at the depot of one of our

railroads. While awaiting the departure of the cars, my

observation, flitting to and fro among the livelier characteristics

of the scene, has often settled insensibly upon this almost hueless

object. Thus, unconsciously to myself and unsuspected by him, I

have studied the old apple-dealer until he has become a naturalized

citizen of my inner world. How little would he imagine--poor,

neglected, friendless, unappreciated, and with little that demands

appreciation--that the mental eye of an utter stranger has so often

reverted to his figure! Many a noble form, many a beautiful face,

has flitted before me and vanished like a shadow. It is a strange

witchcraft whereby this faded and featureless old apple-dealer has

gained a settlement in my memory.