Twice Told Tales

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

  THE SHAKER BRIDAL.

  One day, in the sick-chamber of Father Ephraim, who had been fortyyears the presiding elder over the Shaker settlement at Goshen, therewas an assemblage of several of the chief men of the sect. Individualshad come from the rich establishment at Lebanon, from Canterbury,Harvard and Alfred, and from all the other localities where thisstrange people have fertilized the rugged hills of New England bytheir systematic industry. An elder was likewise there who had made apilgrimage of a thousand miles from a village of the faithful inKentucky to visit his spiritual kindred the children of the saintedMother Ann. He had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables,had quaffed the far-famed Shaker cider, and had joined in the sacreddance every step of which is believed to alienate the enthusiast fromearth and bear him onward to heavenly purity and bliss. His brethrenof the North had now courteously invited him to be present on anoccasion when the concurrence of every eminent member of theircommunity was peculiarly desirable.

  The venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy-chair, not onlyhoary-headed and infirm with age, but worn down by a lingering diseasewhich it was evident would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff toother hands. At his footstool stood a man and woman, both clad in theShaker garb.

  "My brethren," said Father Ephraim to the surrounding elders, feeblyexerting himself to utter these few words, "here are the son anddaughter to whom I would commit the trust of which Providence is aboutto lighten my weary shoulders. Read their faces, I pray you, and saywhether the inward movement of the spirit hath guided my choicearight."

  Accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates with a mostscrutinizing gaze. The man--whose name was Adam Colburn--had a facesunburnt with labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful andtraced with cares enough for a whole lifetime, though he had barelyreached middle age. There was something severe in his aspect and arigidity throughout his person--characteristics that caused himgenerally to be taken for a schoolmaster; which vocation, in fact, hehad formerly exercised for several years. The woman, Martha Pierson,was somewhat above thirty, thin and pale, as a Shaker sister almostinvariably is, and not entirely free from that corpse-like appearancewhich the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated to impart.

  "This pair are still in the summer of their years," observed the elderfrom Harvard, a shrewd old man. "I would like better to see thehoar-frost of autumn on their heads. Methinks, also, they will beexposed to peculiar temptations on account of the carnal desires whichhave heretofore subsisted between them."

  "Nay, brother," said the elder from Canterbury; "the hoar-frost andthe black frost hath done its work on Brother Adam and Sister Martha,even as we sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields while theyare yet green. And why should we question the wisdom of our venerableFather's purpose, although this pair in their early youth have lovedone another as the world's people love? Are there not many brethrenand sisters among us who have lived long together in wedlock, yet,adopting our faith, find their hearts purified from all but spiritualaffection?"

  Whether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha had rendered itinexpedient that they should now preside together over a Shakervillage, it was certainly most singular that such should be the finalresult of many warm and tender hopes. Children of neighboringfamilies, their affection was older even than their school-days; itseemed an innate principle interfused among all their sentiments andfeelings, and not so much a distinct remembrance as connected withtheir whole volume of remembrances. But just as they reached a properage for their union misfortunes had fallen heavily on both and made itnecessary that they should resort to personal labor for a baresubsistence. Even under these circumstances Martha Pierson wouldprobably have consented to unite her fate with Adam Colburn's, and,secure of the bliss of mutual love, would patiently have awaited theless important gifts of Fortune. But Adam, being of a calm andcautious character, was loth to relinquish the advantages which asingle man possesses for raising himself in the world. Year afteryear, therefore, their marriage had been deferred.

  Adam Colburn had followed many vocations, had travelled far and seenmuch of the world and of life. Martha had earned her bread sometimesas a sempstress, sometimes as help to a farmer's wife, sometimes asschoolmistress of the village children, sometimes as a nurse orwatcher of the sick, thus acquiring a varied experience the ultimateuse of which she little anticipated. But nothing had gone prosperouslywith either of the lovers; at no subsequent moment would matrimonyhave been so prudent a measure as when they had first parted, in theopening bloom of life, to seek a better fortune. Still, they had heldfast their mutual faith. Martha might have been the wife of a man whosat among the senators of his native State, and Adam could have wonthe hand, as he had unintentionally won the heart, of a rich andcomely widow. But neither of them desired good-fortune save to shareit with the other.

  At length that calm despair which occurs only in a strong and somewhatstubborn character and yields to no second spring of hope settled downon the spirit of Adam Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha andproposed that they should join the Society of Shakers. The converts ofthis sect are oftener driven within its hospitable gates by worldlymisfortune than drawn thither by fanaticism, and are received withoutinquisition as to their motives. Martha, faithful still, had placedher hand in that of her lover and accompanied him to the Shakervillage. Here the natural capacity of each, cultivated andstrengthened by the difficulties of their previous lives, had soongained them an important rank in the society, whose members aregenerally below the ordinary standard of intelligence. Their faith andfeelings had in some degree become assimilated to those of theirfellow-worshippers. Adam Colburn gradually acquired reputation notonly in the management of the temporal affairs of the society, but asa clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. Martha was not lessdistinguished in the duties proper to her sex. Finally, when theinfirmities of Father Ephraim had admonished him to seek a successorin his patriarchal office, he thought of Adam and Martha, and proposedto renew in their persons the primitive form of Shaker government asestablished by Mother Ann. They were to be the father and mother ofthe village. The simple ceremony which would constitute them such wasnow to be performed.

  "Son Adam and daughter Martha," said the venerable Father Ephraim,fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, "if ye can conscientiouslyundertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of yourfitness."

  "Father," replied Adam, speaking with the calmness of his character,"I came to your village a disappointed man, weary of the world, wornout with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evilfortune, as I had no hope of good. Even my wishes of worldly successwere almost dead within me. I came hither as a man might come to atomb willing to lie down in its gloom and coldness for the sake of itspeace and quiet. There was but one earthly affection in my breast, andit had grown calmer since my youth; so that I was satisfied to bringMartha to be my sister in our new abode. We are brother and sister,nor would I have it otherwise. And in this peaceful village I havefound all that I hope for--all that I desire. I will strive with mybest strength for the spiritual and temporal good of our community. Myconscience is not doubtful in this matter. I am ready to receive thetrust."

  "Thou hast spoken well, son Adam," said the father. "God will blessthee in the office which I am about to resign."

  "But our sister," observed the elder from Harvard. "Hath she notlikewise a gift to declare her sentiments?"

  Martha started and moved her lips as if she would have made a formalreply to this appeal. But, had she attempted it, perhaps the oldrecollections, the long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth andwomanhood, might have gushed from her heart in words that it wouldhave been profanation to utter there.

  "Adam has spoken," said she, hurriedly; "his sentiments are likewisemine."

  But while speaking these few words Martha grew so pale that she lookedfitter to be laid in her coffin than to stand in the presence ofFather Ephraim and the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there weresometh
ing awful or horrible in her situation and destiny. It required,indeed, a more than feminine strength of nerve to sustain the fixedobservance of men so exalted and famous throughout the Beet as thesewere. They had overcome their natural sympathy with human frailtiesand affections. One, when he joined the society, had brought with himhis wife and children, but never from that hour had spoken a fond wordto the former or taken his best-loved child upon his knee. Another,whose family refused to follow him, had been enabled--such was hisgift of holy fortitude--to leave them to the mercy of the world. Theyoungest of the elders, a man of about fifty, had been bred frominfancy in a Shaker village, and was said never to have clasped awoman's hand in his own, and to have no conception of a closer tiethan the cold fraternal one of the sect. Old Father Ephraim was themost awful character of all. In his youth he had been a dissolutelibertine, but was converted by Mother Ann herself, and had partakenof the wild fanaticism of the early Shakers. Tradition whispered atthe firesides of the village that Mother Ann had been compelled tosear his heart of flesh with a red-hot iron before it could bepurified from earthly passions.

  However that might be, poor Martha had a woman's heart, and a tenderone, and it quailed within her as she looked round at those strangeold men, and from them to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But,perceiving that the elders eyed her doubtfully, she gasped for breathand again spoke.

  "With what strength is left me by my many troubles," said she, "I amready to undertake this charge, and to do my best in it."

  "My children, join your hands," said Father Ephraim.

  They did so. The elders stood up around, and the father feebly raisedhimself to a more erect position, but continued sitting in his greatchair.

  "I have bidden you to join your hands," said he, "not in earthlyaffection, for ye have cast off its chains for ever, but as brotherand sister in spiritual love and helpers of one another in yourallotted task. Teach unto others the faith which ye have received.Open wide your gates--I deliver you the keys thereof--open them wideto all who will give up the iniquities of the world and come hither tolead lives of purity and peace. Receive the weary ones who have knownthe vanity of earth; receive the little children, that they may neverlearn that miserable lesson. And a blessing be upon your labors; sothat the time may hasten on when the mission of Mother Ann shall havewrought its full effect, when children shall no more be born and die,and the last survivor of mortal race--some old and weary man likeme--shall see the sun go down nevermore to rise on a world of sin andsorrow."

  The aged father sank back exhausted, and the surrounding eldersdeemed, with good reason, that the hour was come when the new heads ofthe village must enter on their patriarchal duties. In their attentionto Father Ephraim their eyes were turned from Martha Pierson, who grewpaler and paler, unnoticed even by Adam Colburn. He, indeed, hadwithdrawn his hand from hers and folded his arms with a sense ofsatisfied ambition. But paler and paler grew Martha by his side, till,like a corpse in its burial-clothes, she sank down at the feet of herearly lover; for, after many trials firmly borne, her heart couldendure the weight of its desolate agony no longer.