Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated)
Page 371
After a certain period — I really know not how long — I began to notice, or to fancy, a peculiar regard in the old gentleman's aspect towards myself. I sometimes found him gazing at me, and, unless I deceived myself, there was a sort of expectancy in his face. His spectacles, I think, were shoved up, so thait his bleared eyes might meet my own. Had he been a living man I should have flattered myself that good Doctor Harris was, for some reason or other, interested in me and desirous of a personal acquaintance. Being a ghost, and amenable to ghostly laws, it was natural to conclude that he was waiting to be spoken to before delivering whatever message he had to impart. But, if so, the ghost had shown the bad judgment common among the spiritual brotherhood, both as regarded the place of interview and the person whom he had selected as the recipient of his communications. In the reading-room of the Athenaeum conversation is strictly forbidden, and I could not have addressed the apparition without drawing the instant notice and indignant frowns of the slumbrous old gentlemen around me. I myself, too, at that time, was as shy as any ghost, and followed the ghosts' rule never to speak first. And what an absurd figure should I have made, solemnly and awfully addressing what must have appeared in the eyes of all the rest of the company an empty chair! Besides, I had never been introduced to Doctor Harris, dead or alive, and I am not aware that social regulations are to be abrogated by the accidental fact of one of the parties having crossed the imperceptible line which separates the other party from the spiritual world. If ghosts throw off all conventionalism among themselves, it does not, therefore, follow that it can safely be dispensed with by those who are still hampered with flesh and blood.
For such reasons as these — and reflecting, moreover, that the deceased Doctor might burden me with some disagreeable task, with which I had no business or wish to be concerned — I stubbornly resolved to have nothing to say to him. To this determination I adhered; and not a syllable ever passed between the ghost of Doctor Harris and myself.
To the best of my recollection I never observed the old gentleman either enter the reading-room or depart from it, or move from his chair, or lay down the newspaper, or exchange a look with any person in the company, unless it were myself. He was not by any means invariably in his place. In the evening, for instance, though often at the reading-room myself, I never saw him. It was at the brightest noontide that I used to behold him, sitting within the most comfortable focus of the glowing fire, as real and lifelike an object (except that he was so very old.
and of an ashen complexion) as any other in the room. After a long while of this strange intercourse, if such it can be called, I remember — once, at least, and I know not but oftener — a sad, wistful, disappointed gaze, which the ghost fixed upon me from beneath his spectacles; a melancholy look of helplessness, which, if my heart had not been as hard as a paving-stone, I could hardly have withstood. But I did withstand it; and I think I saw him no more after this last appealing look, which still dwells in my memory as perfectly as while my own eyes were encountering the dim and bleared eyes of the ghost. And whenever I recall this strange passage of my life, I see the small, old, withered figure of Doctor Harris, sitting in his accustomed chair, the Boston Post in his hand, his spectacles shoved upwards — and gazing at me, as I close the door of the reading-room, with that wistful, appealing, hopeless, helpless look. It is too late now; his grave has been grass-grown this many and many a year; and I hope he has found rest in it without any aid from me.
I have only to add that it was not until long after I had ceased to encounter the ghost that I became aware how very odd and strange the whole affair had been; and even now I am made sensible of its strangeness chiefly by the wonder and incredulity of those to whom I tell the story.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, Liverpool, August 17, 1856
The Short Stories
The Wayside — Hawthorne’s home in Concorde
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE GRAY CHAMPION.
SUNDAY AT HOME.
THE WEDDING-KNELL.
THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL.
THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT.
THE GENTLE BOY.
MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE.
LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE.
WAKEFIELD.
A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP.
A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
DAVID SWAN.
SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.
THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS.
THE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY.
THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN.
FANCY'S SHOW-BOX.
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT.
HOWE'S MASQUERADE.
EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT.
LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE.
OLD ESTHER DUDLEY.
THE HAUNTED MIND.
THE VILLAGE UNCLE.
THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.
THE SISTER-YEARS.
SNOWFLAKES.
THE SEVEN VAGABONDS.
THE WHITE OLD MAID.
PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE.
CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL.
THE SHAKER BRIDAL.
NIGHT-SKETCHES,
ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS.
THE LILY'S QUEST.
FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE.
EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD.
THE THREEFOLD DESTINY.
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART I. 1620-1692.
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART II. 1692-1763.
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART III. 1763-1803.
THE OLD MANSE.
THE BIRTHMARK
A SELECT PARTY
YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN
RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER
MRS. BULLFROG
FIRE WORSHIP
BUDS AND BIRD VOICES
MONSIEUR DU MIROIR
THE HALL OF FANTASY
THE CELESTIAL RAILROAD
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE
FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND
THE NEW ADAM AND EVE
EGOTISM; OR, THE BOSOM SERPENT
THE CHRISTMAS BANQUET
DROWNE'S WOODEN IMAGE
THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICE
ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL
P.'S CORRESPONDENCE
EARTH'S HOLOCAUST
PASSAGES FROM A RELINQUISHED WORK
AT HOME
A FLIGHT IN THE FOG.
A FELLOW-TRAVELLER.
THE VILLAGE THEATRE
SKETCHES FROM MEMORY
THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
OUR EVENING PARTY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
THE CANAL-BOAT.
THE OLD APPLE DEALER
THE ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL
A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION
THE SNOW-IMAGE:
THE GREAT STONE FACE
MAIN STREET
ETHAN BRAND
A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY
SYLPH ETHEREGE
THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS
OLD NEWS
THE MAN OF ADAMANT
THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT
JOHN INGLEFIELD'S THANKSGIVING
OLD TICONDEROGA: A PICTURE OF THE PAST
THE WIVES OF THE DEAD
LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY
MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX
THE GORGON’S HEAD
THE GOLDEN TOUCH
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN
THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
THE CHIMÆRA
THE MINOTAUR
THE PYGMIES
THE DRAGON'S TEETH
CIRCE'S PALACE
THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS
THE GOLDEN FLEECE
FRAGMENTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A SOLITARY MAN
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA.
THE ANTIQUE RING.
THE LEGEND
GRAVES AND GOBLINS.
DR. BULLIVANT
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS
AN OLD WOMAN'S TALE
TIME'S PORTRAITURE
BROWNE'S FOLLY
ALICE DOANE'S AP
PEAL
THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A BELL’S BIOGRAPHY
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS
A FELLOW-TRAVELLER.
A FLIGHT IN THE FOG.
A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP.
A SELECT PARTY
A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION
ALICE DOANE'S APPEAL
AN OLD WOMAN'S TALE
AT HOME
BROWNE'S FOLLY
BUDS AND BIRD VOICES
CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL.
CIRCE'S PALACE
DAVID SWAN.
DR. BULLIVANT
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT.
DROWNE'S WOODEN IMAGE
EARTH'S HOLOCAUST
EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD.
EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT.
EGOTISM; OR, THE BOSOM SERPENT
ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS.
ETHAN BRAND
FANCY'S SHOW-BOX.
FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND
FIRE WORSHIP
FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE.
FRAGMENTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A SOLITARY MAN
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART I. 1620-1692.
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART II. 1692-1763.
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART III. 1763-1803.
GRAVES AND GOBLINS.
HOWE'S MASQUERADE.
JOHN INGLEFIELD'S THANKSGIVING
LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE.
LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE.
LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY
MAIN STREET
MONSIEUR DU MIROIR
MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE.
MRS. BULLFROG
MY KINSMAN, MAJOR MOLINEUX
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA.
NIGHT-SKETCHES,
OLD ESTHER DUDLEY.
OLD NEWS
OLD TICONDEROGA: A PICTURE OF THE PAST
OUR EVENING PARTY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
P.'S CORRESPONDENCE
PASSAGES FROM A RELINQUISHED WORK
PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE.
RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER
ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL
SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.
SKETCHES FROM MEMORY
SNOWFLAKES.
SUNDAY AT HOME.
SYLPH ETHEREGE
THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.
THE ANTIQUE RING.
THE ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL
THE BIRTHMARK
THE CANAL-BOAT.
THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS
THE CELESTIAL RAILROAD
THE CHIMÆRA
THE CHRISTMAS BANQUET
THE DEVIL IN MANUSCRIPT
THE DRAGON'S TEETH
THE GENTLE BOY.
THE GHOST OF DOCTOR HARRIS
THE GOLDEN FLEECE
THE GOLDEN TOUCH
THE GORGON’S HEAD
THE GRAY CHAMPION.
THE GREAT STONE FACE
THE HALL OF FANTASY
THE HAUNTED MIND.
THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS.
THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICE
THE LEGEND
THE LILY'S QUEST.
THE MAN OF ADAMANT
THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT.
THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL.
THE MINOTAUR
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
THE NEW ADAM AND EVE
THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
THE OLD APPLE DEALER
THE OLD MANSE.
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN
THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE
THE PYGMIES
THE SEVEN VAGABONDS.
THE SHAKER BRIDAL.
THE SISTER-YEARS.
THE SNOW-IMAGE:
THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES
THE THREEFOLD DESTINY.
THE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY.
THE VILLAGE THEATRE
THE VILLAGE UNCLE.
THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN.
THE WEDDING-KNELL.
THE WHITE OLD MAID.
THE WIVES OF THE DEAD
TIME'S PORTRAITURE
WAKEFIELD.
YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN
The Non-Fiction
Hawthorne, 1859
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES FOR CHILDREN
This collection of biographical sketches of illustrious men and women, written for children, was first published in 1842.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
BENJAMIN WEST.
CHAPTER III.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
CHAPTER VI.
OLIVER CROMWELL.
CHAPTER VII.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
CHAPTER VIII.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
CHAPTER IX.
QUEEN CHRISTINA.
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES
This small volume and others of a similar character, from the same hand, have not been composed without a deep sense of responsibility. The author regards children as sacred, and would not, for the world, cast anything into the fountain of a young heart that might imbitter and pollute its waters. And, even in point of the reputation to be aimed at, juvenile literature is as well worth cultivating as any other. The writer, if he succeed in pleasing his little readers, may hope to be remembered by them till their own old age, — a far longer period of literary existence than is generally attained by those who seek immortality from the judgments of full-grown men.
CHAPTER I.
When Edward Temple was about eight or nine years old he was afflicted with a disorder of the eyes. It was so severe, and his sight was naturally so delicate, that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest the boy should become totally blind. He therefore gave strict directions to keep him in a darkened chamber, with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray of the blessed light of heaven could be suffered to visit the poor lad.
This was a sad thing for Edward. It was just the same as if there were to be no more sunshine, nor moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire, nor light of lamps. A night had begun which was to continue perhaps for months, — a longer and drearier night than that which voyagers are compelled to endure when their ship is icebound, throughout the winter, in the Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother, his brother George, and the sweet face of little Emily Robinson must all vanish and leave him in utter darkness and solitude. Their voices and footsteps, it is true, would be heard around him; he would feel his mother's embrace and the kind pressure of all their hands; but still it would seem as if they were a thousand miles away.
And then his studies, — they were to be entirely given up. This was another grievous trial; for Edward's memory hardly went back to the period when he had not known how to read. Many and many a holiday had he spent at his hook, poring over its pages until the deepening twilight confused the print and made all the letters run into long words. Then, would he press his hands across his eyes and wonder why they pained him so; and when the candles were lighted, what was the reason that they burned so dimly, like the moon in a foggy night? Poor little fellow! So far as his eyes were concerned he was already an old man, and needed a pair of spectacles almost as much as his own grandfather did.
And now, alas! the time was come when even grandfather's spectacles could not have assisted Edward to read. After a few bitter tears, which only pained his eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to the surgeon's orders. His eyes were bandaged, and, with his mother on one side and his little friend Emily on the other, he was led into a darkened chamber.
“Mother, I shall be very miserable!” said Edward, sobbing.
“O no, my dear child!” replied his mother, cheerfully. “Your eyesight was a precious gift of Heaven, it is true; but you would do wrong to be miserable for its loss, even if there were no hope of regaining it. There are other enjoyments besides what come to us through our eyes.�
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“None that are worth having,” said Edward.
“Ah, but you will not think so long,” rejoined Mrs. Temple, with tenderness. “All of us — your father, and myself, and George, and our sweet Emily — will try to find occupation and amusement for you. We will use all our eyes to make you happy. Will they not be better than a single pair?”
“I will sit, by you all day long,” said Emily, in her low, sweet voice, putting her hand into that of Edward.
“And so will I, Ned,” said George, his elder brother, “school time and all, if my father will permit me.”
Edward's brother George was three or four years older than himself, — a fine, hardy lad, of a bold and ardent temper. He was the leader of his comrades in all their enterprises and amusements. As to his proficiency at study there was not much to be said. He had sense and ability enough to have made himself a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things to do that he seldom took hold of a book with his whole heart. So fond was George of boisterous sports and exercises that it was really a great token of affection and sympathy when he offered to sit all day long in a dark chamber with his poor brother Edward.
As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter of one of Mr. Temple's dearest friends. Ever since her mother went to heaven (which was soon after Emily's birth) the little girl had dwelt in the household where we now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple seemed to love her as well as their own children; for they had no daughter except Emily; nor would the boys have known the blessing of a sister had not this gentle stranger come to teach them what it was. If I could show you Emily's face, with her dark hair smoothed away from her forehead, you would be pleased with her look of simplicity and loving kindness, but might think that she was somewhat too grave for a child of seven years old. But you would not love her the less for that.
So brother George and this loving little girl were to be Edward's companions and playmates while he should be kept prisoner in the dark chamber. When the first bitterness of his grief was over he began to feel that, there might be some comforts and enjoyments in life even for a boy whose eyes were covered with a bandage.