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Week Eleven: The Romantics

Perkins−Perkins: Selections from American Literature

Edgar Allan Poe Author Bio © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2000

Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)

R One hundred fifty years after his death, Poe is still among the most popular of American authors, but unlike most authors of extreme popularity, Poe has also exerted a continuous influence on writ- ers and critics.

He influenced the course of creative writing and criticism by emphasizing the art that appeals simultaneously to reason and to emotion, and by insisting that the work of art is not a fragment of the author’s life, nor an adjunct to some didactic purpose, but an object created in the cause of beauty—which he defined in its largest spiritual implications. This creative act, according to Poe, involves the utmost concentration and unity, together with the most scrupulous use of words.

This definition of sensibility was directly opposed to the view implicit in the prevailing American literature of Poe’s generation, as represented in general by the works of Emerson, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Whittier, and Holmes, all born in the years from 1803 to 1809. These oth- ers turned toward Wordsworth, while Poe took Coleridge as his lodestar in his search for a consis- tent theory of art. Hawthorne’s symbolism links him with Poe, but Hawthorne’s impulses were often didactic, while Poe taught no moral lessons except the discipline of beauty. Only in Melville, among the authors before the Civil War, does one find the same sensibility for symbolic expression. The literary tradition of Poe, preserved by European symbolism, especially in France, played a consid- erable part in shaping the spirit of our twentieth-century literature, particularly in its demand for the intellectual analysis and controlled perception of emotional consciousness.

The son of itinerant actors, he was born in Boston, January 19, 1809. His father, David Poe, apparently deserted his wife and disappeared about eighteen months later. Elizabeth Arnold Poe, an English-born actress, died during a tour in Richmond in 1811, and her infant son became the ward of the Allan family, although he was never legally adopted. John Allan was a substantial Scottish tobacco exporter; Mrs. Allan lavished on the young poet the erratic affections of the child- less wife of an unfaithful husband. In time this situation led to tensions and jealousies which per- manently estranged Poe from his foster father; but in youth he enjoyed the genteel and thorough education, with none of the worldly expectations, of a young Virginia gentleman.

Allan’s business interests took him abroad, and Poe lived with the family in England and Scotland from 1815 to 1820, attending a fine classical preparatory school at Stoke Newington for three years. When he was eleven, the family returned to Richmond, where he continued his studies at a local academy. His precocious adoration of Jane Stith Stanard, the young mother of a schoolfel- low, later inspired the lyric “To Helen,” according to his own report. At this period he considered himself engaged to Sarah Elmira Royster. Her father’s objections to a stripling with no prospects resulted in her engagement to another while Poe was at the University of Virginia in 1826. Poe’s gambling debts prompted Allan to remove him from the University within a year, in spite of his obvious academic competence.

Works of Edgar Allan Poe, 10 vols., was edited by E. C. Stedman and G. E. Woodberry, 1894–1895, and reprinted in 1914. Unless otherwise noted, this is the source of the present texts. Also reliable is the Virginia Edition, 17 vols., edited by J. A. Harrison, 1902. T. O. Mabbott, with the assistance of E. D. Kewer and M. C. Mabbott, edited the poems, tales, and sketches in Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe, 3 vols. 1969–1978. Burton J. Pollin edited Collected Writings of Edgar Allan Poe, 1981–. J. W. Ostrom edited The Letters of Edgar Allan Poe, 1948.

A recent and thorough biography is Kenneth Silverman’s Edgar Allan Poe: Mournful and Never-Ending Remembrance, 1991. For many years the standard scholarly biography was Edgar Allan Poe, by A. H. Quinn, 1941. Other biographical or critical works include Hervey Allen, Israfel—The Life and Times of Edgar Allan Poe, 2 vols., 1926; N. B. Fagin, The Histrionic Mr. Poe, 1949; E. H. Davidson, Poe, A Critical Study, 1957; E. Wagenknecht, Edgar Allan Poe, The Man behind the Legend, 1963; E. W. Parks, Edgar Allan Poe, 1964; Daniel Hoffman, Poe, Poe, Poe * * * , 1972; David Sinclair, Edgar Allan Poe, 1977; Julian Symons, The Life and Works of Edgar Allan Poe, 1978; Joan Dayan, Fables of Mind: An Inquiry into Poe’s Fiction, 1987; Dwight Thomas and David K. Jackson, The Poe Log: A Documentary Life of Edgar Allan Poe, 1987; I. M. Walker, ed., Edgar Allan Poe: The Critical Heritage, 1987; and Jeffrey Meyers, Edgar Allan Poe: His Life and Legacy, 1992.

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Unable to come to terms with Allan, who wanted to employ him in the business, Poe ran away to Boston, where he published Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), significantly signed “By a Bostonian”; then he disappeared into the army under the name of “Edgar A. Perry.” The death of Mrs. Allan produced a temporary reconciliation with Allan, who offered to seek an appointment to West Point for the young sergeant major. Poe secured a discharge from the army, and published Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems (1829). Before entering West Point (July 1, 1830) he again had a violent disagreement with Allan, who still declined to assure his prospects. Finding himself unsuited to the life at the Academy, he provoked a dismissal by an infraction of duty, and left three weeks before March 6, 1831, when he was officially excluded. Allan, who had married again, refused to befriend him; two years later his death ended all expectations. Meanwhile, in New York, Poe had published Poems (1831), again without results that would suggest his ability to survive by writing.

From 1831 to 1835 Poe lived as a hack writer in Baltimore, with his aunt, the motherly Mrs. Maria Poe Clemm, whose daughter, Virginia, later became his wife.

In 1832 the Philadelphia Saturday Courier published Poe’s first five short stories, a part of the Tales of the Folio Club. In 1833 his first characteristic short story, combining pseudoscience and terror, won a prize of $50 and publication in the Baltimore Saturday Visitor. “MS Found in a Bottle” appeared on October 12, heralding the success of the formula for popular fiction which Poe was slowly developing by a close study of periodical literature. The prize story won him friends, and ultimately an assistant editorship on the Richmond Southern Literary Messenger (1835–1837). In September 1835, Poe secretly married his cousin, Virginia Clemm; the ceremony was repeated pub- licly in Richmond eight months later, when Virginia was not quite fourteen.

Poe’s experience with the Messenger set a pattern which was to continue, with minor varia- tions, in later editorial associations. He was a brilliant editor; he secured important contributors; he attracted attention by his own critical articles. He failed through personal instability. His devotion to Virginia was beset by some insecurity never satisfactorily explained; he had periods of quarrelsomeness which estranged him from his editorial associates. Apparently he left the Messenger of his own accord, but during a time of strained relations, with a project for a magazine of his own which he long cherished without result.

After a few months in New York, Poe settled down to his period of greatest accomplishment (1838–1844) in Philadelphia. There he was editor of, or associated with, Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine (1839), Graham’s Magazine (1841–1842), and The Saturday Museum (1843). He became well known in literary circles as a result of the vitality of his critical articles, which were a by- product of his editorial functions, the publication of new poems and revised versions of others, and the appearance of some of his greatest stories in Graham’s. He collected from earlier periodicals his Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque (2 vols., 1840). His fame was assured by “The Gold Bug,” which won the prize of $100 offered in 1843 by the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper.

Unable to hold a permanent editorial connection in Philadelphia, Poe moved in 1844 to New York, where he found sporadic employment on the Evening Mirror and the Broadway Journal. For some time it had been evident that Virginia must soon die of tuberculosis, and this apprehension, added to grueling poverty, had increased Poe’s eccentricities. Even an occasional escape by alcohol could not go unnoticed in anyone for whom only a moderate indulgence was ruinous, and Poe’s reputation, in these years, suffered in consequence. His candid reviews and critical articles increased the number of his enemies, who besmirched his reputation by gossip concerning a number of lit- erary ladies with whom his relations were actually indiscreet but innocent. Yet in 1845 he climaxed his literary life. “The Raven” appeared in the Mirror and in The Raven and Other Poems, his major volume of poems. His Tales also appeared in New York and London. The Poes found a little cottage at Fordham (now part of New York City) in 1846, and Virginia died there the following January. Poe was feverishly at work on Eureka (1848), then deemed the work of a demented mind, but later considered important as a “prose poem” in which he attempted to unify the laws of physical science with those of aesthetic reality.

His life ended, as it had been lived, in events so strange that he might have invented them. In 1849, learning that Sarah Elmira Royster, his childhood sweetheart, was a widow, he visited

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Richmond and secured her consent to marry him. About two months later he left for Philadelphia on a business engagement. Six days thereafter he was found semiconscious in a tavern in Baltimore, and he died in delirium after four days, on October 7, 1849.

During a short life of poverty, anxiety, and fantastic tragedy, Poe achieved the establishment of a new symbolic poetry within the small compass of forty-eight poems; the formalization of the new short story; the invention of the story of detection and the broadening of science fiction; the foundation of a new fiction of psychological analysis and symbolism; and the slow development, in various stages, of an important critical theory and a discipline of analytical criticism.

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Edgar Allan Poe The Premature Burial © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2000

The Premature Burial

Edgar Allan Poe

There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or to disgust. They are with propriety han- dled only when the severity and majesty of Truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of “pleasurable pain” over the accounts of the Passage of the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London, of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the hundred and twenty-three pris- oners in the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these accounts it is the fact—it is the reality—it is the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard them with simple abhorrence.

I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august calamities on record; but in these it is the extent, not less than the character of the calamity, which so vividly impresses the fancy. I need not remind the reader that, from the long and weird catalogue of human miseries, I might have selected many individual instances more replete with essential suffering than any of these vast generalities of disaster. The true wretchedness, indeed—the ultimate woe—is particular, not diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of agony are endured by man the unit, and never by man the mass—for this let us thank a merciful God!

To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. That it has frequently, very fre- quently, so fallen will scarcely be denied by those who think. The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins? We know that there are diseases in which occur total cessations of all the apparent functions of vitality, and yet in which these cessations are merely suspensions, properly so called. They are only temporary pauses in the incomprehensible mechanism. A certain period elapses, and some unseen mys- terious principle again sets in motion the magic pinions and the wizard wheels. The silver cord was not for ever loosed, nor the golden bowl irreparably broken. But where, meantime, was the soul?

Apart, however, from the inevitable conclusion, a priori that such causes must produce such effects—that the well-known occurrence of such cases of suspended animation must naturally give rise, now and then, to premature interments—apart from this consideration, we have the direct testimony of medical and ordinary expe- rience to prove that a vast number of such interments have actually taken place. I might refer at once, if necessary to a hundred well authenticated instances. One of very remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a painful, intense, and widely-extended excite- ment. The wife of one of the most respectable citizens-a lawyer of eminence and a member of Congress—was seized with a sudden and unaccountable illness, which

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completely baffled the skill of her physicians. After much suffering she died, or was supposed to die. No one suspected, indeed, or had reason to suspect, that she was not actually dead. She presented all the ordinary appearances of death. The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline. The lips were of the usual marble pallor. The eyes were lustreless. There was no warmth. Pulsation had ceased. For three days the body was preserved unburied, during which it had acquired a stony rigidity. The funeral, in short, was hastened, on account of the rapid advance of what was sup- posed to be decomposition.

The lady was deposited in her family vault, which, for three subsequent years, was undisturbed. At the expiration of this term it was opened for the reception of a sarcophagus;—but, alas! how fearful a shock awaited the husband, who, personally, threw open the door! As its portals swung outwardly back, some white-apparelled object fell rattling within his arms. It was the skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded shroud.

A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived within two days after her entombment; that her struggles within the coffin had caused it to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the floor, where it was so broken as to permit her escape. A lamp which had been accidentally left, full of oil, within the tomb, was found empty; it might have been exhausted, however, by evaporation. On the uttermost of the steps which led down into the dread chamber was a large fragment of the coffin, with which, it seemed, that she had endeavored to arrest attention by striking the iron door. While thus occupied, she probably swooned, or possibly died, through sheer terror; and, in failing, her shroud became entangled in some iron—work which projected interiorly. Thus she remained, and thus she rotted, erect.

In the year 1810, a case of living in humation happened in France, attended with circumstances which go far to warrant the assertion that truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction. The heroine of the story was a Mademoiselle Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of illustrious family, of wealth, and of great personal beauty. Among her numerous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a poor litterateur, or journalist of Paris. His talents and general amiability had recommended him to the notice of the heiress, by whom he seems to have been truly beloved; but her pride of birth decided her, finally, to reject him, and to wed a Monsieur Renelle, a banker and a diplomatist of some eminence. After marriage, however, this gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even more positively ill-treated her. Having passed with him some wretched years, she died,—at least her condition so closely resembled death as to deceive every one who saw her. She was buried—not in a vault, but in an ordinary grave in the village of her nativity. Filled with despair, and still inflamed by the memory of a profound attach- ment, the lover journeys from the capital to the remote province in which the vil- lage lies, with the romantic purpose of disinterring the corpse, and possessing himself of its luxuriant tresses. He reaches the grave. At midnight he unearths the coffin, opens it, and is in the act of detaching the hair, when he is arrested by the unclos- ing of the beloved eyes. In fact, the lady had been buried alive. Vitality had not alto- gether departed, and she was aroused by the caresses of her lover from the lethargy which had been mistaken for death. He bore her frantically to his lodgings in the vil- lage. He employed certain powerful restoratives suggested by no little medical

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learning. In fine, she revived. She recognized her preserver. She remained with him until, by slow degrees, she fully recovered her original health. Her woman’s heart was not adamant, and this last lesson of love sufficed to soften it. She bestowed it upon Bossuet. She returned no more to her husband, but, concealing from him her resur- rection, fled with her lover to America. Twenty years afterward, the two returned to France, in the persuasion that time had so greatly altered the lady’s appearance that her friends would be unable to recognize her. They were mistaken, however, for, at the first meeting, Monsieur Renelle did actually recognize and make claim to his wife. This claim she resisted, and a judicial tribunal sustained her in her resistance, deciding that the peculiar circumstances, with the long lapse of years, had extin- guished, not only equitably, but legally, the authority of the husband.

The “Chirurgical Journal” of Leipsic—a periodical of high authority and merit, which some American bookseller would do well to translate and republish, records in a late number a very distressing event of the character in question.

An officer of artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust health, being thrown from an unmanageable horse, received a very severe contusion upon the head, which rendered him insensible at once; the skull was slightly fractured, but no imme- diate danger was apprehended. Trepanning was accomplished successfully. He was bled, and many other of the ordinary means of relief were adopted. Gradually, how- ever, he fell into a more and more hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it was thought that he died.

The weather was warm, and he was buried with indecent haste in one of the pub- lic cemeteries. His funeral took place on Thursday. On the Sunday following, the grounds of the cemetery were, as usual, much thronged with visiters, and about noon an intense excitement was created by the declaration of a peasant that, while sitting upon the grave of the officer, he had distinctly felt a commotion of the earth, as if occasioned by some one struggling beneath. At first little attention was paid to the man’s asseveration; but his evident terror, and the dogged obstinacy with which he persisted in his story, had at length their natural effect upon the crowd. Spades were hurriedly procured, and the grave, which was shamefully shallow, was in a few min- utes so far thrown open that the head of its occupant appeared. He was then seem- ingly dead; but he sat nearly erect within his coffin, the lid of which, in his furious struggles, he had partially uplifted.

He was forthwith conveyed to the nearest hospital, and there pronounced to be still living, although in an asphytic condition. After some hours he revived, recog- nized individuals of his acquaintance, and, in broken sentences spoke of his ago- nies in the grave.

From what he related, it was clear that he must have been conscious of life for more than an hour, while inhumed, before lapsing into insensibility. The grave was carelessly and loosely filled with an exceedingly porous soil; and thus some air was necessarily admitted. He heard the footsteps of the crowd overhead, and endeavored to make himself heard in turn. It was the tumult within the grounds of the cemetery, he said, which appeared to awaken him from a deep sleep, but no sooner was he awake than he became fully aware of the awful horrors of his position.

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This patient, it is recorded, was doing well and seemed to be in a fair way of ulti- mate recovery, but fell a victim to the quackeries of medical experiment. The gal- vanic battery was applied, and he suddenly expired in one of those ecstatic paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.

The mention of the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my memory a well known and very extraordinary case in point, where its action proved the means of restoring to animation a young attorney of London, who had been interred for two days. This occurred in 1831, and created, at the time, a very profound sensation wher- ever it was made the subject of converse.

The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhus fever, accom- panied with some anomalous symptoms which had excited the curiosity of his med- ical attendants. Upon his seeming decease, his friends were requested to sanction a post-mortem examination, but declined to permit it. As often happens, when such refusals are made, the practitioners resolved to disinter the body and dissect it at leisure, in private. Arrangements were easily effected with some of the numerous corps of body-snatchers, with which London abounds; and, upon the third night after the funeral, the supposed corpse was unearthed from a grave eight feet deep, and deposited in the opening chamber of one of the private hospitals.

An incision of some extent had been actually made in the abdomen, when the fresh and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested an application of the bat- tery. One experiment succeeded another, and the customary effects supervened, with nothing to characterize them in any respect, except, upon one or two occasions, a more than ordinary degree of life-likeness in the convulsive action.

It grew late. The day was about to dawn; and it was thought expedient, at length, to proceed at once to the dissection. A student, however, was especially desirous of testing a theory of his own, and insisted upon applying the battery to one of the pectoral muscles. A rough gash was made, and a wire hastily brought in contact, when the patient, with a hurried but quite unconvulsive movement, arose from the table, stepped into the middle of the floor, gazed about him uneasily for a few seconds, and then—spoke. What he said was unintelligible, but words were uttered; the syl- labification was distinct. Having spoken, he fell heavily to the floor.

For some moments all were paralyzed with awe—but the urgency of the case soon restored them their presence of mind. It was seen that Mr. Stapleton was alive, although in a swoon. Upon exhibition of ether he revived and was rapidly restored to health, and to the society of his friends—from whom, however, all knowledge of his resuscitation was withheld, until a relapse was no longer to be apprehended. Their wonder—their rapturous astonishment—may be conceived.

The most thrilling peculiarity of this incident, nevertheless, is involved in what Mr. S. himself asserts. He declares that at no period was he altogether insensible— that, dully and confusedly, he was aware of everything which happened to him, from the moment in which he was pronounced dead by his physicians, to that in which he fell swooning to the floor of the hospital. “I am alive,” were the uncomprehended words which, upon recognizing the locality of the dissecting-room, he had endeavored, in his extremity, to utter.

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It were an easy matter to multiply such histories as these—but I forbear—for, indeed, we have no need of such to establish the fact that premature interments occur. When we reflect how very rarely, from the nature of the case, we have it in our power to detect them, we must admit that they may frequently occur without our cog- nizance. Scarcely, in truth, is a graveyard ever encroached upon, for any purpose, to any great extent, that skeletons are not found in postures which suggest the most fearful of suspicions.

Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom! It may be asserted, without hesitation, that no event is so terribly well adapted to inspire the supremeness of bodily and of mental distress, as is burial before death. The unendurable oppres- sion of the lungs—the stifling fumes from the damp earth—the clinging to the death garments—the rigid embrace of the narrow house—the blackness of the absolute Night—the silence like a sea that overwhelms—the unseen but palpable presence of the Conqueror Worm—these things, with the thoughts of the air and grass above, with memory of dear friends who would fly to save us if but informed of our fate, and with consciousness that of this fate they can never be informed—that our hopeless portion is that of the really dead—these considerations, I say, carry into the heart, which still palpitates, a degree of appalling and intolerable horror from which the most daring imagination must recoil. We know of nothing so agonizing upon Earth— we can dream of nothing half so hideous in the realms of the nethermost Hell. And thus all narratives upon this topic have an interest profound; an interest, neverthe- less, which, through the sacred awe of the topic itself, very properly and very pecu- liarly depends upon our conviction of the truth of the matter narrated. What I have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge—of my own positive and personal experience.

For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular disorder which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in default of a more definitive title. Although both the immediate and the predisposing causes, and even the actual diag- nosis, of this disease are still mysterious, its obvious and apparent character is suffi- ciently well understood. Its variations seem to be chiefly of degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for a day only, or even for a shorter period, in a species of exaggerated lethargy. He is senseless and externally motionless; but the pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces of warmth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of the cheek; and, upon application of a mirror to the lips, we can detect a torpid, unequal, and vacillating action of the lungs. Then again the duration of the trance is for weeks—even for months; while the closest scrutiny, and the most rig- orous medical tests, fail to establish any material distinction between the state of the sufferer and what we conceive of absolute death. Very usually he is saved from pre- mature interment solely by the knowledge of his friends that he has been previ- ously subject to catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion excited, and, above all, by the non-appearance of decay. The advances of the malady are, luckily, gradual. The first manifestations, although marked, are unequivocal. The fits grow successively more and more distinctive, and endure each for a longer term than the preceding. In this lies the principal security from in humation. The unfortunate whose first attack

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should be of the extreme character which is occasionally seen, would almost inevitably be consigned alive to the tomb.

My own case differed in no important particular from those mentioned in med- ical books. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank, little by little, into a con- dition of hemi-syncope, or half swoon; and, in this condition, without pain, without ability to stir, or, strictly speaking, to think, but with a dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the presence of those who surrounded my bed, I remained, until the cri- sis of the disease restored me, suddenly, to perfect sensation. At other times I was quickly and impetuously smitten. I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and dizzy, and so fell prostrate at once. Then, for weeks, all was void, and black, and silent, and Nothing became the universe. Total annihilation could be no more. From these latter attacks I awoke, however, with a gradation slow in proportion to the suddenness of the seizure. Just as the day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar who roams the streets throughout the long desolate winter night—just so tardily—just so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light of the Soul to me.

Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health appeared to be good; nor could I perceive that it was at all affected by the one prevalent malady— unless, indeed, an idiosyncrasy in my ordinary sleep may be looked upon as superin- duced. Upon awaking from slumber, I could never gain, at once, thorough possession of my senses, and always remained, for many minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity;—the mental faculties in general, but the memory in especial, being in a condition of absolute abeyance.

In all that I endured there was no physical suffering but of moral distress an infini- tude. My fancy grew charnel, I talked “of worms, of tombs, and epitaphs.” I was lost in reveries of death, and the idea of premature burial held continual possession of my brain. The ghastly Danger to which I was subjected haunted me day and night. In the former, the torture of meditation was excessive—in the latter, supreme. When the grim Darkness overspread the Earth, then, with every horror of thought, I shook— shook as the quivering plumes upon the hearse. When Nature could endure wake- fulness no longer, it was with a struggle that I consented to sleep—for I shuddered to reflect that, upon awaking, I might find myself the tenant of a grave. And when, finally, I sank into slumber, it was only to rush at once into a world of phantasms, above which, with vast, sable, overshadowing wing, hovered, predominant, the one sepulchral Idea.

From the innumerable images of gloom which thus oppressed me in dreams, I select for record but a solitary vision. Methought I was immersed in a cataleptic trance of more than usual duration and profundity. Suddenly there came an icy hand upon my forehead, and an impatient, gibbering voice whispered the word “Arise!” within my ear.

I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure of him who had aroused me. I could call to mind neither the period at which I had fallen into the trance, nor the locality in which I then lay. While I remained motionless, and bus- ied in endeavors to collect my thought, the cold hand grasped me fiercely by the wrist, shaking it petulantly, while the gibbering voice said again:

“Arise! did I not bid thee arise?”

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“And who,” I demanded, “art thou?” “I have no name in the regions which I inhabit,” replied the voice, mourn-

fully; “I was mortal, but am fiend. I was merciless, but am pitiful. Thou dost feel that I shudder.—My teeth chatter as I speak, yet it is not with the chilliness of the night—of the night without end. But this hideousness is insufferable. How canst thou tranquilly sleep? I cannot rest for the cry of these great agonies. These sights are more than I can bear. Get thee up! Come with me into the outer Night, and let me unfold to thee the graves. Is not this a spectacle of woe?—Behold!”

I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, had caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind, and from each issued the faint phos- phoric radiance of decay, so that I could see into the innermost recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their sad and solemn slumbers with the worm. But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feeble struggling; and there was a general sad unrest; and from out the depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling from the garments of the buried. And of those who seemed tranquilly to repose, I saw that a vast number had changed, in a greater or less degree, the rigid and uneasy posi- tion in which they had originally been entombed. And the voice again said to me as I gazed:

“Is it not—oh! is it not a pitiful sight?”—but, before I could find words to reply, the figure had ceased to grasp my wrist, the phosphoric lights expired, and the graves were closed with a sudden violence, while from out them arose a tumult of despair- ing cries, saying again: “Is it not—O, God, is it not a very pitiful sight?”

Phantasies such as these, presenting themselves at night, extended their terrific influence far into my waking hours. My nerves became thoroughly unstrung, and I fell a prey to perpetual horror. I hesitated to ride, or to walk, or to indulge in any exer- cise that would carry me from home. In fact, I no longer dared trust myself out of the immediate presence of those who were aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into one of my usual fits, I should be buried before my real condition could be ascer- tained. I doubted the care, the fidelity of my dearest friends. I dreaded that, in some trance of more than customary duration, they might be prevailed upon to regard me as irrecoverable. I even went so far as to fear that, as I occasioned much trou- ble, they might be glad to consider any very protracted attack as sufficient excuse for getting rid of me altogether. It was in vain they endeavored to reassure me by the most solemn promises. I exacted the most sacred oaths, that under no circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had so materially advanced as to render far- ther preservation impossible. And, even then, my mortal terrors would listen to no reason—would accept no consolation. I entered into a series of elaborate precautions. Among other things, I had the family vault so remodelled as to admit of being read- ily opened from within. The slightest pressure upon a long lever that extended far into the tomb would cause the iron portal to fly back. There were arrangements also for the free admission of air and light, and convenient receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach of the coffin intended for my reception. This coffin was warmly and softly padded, and was provided with a lid, fashioned upon the principle of the vault-door, with the addition of springs so contrived that the feeblest

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movement of the body would be sufficient to set it at liberty. Besides all this, there was suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell, the rope of which, it was designed, should extend through a hole in the coffin, and so be fastened to one of the hands of the corpse. But, alas? what avails the vigilance against the Destiny of man? Not even these well-contrived securities sufficed to save from the uttermost agonies of living inhumation, a wretch to these agonies foredoomed!

There arrived an epoch—as often before there had arrived—in which I found myself emerging from total unconsciousness into the first feeble and indefinite sense of existence. Slowly—with a tortoise gradation—approached the faint gray dawn of the psychal day. A torpid uneasiness. An apathetic endurance of dull pain. No care—no hope—no effort. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in the ears; then, after a lapse still longer, a prickling or tingling sensation in the extremities; then a seemingly eternal period of pleasurable quiescence, during which the awakening feel- ings are struggling into thought; then a brief re-sinking into non-entity; then a sud- den recovery. At length the slight quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an electric shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood in torrents from the temples to the heart. And now the first positive effort to think. And now the first endeavor to remember. And now a partial and evanescent success. And now the memory has so far regained its dominion, that, in some measure, I am cognizant of my state. I feel that I am not awaking from ordinary sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to catalepsy. And now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean, my shud- dering spirit is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger—by the one spectral and ever- prevalent idea.

For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained without motion. And why? I could not summon courage to move. I dared not make the effort which was to satisfy me of my fate—and yet there was something at my heart which whispered me it was sure. Despair—such as no other species of wretchedness ever calls into being—despair alone urged me, after long irresolution, to uplift the heavy lids of my eyes. I uplifted them. It was dark—all dark. I knew that the fit was over. I knew that the crisis of my disorder had long passed. I knew that I had now fully recov- ered the use of my visual faculties—and yet it was dark—all dark—the intense and utter raylessness of the Night that endureth for evermore.

I endeavored to shriek-, and my lips and my parched tongue moved convulsively together in the attempt—but no voice issued from the cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some incumbent mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at every elaborate and struggling inspiration.

The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that they were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too, that I lay upon some hard substance, and by something similar my sides were, also, closely compressed. So far, I had not ventured to stir any of my limbs—but now I violently threw up my arms, which had been lying at length, with the wrists crossed. They struck a solid wooden sub- stance, which extended above my person at an elevation of not more than six inches from my face. I could no longer doubt that I reposed within a coffin at last.

And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub Hope—for I thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made spasmodic exertions to force open

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the lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for the bell-rope: it was not to be found. And now the Comforter fled for ever, and a still sterner Despair reigned triumphant; for I could not help perceiving the absence of the paddings which I had so carefully prepared—and then, too, there came suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the vault. I had fallen into a trance while absent from home-while among strangers—when, or how, I could not remember—and it was they who had buried me as a dog—nailed up in some com- mon coffin—and thrust deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary and nameless grave.

As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost chambers of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this second endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or yell of agony, resounded through the realms of the subterranean Night.

“Hillo! hillo, there!” said a gruff voice, in reply. “What the devil’s the matter now!” said a second. “Get out o’ that!” said a third. “What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a cattymount?” said

a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken without ceremony, for several min- utes, by a junto of very rough-looking individuals. They did not arouse me from my slumber—for I was wide awake when I screamed—but they restored me to the full possession of my memory.

This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some miles down the banks of the James River. Night approached, and we were overtaken by a storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at anchor in the stream, and laden with garden mould, afforded us the only available shelter. We made the best of it, and passed the night on board. I slept in one of the only two berths in the vessel—and the berths of a sloop of sixty or twenty tons need scarcely be described. That which I occupied had no bedding of any kind. Its extreme width was eighteen inches. The distance of its bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found it a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in. Nevertheless, I slept soundly, and the whole of my vision—for it was no dream, and no nightmare—arose naturally from the circumstances of my position—from my ordinary bias of thought—and from the difficulty, to which I have alluded, of collecting my senses, and especially of regaining my memory, for a long time after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me were the crew of the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the load itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a silk handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of my customary nightcap.

The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal for the time, to those of actual sepulture. They were fearfully—they were inconceivably hideous; but out of Evil proceeded Good; for their very excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable revulsion. My soul acquired tone—acquired temper. I went abroad. I took vigorous exercise. I breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought upon other subjects than Death. I discarded my medical books. “Buchan” I burned. I read no “Night Thoughts”— no fustian about churchyards—no bugaboo tales—such as this. In short, I became

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a new man, and lived a man’s life. From that memorable night, I dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions, and with them vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had been less the consequence than the cause.

There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell—but the imagination of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas! the grim legion of sepul- chral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful—but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his voyage down the Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour us—they must be suffered to slumber, or we perish.

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Edgar Allan Poe The Masque of the Red Death

EDGAR ALLAN POE

The Masque of the Red Death1

The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellowmen. And the whole seizure, progress and ter- mination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his do- minions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an ex- tensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet au- gust taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden im- pulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”

It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, how- ever, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vi- sion embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the

1. Among Poe’s numerous explorations of the theme of death, the present is an allegory, simple, as an allegory should be. In “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “The Cask of Amontillado” the theme of death is complicated by the interaction of evil; in “Murders in the Rue Morgue,” by brute force; in “Ligeia,” by Ligeia’s beauty, intellect, and will to live. In “The Masque of the Red Death” the charac- ters, in terms of the story, are universal—they simply do not wish to die. The story first appeared in the May 1842 issue of Graham’s Magazine (edited by Poe) and was collected in Poe’s Tales, 1845.

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middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue went its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same mate- rial and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to corre- spond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, oppo- site to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were pro- duced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the firelight that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gi- gantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monoto- nous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief dis- concert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musi- cians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

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He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven cham- bers, upon occasion of this great fête; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of what has been seen since in “Hernani.”2 There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and ap- pointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an in- stant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more mer- rily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gai- eties of the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzes were quieted; and there was an uneasy ces- sation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who rev- elled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chimes had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, finally of terror, of horror, and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the mas- querade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company,

2. A play by Victor Hugo (1802–1885), presented in 1830.

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indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbed in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was be- sprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him— “who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him—that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!”

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly—for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to the green—through the green to the orange— through this again to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided move- ment had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had ap- proached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned sud- denly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

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And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood- bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held il- limitable dominion over all.

1842, 1845

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Nathaniel Hawthorne Author Bio © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2003

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804 –1864)

R To understand Hawthorne, the reader must set aside an attractive legend. Only accidental cir- cumstances support the tradition of the shy recluse, brooding in solitude upon the gloomier aspects of Puritan New England, whose writings are a kind of spiritual autobiography. Instead, during most of his life, Hawthorne was decidedly a public figure, capable, when necessary, of a certain urban- ity. As a writer, he set out quite consciously to exploit his antiquarian enthusiasms and his under- standing of the colonial history of New England. He was absorbed by the enigmas of evil and of moral responsibility, interwoven with human destiny in nature and in eternity; but in this inter- est he was not unusual, for he shared it with such contemporaries as Poe, Emerson, and Melville, and with others more remote, such as Milton and Shakespeare.

It is true that for some years after his graduation from college he lived quietly in quiet Salem, but a young man engrossed in historical study and in learning the writer’s craft is not notably queer if he does not seek society or marriage, especially if he is poor. In later years Hawthorne successfully managed his official duties, made a large circle of friends, and performed the extrovert functions of a foreign consul with competence, if without joy. The true Hawthorne is revealed just as much by “The Old Manse,” an essay light-spirited and affectionate, as by “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” “Ethan Brand,” or The Scarlet Letter.

Born in Salem, Massachusetts, July 4, 1804, Hawthorne was five generations removed from his Puritan American forebears. When he was twelve, his widowed mother took him to live with her brother in Maine, but old Salem had already enkindled his antiquarian inclination. To Salem he returned to prepare for college. At Bowdoin College (1821–1825), where he was, he said, “an idle student,” but “always reading,” he made a friend of Longfellow, his classmate, and lifetime intimates of Horatio Bridge and of Franklin Pierce, later President of the United States.

The next twelve years, when he lived in his mother’s Salem home, were years of literary apprenticeship. He read widely, preparing himself to be the chronicler of the antiquities and the spiritual temper of colonial New England. His first novel, Fanshawe (1828), an abortive chronicle of Bowdoin life, was recalled and almost completely destroyed. He made observant walking trips about Massachusetts; remote portions of New England he frequently visited as the guest of his uncle, whose extensive stagecoach business provided the means. In 1832 there appeared in a gift book, The Token, his first published tales, including “The Gentle Boy.” Other stories followed, in The Token and in various magazines, to be collected in 1837 as Twice-Told Tales (enlarged in 1842), a volume of masterpieces, but only a few discerning critics, such as Poe, then understood what he was doing.

The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne was edited by William Charvat and others in 23 vols., 1962–1996. An earlier edition is The Complete Works, 12 vols., edited by George P. Lathrop, 1883. The Heart of Hawthorne’s Journals was edited by Newton Arvin, 1929. Randall Stewart edited The American Notebooks of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1932, and The English Notebooks, 1941. L. Neal Smith and Thomas Woodson edited four volumes of Hawthorne’s Letters (1984–1987) in the Centenary Edition.

Recent full biographies include Arlin Turner’s Nathaniel Hawthorne: A Biography, 1980; and Edwin Haviland Miller’s Salem Is My Dwelling Place: A Life of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1992. Also still useful are G. E. Woodberry’s Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1902; and Randall Stewart’s Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1948. See also Julian Hawthorne, Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife, 2 vols., 1884; Mark Van Doren, Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1949; H. H. Waggoner, Hawthorne, a Critical Study, rev. ed., 1963; R. R. Male, Hawthorne’s Tragic Vision, 1957; Harry Levin, Power of Blackness, 1960; Arlin Turner, Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1955; Terence Martin, Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1965; Richard Fogle, Hawthorne’s Fiction: The Light & the Dark, 1964; Frederick C. Crews, The Sins of the Fathers: Hawthorne’s Psychological Themes, 1966; Neal Frank Doubleday, Hawthorne’s Early Tales, 1972; Nina Baym, The Shape of Hawthorne’s Career, 1976; Rita K. Gollin, Nathaniel Hawthorne and the Truth of Dreams, 1979; Lea V. Newman, Reader’s Guide to the Short Stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1979; James Mellow, Nathaniel Hawthorne in His Times, 1980; Michael J. Colacurcio, The Province of Piety: Moral History in Hawthorne’s Early Tales, 1985; Richard H. Brodhead, The School of Hawthorne, 1986; Edward Wagenknecht, Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Man, His Tales and Romances, 1988; Sacvan Bercovitch, The Office of The Scarlet Letter, 1991; Richard H. Millington, Practicing Romance: Narrative Form and Cultural Engagement in Hawthorne’s Fiction, 1992.

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He had become secretly engaged to Sophia Peabody in 1838, and since his stories were not gaining popular support, he secured employment in the Boston Customs House. Seven months at Brook Farm, a socialistic cooperative, led him to abandon the idea of taking his bride there; on their marriage in 1842 they settled in Concord, at the Old Manse, Emerson’s ancestral home. There he spent four idyllic years, during which the stories of Mosses from an Old Manse (1846) were published serially and as a volume.

His sales were still meager, and he returned to Salem as surveyor in the Customs House (1846–1849). He lost this position, with other Democrats, at the next election, but in 1850 he published The Scarlet Letter, which made his fame, changed his fortune, and gave to our literature its first symbolic novel, a year before the appearance of Melville’s Moby-Dick. In this novel were concentrated the entire resources of Hawthorne’s creative personality and experience.

After a short time in the Berkshires, Hawthorne settled in 1852 at the Wayside, Concord, which became his permanent home. He was at the height of his creative activity. The House of the Seven Gables (1851), a novel of family decadence, was followed by The Blithedale Romance (1852), a novel on the Brook Farm experiment. Among the tales of The Snow-Image (1851) were “Ethan Brand” and “The Great Stone Face.” A Wonder Book (1852) and Tanglewood Tales (1853) entered the literature of juvenile classics.

The Life of Franklin Pierce (1852) was recognized handsomely by the new President, who appointed his college friend consul at Liverpool (1853–1857). Hawthorne faithfully performed the duties, which he found uncongenial, while seeing much of England and recording his impressions in the English Note-Books (1870) and Our Old Home (1863), a sheaf of essays. A long holiday on the Continent resulted in the French and Italian Note-Books (1871), and The Marble Faun (1860), a novel with an Italian setting, whose moral allegory, while not satisfactorily clarified, continues to interest the student of Hawthorne’s thought. In 1860 Hawthorne brought his family back to the Wayside. He died on May 18, 1864, at Plymouth, New Hampshire, on a walking tour.

Although in many of his stories, and in the two great novels, Hawthorne created genuine characters and situations, he holds his permanent audience primarily by the interest and the consistent vitality of his criticism of life. Beyond his remarkable sense of the past, which gives a genuine ring to the historical reconstructions, beyond his precise and simple style, which is in the great tradition of familiar narrative, the principal appeal of his work is in the quality of its allegory, always richly ambivalent, providing enigmas which each reader solves in his or her own terms. Reference is made, to his discovery of the Puritan past of his family, the persecutors of Quakers and “witches”; but wherever his interest started, it led him to a long investigation of the problems of moral and social responsibility. His enemies are intolerance, the hypocrisy that hides the common sin, and the greed that refuses to share joy; he fears beyond everything withdrawal from humanity, the cynical suspicion, the arrogant perfectionism that cannot bide its mortal time—whatever divorces the pride-ridden intellect from the common heart of humanity. It is not enough to call him the critic of the Puritan; the Quaker or the transcendental extremist might be equally guilty; and Wakefield, Aylmer, and Ethan Brand are not Puritans. His remedy is in nature and in the sweetness of a world freed not from sin, but from the corrosive sense of guilt.

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Nathaniel Hawthorne Preface to The House of the Seven Gables

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Preface to The House of the Seven Gables1

When a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed that he wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion and material, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume had he professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form of composition is presumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible, but to the probable and ordinary course of man’s experience. The former—while, as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself to laws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve aside from the truth of the human heart—has fairly a right to present that truth under circumstances, to a great ex- tent, of the writer’s own choosing or creation. If he think fit, also, he may so man- age his atmospherical medium as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich the shadows of the picture. He will be wise, no doubt, to make a very mod- erate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle the Marvellous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as any portion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the public. He can hardly be said, however, to commit a literary crime even if he disregard this caution.

In the present work, the author has proposed to himself—but with what suc- cess, fortunately, it is not for him to judge—to keep undeviatingly within his im- munities. The point of view in which this tale comes under the Romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygone time with the very present that is flitting away from us. It is a legend prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the dis- tance, down into our own broad daylight, and bringing along with it some of its legendary mist, which the reader, according to his pleasure, may either disregard, or allow it to float almost imperceptibly about the characters and events for the sake of a picturesque effect. The narrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a tex- ture as to require this advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more diffi- cult of attainment.

Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their works. Not to be deficient in this particular, the author has provided himself with a moral,—the truth, namely, that the wrong-doing of one generation lives into the successive ones, and, divesting itself of every tempo- rary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief; and he would feel it a singular gratification if this romance might effectually convince mankind—or, indeed, any one man—of the folly of tumbling down an avalanche of ill-gotten gold, or real estate, on the heads of an unfortunate posterity, thereby to maim and crush them, until the accumulated mass shall be scattered abroad in its original atoms. In good faith, however, he is not sufficiently imaginative to flatter himself

1. In this preface Hawthorne discusses some of his aims as a writer of romances rather than novels. See also his prefaces to The Blithedale Romance and The Marble Faun.

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with the slightest hope of this kind. When romances do really teach anything, or produce any effective operation, it is usually through a far more subtile process than the ostensible one. The author has considered it hardly worth his while, there- fore, relentlessly to impale the story with its moral as with an iron rod,—or, rather, as by sticking a pin through a butterfly,—thus at once depriving it of life, and caus- ing it to stiffen in an ungainly and unnatural attitude. A high truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and skilfully wrought out, brightening at every step, and crowning the final development of a work of fiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer, and seldom any more evident, at the last page than at the first.

The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to the imaginary events of this narrative. If permitted by the historical connection,—which, though slight, was essential to his plan,—the author would very willingly have avoided anything of this nature. Not to speak of other objections, it exposes the romance to an inflexible and exceedingly dangerous species of criticism, by bringing his fancy- pictures almost into positive contact with the realities of the moment. It has been no part of his object, however, to describe local manners, nor in any way to meddle with the characteristics of a community for whom he cherishes a proper respect and a natural regard. He trusts not to be considered as unpardonably offending by lay- ing out a street that infringes upon nobody’s private rights, and appropriating a lot of land which had no visible owner, and building a house of materials long in use for constructing castles in the air. The personages of the tale—though they give themselves out to be of ancient stability and considerable prominence—are really of the author’s own making, or, at all events, of his own mixing; their virtues can shed no lustre, nor their defects redound, in the remotest degree, to the discredit of the venerable town of which they profess to be inhabitants. He would be glad, there- fore, if—especially in the quarter to which he alludes—the book may be read strictly as a Romance, having a great deal more to do with the clouds overhead than with any portion of the actual soil of the County of Essex.

LENOX, January 27, 1851. 1851

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Nathaniel Hawthorne The Ambitious Guest © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2000

The Ambitious Guest

Nathaniel Hawthorne

ONE SEPTEMBER NIGHT a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splin- tered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice. Up the chim- ney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen; and the aged grandmother, who sat knit- ting in the warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. They had found the “herb, heart’s-ease,” in the bleakest spot of all New England. This family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and pitilessly cold in the winter—giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain towered above their heads, so steep, that the stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage— rattling the door, with a sound of wailing and lamentation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which her- alded his approach, and wailed as he was entering, and went moaning away from the door.

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a great artery, through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing between Maine, on one side, and the Green Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The stage- coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The way-farer, with no com- panion but his staff, paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach the first house in the valley. And here the teamster, on his way to Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, and steal a kiss from the mountain maid at parting. It was one of those primitive taverns where the traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children, and all, as if about to welcome someone who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs.

The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road, at night- fall and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly warmth of his recep- tion. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who

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wiped a chair with her apron, to the little child that held out its arms to him. One glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter.

“Ah, this fire is the right thing!” cried he; “especially when there is such a pleas- ant circle round it. I am quite benumbed; for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible blast in my face all the way from Bartlett.”

“Then you are going towards Vermont?” said the master of the house, as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man’s shoulders.

“Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond,” replied he. “I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford’s tonight; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, when I saw this good fire, and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you, and make myself at home.”

The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire when some- thing like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a leap in passing the cot- tage as to strike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and their guest held his by instinct.

“The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear we should forget him,” said the landlord, recovering himself. “He sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down; but we are old neighbors, and agree together pretty well upon the whole. Besides we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest.”

Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear’s meat; and, by his natural felicity of manner, to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family, so that they talked as freely together as if he belonged to their moun- tain brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit—haughty and reserved among the rich and great; but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be like a brother or a son at the poor man’s fireside. In the household of the Notch he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England, and a poetry of native growth, which they had gathered when they little thought of it from the mountain peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous abode. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path; for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his companions. The family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity among themselves, and separation from the world at large, which, in every domestic circle, should still keep a holy place where no stranger may intrude. But this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple moun- taineers, and constrained them to answer him with the same free confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth?

The secret of the young man’s character was a high and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope; and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his

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pathway—though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they would trace the bright- ness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to recognize him.

“As yet,” cried the stranger—his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm—“as yet, I have done nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth tomor- row, none would know so much of me as you: that a nameless youth came up at night- fall from the valley of the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, ‘Who was he? Whither did the wanderer go?’ But I cannot die till I have achieved my destiny. Then, let Death come! I shall have built my monument!”

There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gushing forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the family to understand this young man’s sentiments, though so foreign from their own. With quick sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed.

“You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest daughter’s hand, and laughing him- self. “You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington, only that people might spy at me from the country round about. And, truly, that would be a noble pedestal for a man’s statue!”

“It is better to sit here by this fire,” answered the girl, blushing, “and be com- fortable and contented, though nobody thinks about us.”

“I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of musing, “there is something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been turned that way, I might have felt just the same. It is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain never to come to pass.”

“Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. “Is the man thinking what he will do when he is a widower?”

“No, no!” cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. “When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine, too. But I was wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, or Littleton, or some other township round the White Mountains; but not where they could tumble on our heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called Squire, and sent to General Court for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me. A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one—with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to let people know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian.”

“There now!” exclaimed the stranger; “it is our nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a glorious memory in the universal heart of man.”

“We’re in a strange way, tonight,” said the wife, with tears in her eyes. “They say it’s a sign of something, when folks’ minds go a—wandering so. Hark to the children!”

They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bed in another room, but with an open door between, so that they could be heard talking busily

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among themselves. One and all seemed to have caught the infection from the fire- side circle, and were outvying each other in wild wishes, and childish projects, of what they would do when they came to be men and women. At length a little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother.

“I’ll tell you what I wish, mother,” cried he. “I want you and father and grand- ma’m, and all of us, and the stranger too, to start right away, and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume!”

Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion of leaving a warm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful fire, to visit the basin of the Flume—a brook, which tumbles over the precipice, deep within the Notch. The boy had hardly spoken when a wagon rattled along the road, and stopped a moment before the door. It appeared to contain two or three men, who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song, which resounded, in broken notes, between the cliffs, while the singers hes- itated whether to continue their journey or put up here for the night.

“Father,” said the girl, “they are calling you by name.” But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and was unwill-

ing to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door; and the lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged into the Notch, still singing and laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearily from the heart of the mountain.

“There, mother!” cried the boy, again. “They’d have given us a ride to the Flume.” Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious fancy for a night ramble. But it

happened that a light cloud passed over the daughter’s spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a lit- tle struggle to repress it. Then starting and blushing, she looked quickly round the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. The stranger asked what she had been thinking of.

“Nothing,” answered she, with a downcast smile. “Only I felt lonesome just then.”

“Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people’s hearts,” said he, half seriously. “Shall I tell the secrets of yours? For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth, and complains of lonesomeness at her mother’s side. Shall I put these feelings into words?”

“They would not be a girl’s feelings any longer if they could be put into words,” replied the mountain nymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye.

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in their hearts, so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his; and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul is oftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden’s nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast, who in old Indian times had their dwelling among these mountains, and made their heights and recesses a sacred region. There was a wail along the road, as if a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw pine branches on their fire,

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till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly, and caressed them all. There were the little faces of the children, peeping from their bed apart, and here the father’s frame of strength, the mother’s subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. The aged woman looked up from her task, and, with fingers ever busy, was the next to speak.

“Old folks have their notions,” said she, “as well as young ones. You’ve been wish- ing and planning; and letting your heads run on one thing and another, till you’ve set my mind a—wandering too. Now what should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before she comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me night and day till I tell you.”

“What is it, mother?” cried the husband and wife at once. Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle closer round

the fire, informed them that she had provided her grave-clothes some years before— a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition had strangely recurred to her. It used to be said, in her younger days, that if anything were amiss with a corpse, if only the ruff were not smooth, or the cap did not set right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath the clods would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare thought made her nervous.

“Don’t talk so, grandmother!” said the girl, shuddering. “Now,” continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet smiling strangely

at her own folly, “I want one of you, my children—when your mother is dressed and in the coffin—I want one of you to hold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all’s right?”

“Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments,” murmured the stranger youth. “I wonder how mariners feel when the ship is sinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean—that wide and nameless sepulchre?”

For a moment, the old woman’s ghastly conception so engrossed the minds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated group were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, without utterance, or power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips.

“The Slide! The Slide!” The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterable horror of the

catastrophe. The victims rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot—where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a sort of bar- rier had been reared. Alas! they had quitted their security, and fled right into the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain, in a cataract of ruin. Just before it reached the house, the stream broke into two branches—shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and

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annihilated everything in its dreadful course. Long ere the thunder of the great Slide had ceased to roar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the victims were at peace. Their bodies were never found.

The next morning, the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage chim- ney up the mountain side. Within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view the devastation of the Slide, and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for their miraculous escape. All had left separate tokens, by which those who had known the family were made to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The story has been told far and wide, and will forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate.

There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage on this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. Others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. Wo for the high-souled youth, with his dream of Earthly Immortality! His name and person utterly unknown; his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt! Whose was the agony of that death moment?

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Herman Melville Author Bio © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2000

Herman Melville (1819–1891)

R Melville’s parents were both of substantial New York families, but his father’s bankruptcy, soon followed by his death, left the mother in financial difficulties when the boy was only twelve. She then settled near Albany, where Melville for a time attended the local academy. Following a brief career as a clerk in his brother’s store and in a bank, he went to sea at the age of nineteen. His experiences as a merchant sailor on the St. Lawrence and ashore in the slums of Liverpool, later recalled in Redburn, awakened the abhorrence, expressed throughout his fiction, of the darkness of human deeds, and the evil seemingly inherent in nature itself. After this first brief seafaring interlude, he taught school and began to write sporadically.

In 1841, he shipped once more before the mast, aboard a Fair Haven whaler, the Acushnet, bound for the Pacific. Altogether, it was nearly four years before he returned from the South Seas. After eighteen months he deserted the whaler, in company with a close friend, at Nukuhiva, in the Marquesas Islands. In Typee, these adventures are embellished by fictional license, but the author and “Toby” Green certainly spent at least a month among the handsome Marquesan Taipis, whose free and idyllic island life was flawed by their regrettable habit of eating their enemies. A passing whaler provided an “escape” to Tahiti. Melville soon shipped on another whaler, Charles and Henry of Nantucket, which carried him finally to the Hawaiian Islands. In Honolulu he enlisted for naval service, aboard the U.S.S. United States, and was discharged fourteen months later at Boston.

The youth had had a compelling personal experience, and he at once set to work producing a fiction based in part on his own adventures, employing literary materials which he was the first American writer to exploit. Typee (London and New York, 1846) was the first modern novel of South Seas adventure, as the later Moby-Dick was the first literary classic of whaling. Indeed, his significant novels almost all reflect his experiences prior to his discharge from the navy. His impulsive literary energies drove him steadily for eleven years, during which he was the author of ten major volumes; after 1857 he published no fiction, and his life fell into seeming confusion, producing an enigma endlessly intriguing to his critics.

In the beginning he was almost embarrassed by success. Typee was at once recognized for the merits which have made it a classic, but its author was notoriously identified as the character who had lived with cannibals, and loved the dusky Fayaway—an uncomfortable position for a young New Yorker just married to the daughter of a Boston chief justice. Omoo (1847), somewhat inferior to Typee, was also a successful novel of Pacific adventures. Mardi (1849) began to puzzle a public impatient of symbolic enigmas; but Redburn (1849) and White-Jacket (1850) were novels of exciting adventure, although the first, as has been suggested above, devotes much of its energy to sociological

The standard edition is The Complete Writings of Herman Melville, The Northwestern-Newbury Editions, in progress at Northwestern University under the general editorship of Harrison Hayford, Hershel Parker, and George Thomas Tanselle. Earlier is The Works of Herman Melville, 16 vols., London, 1922–1924. Melville’s journals appeared as Journal of a Visit to London and the Continent (Eleanor Melville Metcalf), 1948; and Journal of a Visit to Europe and the Levant * * * (H. C. Horsford), 1955. The Letters * * * , 1960, is a collection edited by Merrell R. Davis and W. H. Gilman.

Hershel Parker, Herman Melville: A Biography, Vol. 1, 1819–1851, 1996, is the most complete biographical treatment for the years covered. Earlier and still useful are Leon Howard, Herman Melville: A Biography, 1951, and Jay Leyda, The Melville Log: A Documentary Life of Herman Melville, 1951. R. M. Weaver, Herman Melville: Mariner and Mystic, 1921, was the first full-length biography. Later notable biographies and studies are John Freeman, Herman Melville, 1926; Lewis Mumford, Herman Melville, 1929, revised, 1963; Charles R. Anderson, Melville in the South Seas, 1939; William Braswell, Melville’s Religious Thought, 1943; W. E. Sedgwick, Herman Melville: The Tragedy of Mind, 1944; H. P. Vincent, The Trying Out of Moby Dick, 1949, and The Tailoring of Melville’s White Jacket, 1970; Eleanor Melville Metcalf, Herman Melville: Cycle and Epicycle, 1953; E. H. Rosenberry, Melville and the Comic Spirit, 1955; James Baird, Ishmael, 1956; Perry Miller, The Raven and the Whale * * * , 1956; Newton Arvin, Herman Melville, 1950, 1957; Tyrus Hillway, Herman Melville, rev. ed. 1979; Edward H. Rosenberg, Melville, 1979; T. W. Herbert, Jr., Marquesan Encounters: Melville and the Meaning of Civilization, 1980; William B. Dillingham, Melville’s Later Novels, 1986; Merton M. Sealts, Jr., Melville’s Reading, 1988; and Neal L. Tolchin, Mourning, Gender, and Creativity in the Art of Herman Melville, 1988.

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satire, while the second emphasizes the floggings and other cruelties and degradations then imposed upon enlisted men in naval service and seamen generally.

In 1851, Melville’s masterpiece, Moby-Dick, was published. A robust and realistic novel of adventure, drawing upon the author’s fascination with the whale and whaling, it achieves a compelling symbolism in the character of Captain Ahab, whose monomaniacal fury against the whale, or the evil it represents to him, sends him to his death. This book may be seen as one of a trilogy, including the earlier Mardi and the later Pierre (1852), but neither of the others is wholly comprehensible or successful. Together, however, they represent the struggle of humanity against its destiny at various levels of experience.

In 1850, Melville had established a residence at Arrowhead, a farm near Pittsfield, Massachusetts. There, completing Moby-Dick, with Hawthorne nearby, a stimulating new friend, he was at the height of his career—see his perceptive “Hawthorne,” below. Yet he published but one more distinguished volume of fiction—The Piazza Tales (1856), a collection of such smaller masterpieces as “Benito Cereno,” “Bartleby the Scrivener,” and “The Encantadas.” Pierre was denounced on moral grounds, and because there was marked confusion of narrative elements and symbolism in that strange novel of incest. Israel Potter (1855) and The Confidence-Man (1857) are now of some interest but were not then successful; they marked his last effort to make a career of literature. Readers in general did not understand the symbolic significance of his works, his sales were unsatisfactory, and when the plates of his volumes were destroyed in a publisher’s fire, the books were not reprinted. Four volumes of poems, not then well received, have been better appreciated in recent years.

After some hard and bitter years he settled down humbly in 1866 as a customs inspector in New York, at the foot of Gansevoort Street, which had been named for his mother’s distinguished family. Before doing so, however, he launched himself on a pursuit of certainty, a tour to the Holy Land, that inspired Clarel. In this uneven poem there are profound spiritual discoveries and descriptive sketches or lyrics of power substantiating the lyric vision of his novels. His versification anticipated the twentieth-century techniques. The Civil War involved him deeply in a human cause and produced sensitive poetry in Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War (1866). Besides Clarel (1867), two much smaller volumes of poetry were John Marr and Other Sailors (1888) and Timoleon (1891).

In Billy Budd, printed below, the novelist recaptured his highest powers during the very last years of his life. He worked on the novelette from November 1888 until April 1891, and the manuscript was not fully prepared for press when he died the following September 28 (see the first note to Billy Budd). The story is related to the author’s earliest adventures at sea; its theme has obvious connection with that of Moby-Dick; yet the essential spirit of the work cancels the infuriated rebellion of Captain Ahab. In its reconciliation of the temporal with the eternal there is a sense of luminous peace and atonement.

Melville’s greatness shines above the stylistic awkwardness of many passages, the blurred outlines that result from the confusion of autobiography with invented action, the tendency of the author to lose control of his own symbols, or to set the metaphysical thunderbolt side by side with factual discussion or commonplace realism. Having survived the neglect of his contemporaries and the elaborate attentions of recent critics, he emerges secure in the power and influence of Typee, Moby-Dick, The Piazza Tales, Billy Budd, and a number of poems.

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HERMAN MELVILLE

Bartleby the Scrivener1

A Story of Wall Street

I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations, for the last thirty years, has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom, as yet, nothing, that I know of, has ever been written—I mean, the law-copyists, or scriveners. I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and, if I pleased, could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners, for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener, the strangest I ever saw, or heard of. While, of other law-copyists, I might write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that no materials exist, for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the original sources, and, in his case, those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report, which will appear in the sequel.

1. Melville wrote and published serially fifteen short stories between 1853 and 1856. “Bartleby,” the first published, appeared anonymously in Putnam’s Monthly Magazine, November and December 1853. It was collected in Piazza Tales, 1856. It stands among this author’s greatest creations, enigmatic but convincingly alive. It is one of the few of Melville’s writings in which the consistency between the mean- ing and its formal embodiment is entirely satisfactory; although small in scale, the story contains huge meanings, a related cluster of them, each with bold and various connotations.

Critical interpretations have probably placed too much emphasis on certain parallels between Melville’s human situation and that of Bartleby, forgetting that every artist of value creates something “out of himself”; what matters is the resulting work of art. Like Bartleby, Melville was a “scrivener,” or writer. Melville also refused to copy out the ideas of others, or even his own, in response to popular de- mand; he too “preferred” to withdraw. Like Bartleby, he also distrusted the economic compulsion of so- ciety; he resented the financial assistance of his wife’s father. He did not believe that his brother’s practice of law, or that the law itself, necessarily promoted the cause of justice, nor that the lawyer was more “successful” because he grew rich. However, Bartleby’s fictional withdrawal from life represents an an- cient and universal theme of history, legend, and literature, and Melville succeeded in universalizing his version of the theme.

Melville’s achievement depends not only on the character of Bartleby but also on the unnamed narra- tor, another of his best characters. This elderly lawyer is “a safe man,” prudent, methodical, and given to the easiest, if dullest, pursuit of the lawyer—taking care of other people’s money for a tidy percent- age. He is neither good nor bad, but uncommitted: The gradual unfolding of the lawyer’s human under- standing, responding to Bartleby’s passive resistance against all that he is or serves, until he is on Bartleby’s side—this theme is perhaps central.

The other two scriveners, Turkey and Nippers, support the conventional system of the law and the profits, and their reward is paid in neuroses, alcoholism, ulcers, and unacknowledged envy of Bartleby’s superiority. Environment takes on symbolic value—the frequent references to the “Tombs,” or prison, merge with descriptions of the jail-like office, the inhuman place of murder, and the prison yard, where Bartleby at last sleeps “with kings and counselors.” Sleep, death, participation and withdrawal, and var- ious concepts of human responsibility appear in patterns of suggestive if not symbolic meaning.

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Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I make some mention of myself, my employés, my business, my chambers, and general surround- ings; because some such description is indispensable to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented. Imprimis:2 I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never address a jury, or in any way draw down public applause; but, in the cool tranquillity of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men’s bonds, and mortgages, and title- deeds. All who know me, consider me an eminently safe man. The late John Jacob Astor,3 a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in pro- nouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat; for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor’s good opinion.

Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my avoca- tions had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly remunerative. I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in dangerous indignation at wrongs and outrages; but I must be permitted to be rash here and declare, that I consider the sudden and vi- olent abrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution, as a—premature act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lease of the profits, whereas I only received those of a few short years.4 But this is by the way.

My chambers were up stairs, at No.—Wall Street. At one end, they looked upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious skylight shaft, penetrating the building from top to bottom.

This view might have been considered rather tame than otherwise, deficient in what landscape painters call “life.” But, if so, the view from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if nothing more. In that direction, my windows commanded an unobstructed view of a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which wall required no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but, for the benefit of all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten feet of my window-panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding build- ings, and my chambers being on the second floor, the interval between this wall and mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern.

At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons as copy- ists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy. First, Turkey; sec-

2. In the first place. 3. John Jacob Astor (1763–1848), a penniless German immigrant at twenty-one; shrewd, ambitious, and single-mindedly materialistic, he became a pioneer and monopolist of the western fur trade, on which he built an empire—a fine example of the economic society which Bartleby’s employer serves. 4. Courts of chancery dealt with equity law; hence decisions were rendered on judicial opinion, often negotiated. Whoever else lost, the master always won his fees.

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ond, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem names, the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth, they were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my three clerks, and were deemed expressive of their respec- tive persons or characters. Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman, of about my own age—that is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say, his face was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o’clock, meridian—his dinner hour—it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals; and continued blazing—but, as it were, with a gradual wane—till six o’clock, P.M., or thereabouts; after which, I saw no more of the proprietor of the face, which, gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it, to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with the like regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular coincidences I have known in the course of my life, not the least among which was the fact, that, exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red and radiant counte- nance, just then, too, at that critical moment, began the daily period when I con- sidered his business capacities as seriously disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was absolutely idle, or averse to business then; far from it. The difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic. There was a strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of activity about him. He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his inkstand. All his blots upon my documents were dropped there after twelve o’clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless, and sadly given to making blots in the afternoon, but, some days, he went further, and was rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with augmented blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He made an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending his pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor in a sudden passion; stood up, and leaned over his table, boxing his papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most valuable person to me, and all the time before twelve o’clock, meridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature, too, accomplishing a great deal of work in a style not easily to be matched—for these reasons, I was willing to overlook his eccen- tricities, though, indeed, occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gen- tly, however, because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of men in the morning, yet, in the afternoon, he was disposed, upon provocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue—in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his morning ser- vices as I did, and resolved not to lose them—yet, at the same time, made uncom- fortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o’clock—and being a man of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him, I took upon me, one Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays) to hint to him, very kindly, that, perhaps, now that he was growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in short, he need not come to my chambers after twelve o’clock, but, din- ner over, had best go home to his lodgings, and rest himself till tea-time. But no; he insisted upon his afternoon devotions. His countenance became intolerably fer- vid, as he oratorically assured me—gesticulating with a long ruler at the other end of the room—that if his services in the morning were useful, how indispensable, then, in the afternoon?

“With submission, sir,” said Turkey, on this occasion, “I consider myself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshall and deploy my columns; but in the

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afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly charge the foe, thus”—and he made a violent thrust with the ruler.

“But the blots, Turkey,” intimated I. “True; but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old. Surely,

sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely urged against gray hairs. Old age—even if it blot the page—is honorable. With submission, sir, we both are getting old.”

This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all events, I saw that go he would not. So, I made up my mind to let him stay, resolving, neverthe- less, to see to it that, during the afternoon, he had to do with my less important papers.

Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the whole, rather piratical-looking young man, of about five-and-twenty. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers—ambition and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly professional affairs such as the original drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by a continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked. Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite adjust- ment, by final pieces of folded blotting-paper. But no invention would answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table-lid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk, then he declared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted anything, it was to be rid of a scrivener’s table altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased ambition was a fondness he had for receiving visits from certain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called his clients. Indeed, I was aware that not only was he, at times, considerable of a ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little business at the justices’ courts, and was not unknown on the steps of the Tombs.5 I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual who called upon him at my cham- bers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted was his client, was no other than a dun, and the alleged title-deed, a bill. But, with all his failings, and the annoyances he caused me, Nippers, like his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to me; wrote a neat, swift hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort of deportment. Added to this, he always dressed in a gentlemanly sort of way; and so, incidentally, reflected credit upon my chambers. Whereas, with respect to Turkey, I had much ado to keep him from being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt to look oily, and smell of eatinghouses. He wore his pantaloons very

5. Then the most unsavory prison in New York City and the prison of maximum security.

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loose and baggy in summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be handled. But while the hat was a thing of indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural civil- ity and deference, as a dependent Englishman, always led him to doff it the mo- ment he entered the room, yet his coat was another matter. Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a man with so small an income could not afford to sport such a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one and the same time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey’s money went chiefly for red ink. One winter day, I presented Turkey with a highly respectable- looking coat of my own—a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which buttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would ap- preciate the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons. But no; I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so downy and blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him—upon the same principle that too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed.

Though, concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey, I had my own private surmises, yet, touching Nippers, I was well persuaded that, whatever might be his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a temperate young man. But, indeed, na- ture herself seemed to have been his vintner, and, at his birth, charged him so thor- oughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition, that all subsequent potations were needless. When I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would sometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table, spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk it, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor, as if the table were a perverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him, I plainly perceive that, for Nippers, brandy-and- water were altogether superfluous.

It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar cause—indigestion—the ir- ritability and consequent nervousness of Nippers were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon he was comparatively mild. So that, Turkey’s paroxysms only coming on about twelve o’clock, I never had to do with their ec- centricities at one time. Their fits relieved each other, like guards. When Nippers’ was on, Turkey’s was off; and vice versa. This was a good natural arrangement, under the circumstances.

Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad, some twelve years old. His father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office, as student at law, errand-boy, cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. He had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon inspection, the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various sorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth, the whole noble science of the law was contained in a nutshell. Not the least among the employ- ments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey and Nippers. Copying law- papers being proverbially a dry, husky sort of business, my two scriveners were fain to moisten their mouths very often with Spitzenbergs,6 to be had at the nu-

6. An esteemed variety of apple.

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merous stalls nigh the Custom House and Post Office. Also, they sent Ginger Nut very frequently for that peculiar cake—small, flat, round, and very spicy—after which he had been named by them. Of a cold morning, when business was but dull, Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes, as if they were mere wafers— indeed, they sell them at the rate of six or eight for a penny—the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of the crisp particles in his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders and flurried rashness of Turkey, was his once moistening a ginger-cake between his lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage, for a seal. I came within an ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me by making an oriental bow, and saying—

“With submission, sir, it was generous of me to find you in stationery on my own account.”

Now my original business—that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and drawer-up of recondite documents of all sorts—was considerably increased by re- ceiving the Master’s office. There was now great work for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must have additional help.

In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning stood upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now—pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby.

After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect, which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers.

I should have stated before that ground-glass folding-doors divided my premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the other by myself. According to my humor, I threw open these doors, or closed them. I re- solved to assign Bartleby a corner by the folding-doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man within easy call, in case any trifling thing was to be done. I placed his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy brickyards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections, commanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I pro- cured a high green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner, privacy and society were conjoined.

At first, Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long famish- ing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night line, copying by sunlight and by candle-light. I should have been quite delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious. But he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.

It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s business to verify the ac- curacy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that, to some sanguine temperaments, it would be altogether in- tolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet, Byron, would

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have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.

Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in com- paring some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had, in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was, to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of in- stant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that, immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay.

In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do—namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my sur- prise, nay, my consternation, when, without moving from his privacy, Bartleby, in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.”

I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunder- stood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume; but in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.”

“Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moonstruck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him.

“I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly

calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been anything ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I con- cluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So, calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined.

A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being qua- druplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged, I called Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut, from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the original. Accordingly, Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row, each with his document in his hand, when I called to Bartleby to join this interesting group.

“Bartleby! quick, I am waiting.” I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he

appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage. “What is wanted?” said he, mildly.

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“The copies, the copies,” said I, hurriedly. “We are going to examine them. There”—and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.

“I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen. For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt,7 standing at the head of

my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct.

“Why do you refuse?” “I would prefer not to.” With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion,

scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but, in a wonderful manner, touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him.

“These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!”

“I prefer not to,” he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that, while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusion; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did.

“You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made ac- cording to common usage and common sense?”

He briefly gave me to understand, that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible.

It is not seldom the case that, when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind.

“Turkey,” said I, “what do you think of this? Am I not right?” “With submission, sir,” said Turkey, in his blandest tone, “I think that you are.” “Nippers,” said I, “what do you think of it?” “I think I should kick him out of the office.” (The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning,

Turkey’s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill- tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nippers’ ugly mood was on duty, and Turkey’s off.)

“Ginger Nut,” said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf, “what do you think of it?”

“I think, sir, he’s a little luny,” replied Ginger Nut, with a grin. “You hear what they say,” said I, turning towards the screen, “come forth

and do your duty.” But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But once

more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble we made out to examine

7. The punishment of Lot’s wife (Genesis 19:26).

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the papers without Bartleby, though at every page or two Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion, that this proceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out, between his set teeth, occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the screen. And for his (Nippers’) part, this was the first and the last time he would do another man’s business without pay.

Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to everything but his own peculiar business there.

Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work. His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I observed that he never went to dinner; indeed, that he never went anywhere. As yet I had never, of my personal knowledge, known him to be outside of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner: At about eleven o’clock though, in the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would advance toward the opening in Bartleby’s screen, as if silently beckoned thither by a gesture invisible to me where I sat. The boy would then leave the office, jingling a few pence, and reappear with a handful of ginger-nuts, which he delivered in the hermitage, receiving two of the cakes for his trouble.

He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner, properly speak- ing; he must be a vegetarian, then, but no; he never eats even vegetables, he eats nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind then ran on in reveries concerning the probable effects upon the human constitution of living entirely on ginger-nuts. Ginger-nuts are so called, because they contain ginger as one of their peculiar constituents, and the final flavoring one. Now, what was ginger? A hot, spicy thing. Was Bartleby hot and spicy? Not at all. Ginger, then, had no effect upon Bartleby. Probably he preferred it should have none.

Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resistance. If the individ- ual so resisted be of a not inhumane temper, and the resisting one perfectly harm- less in his passivity, then, in the better moods of the former, he will endeavor charitably to construe to his imagination what proves impossible to be solved by his judgment. Even so, for the most part, I regarded Bartleby and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he means no mischief; it is plain he intends no insolence; his as- pect sufficiently evinces that his eccentricities are involuntary. He is useful to me. I can get along with him. If I turn him away, the chances are he will fall in with some less indulgent employer, and then he will be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve. Yes. Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self- approval. To befriend Bartleby; to humor him in his strange wilfulness, will cost me little or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove a sweet morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable with me. The passive- ness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me. I felt strangely goaded on to encounter him in new opposition—to elicit some angry spark from him answerable to my own. But, indeed, I might as well have essayed to strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor soap. But one afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the following little scene ensued:

“Bartleby,” said I, “when those papers are all copied, I will compare them with you.”

“I would prefer not to.” “How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary?” No answer.

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I threw open the folding-doors nearby, and turning upon Turkey and Nip- pers, exclaimed:

“Bartleby a second time says, he won’t examine his papers. What do you think of it, Turkey?”

It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass boiler; his bald head steaming; his hands reeling among his blotted papers.

“Think of it?” roared Turkey. “I think I’ll just step behind his screen, and black his eyes for him!”

So saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pugilistic posi- tion. He was hurrying away to make good his promise, when I detained him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously rousing Turkey’s combativeness after dinner.

“Sit down, Turkey,” said I, “and hear what Nippers has to say. What do you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing Bartleby?”

“Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite unusual, and, indeed, unjust, as regards Turkey and myself. But it may only be a passing whim.”

“Ah,” exclaimed I, “you have strangely changed your mind, then—you speak very gently of him now.”

“All beer,” cried Turkey; “gentleness is effects of beer—Nippers and I dined together to-day. You see how gentle I am, sir. Shall I go and black his eyes?”

“You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey,” I replied; “pray, put up your fists.”

I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt additional in- centives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled against again. I remem- bered that Bartleby never left the office.

“Bartleby,” said I, “Ginger Nut is away; just step around to the Post Office, won’t you?” (it was but a three minutes’ walk) “and see if there is anything for me.”

“I would prefer not to.” “You will not?” “I prefer not.” I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind inveteracy re-

turned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure myself to be ignomin- iously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight?—my hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will be sure to refuse to do?

“Bartleby!” No answer. “Bartleby,” in a louder tone. No answer. “Bartleby,” I roared. Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the third

summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage. “Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me.” “I prefer not to,” he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly disappeared. “Very good, Bartleby,” said I, in a quiet sort of serenely-severe self-possessed

tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended something of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind.

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Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was, that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener, by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, out of com- pliment, doubtless, to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was never, on any account, to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would “prefer not to”—in other words, that he would refuse point-blank.

As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His steadi- ness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his screen), his great stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstances, made him a valuable acqui- sition. One prime thing was this—he was always there—first in the morning, con- tinually through the day, and the last at night. I had a singular confidence in his honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes, to be sure, I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard-of exemptions, forming the tacit stip- ulations on Bartleby’s part under which he remained in my office. Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing some papers. Of course, from be- hind the screen the usual answer, “I prefer not to,” was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature, with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon such perverseness—such unreasonableness? How- ever, every added repulse of this sort which I received only tended to lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence.

Here it must be said, that, according to the custom of most legal gentlemen occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there were several keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the attic, which person weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my apartments. Another was kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I sometimes carried in my own pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.

Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a cele- brated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground I thought I would walk round to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had my key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the appari- tion of Bartleby appeared, in his shirtsleeves, and otherwise in a strangely tattered deshabille, saying quietly that he was sorry, but he was deeply engaged just then, and—preferred not admitting me at present. In a brief word or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better walk round the block two or three times, and by that time he would probably have concluded his affairs.

Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my law-chambers of a Sunday morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance, yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange effect upon me, that incontinently I

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slunk away from my own door, and did as desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion against the mild effrontery of this unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it was his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only disarmed me, but unmanned me, as it were. For I consider that one, for the time, is a sort of un- manned when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk to dictate to him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore, I was full of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in my office in his shirtsleeves, and in an other- wise dismantled condition of a Sunday morning. Was anything amiss going on? Nay, that was out of the question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby was an immoral person. But what could he be doing there?—copying? Nay again, whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently deco- rous person. He would be the last man to sit down to his desk in any state ap- proaching to nudity. Besides, it was Sunday; and there was something about Bartleby that forbade the supposition that he would by any secular occupation vi- olate the proprieties of the day.

Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless curiosity, at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted my key, opened it, and en- tered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked round anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an indefinite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my office, and that too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat of a rickety old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a blanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on the chair, a tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel; in a news- paper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evi- dent enough that Bartleby has been making his home here, keeping bachelor’s hall all by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping across me, what mis- erable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great; but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall Street is deserted as Petra;8

and every night of every day it is an emptiness. This building, too, which of week- days hums with industry and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sunday is forlorn. And here Bartleby makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude which he has seen all populous—a sort of innocent and transformed Mar- ius brooding among the ruins of Carthage!9

For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay;

8. A city in Palestine, rediscovered by explorers in 1812 after having been deserted and lost for cen- turies. 9. Caius Marius (155–86 B.C.), plebeian general and consul of Rome, after notable victories in Africa, betrayed by patricians and exiled, became a popular figure of nineteenth-century democratic literature and art.

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but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancy- ings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain—led on to other and more spe- cial thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener’s pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding-sheet.

Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby’s closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock.

I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents, too, so I will make bold to look within. Everything was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon-holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their re- cesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings’ bank.

I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remem- bered that he never spoke but to answer; that, though at intervals he had con- siderable time to himself, yet I had never seen him reading—no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating-house; while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any- where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk, unless, indeed, that was the case at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill-health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame com- pliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued mo- tionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.

Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact, that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forget- ful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincer- est pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible, too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, com- mon sense bids the soul be rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach.

I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going. I

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walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this—I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, espe- cially if he desired to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.

The next morning came. “Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen. No reply. “Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am not going to ask

you to do anything you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to speak to you.” Upon this he noiselessly slid into view. “Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?” “I would prefer not to.” “Will you tell me anything about yourself?” “I would prefer not to.” “But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly

towards you.” He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my bust of

Cicero, which, as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches above my head. “What is your answer, Bartleby?” said I, after waiting a considerable time for

a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth.

“At present I prefer to give no answer,” he said, and retired into his hermitage. It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner, on this occasion, nettled

me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverse- ness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me.

Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my office, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: “Bartleby, never mind, then, about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now, you will help to examine papers tomor- row or next day: in short, say now, that in a day or two you will begin to be a lit- tle reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.”

“At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly ca- daverous reply.

Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suf- fering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induced by severer indigestion than com- mon. He overheard those final words of Bartleby.

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“Prefer not, eh?” gritted Nippers—“I’d prefer him, if I were you, sir,” ad- dressing me—“I’d prefer him; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?”

Bartleby moved not a limb. “Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw for the present.” Somehow, of late, I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “pre-

fer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This appre- hension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary measures.

As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached.

“With submission, sir,” said he, “yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and enabling him to assist in examining his papers.”

“So you have got the word, too,” said I, slightly excited. “With submission, what word, sir?” asked Turkey, respectfully crowding him-

self into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener. “What word, sir?”

“I would prefer to be left alone here,” said Bartleby, as if offended at being mobbed in his privacy.

“That’s the word, Turkey,” said I—“that’s it.” “Oh, prefer? oh yes—queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was say-

ing, if he would but prefer—” “Turkey,” interrupted I, “you will please withdraw.” “Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should.” As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a glimpse

of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent the word “prefer.” It was plain that it involuntarily rolled from his tongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dis- mission at once.

The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing.

“Why, how now? what next?” exclaimed I, “do no more writing?” “No more.” “And what is the reason?” “Do you not see the reason for yourself?” he indifferently replied. I looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes looked dull and glazed.

Instantly it occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence in copying by his dim window for the first few weeks of his stay with me might have temporarily im- paired his vision.

I was touched. I said something on condolence with him. I hinted that of course he did wisely in abstaining from writing for a while; and urged him to em- brace that opportunity of taking wholesome exercise in the open air. This, how-

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ever, he did not do. A few days after this, my other clerks being absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch certain letters by the mail, I thought that, having noth- ing else earthly to do, Bartleby would surely be less inflexible than usual, and carry these letters to the post-office. But he blankly declined. So, much to my inconve- nience, I went myself.

Still added days went by. Whether Bartleby’s eyes improved or not, I could not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked him if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no copying. At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had permanently given up copying.

“What!” exclaimed I; “suppose your eyes should get entirely well—better than ever before—would you not copy then?”

“I have given up copying,” he answered, and slid aside. He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay—if that were possible—he

became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the office; why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his own account, he oc- casioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid-Atlantic. At length, necessities connected with my business tyr- annized over all other considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days’ time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take mea- sures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step towards a removal. “And when you finally quit me, Bartleby,” added I, “I shall see that you go not away en- tirely unprovided. Six days from this hour, remember.”

At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo! Bartleby was there.

I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him, touched his shoulder, and said, “The time has come; you must quit this place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go.”

“I would prefer not,” he replied, with his back still towards me. “You must.” He remained silent. Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man’s common honesty. He had

frequently restored to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped upon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button affairs. The proceeding, then, which followed will not be deemed extraordinary.

“Bartleby,” said I, “I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the odd twenty are yours—Will you take it?” and I handed the bills towards him.

But he made no motion. “I will leave them here, then,” putting them under a weight on the table. Then

taking my hat and cane and going to the door, I tranquilly turned and added— “After you have removed your things from these offices, Bartleby, you will of course lock the door—since every one is now gone for the day but you—and if you please, slip your key underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morn- ing. I shall not see you again; so good-bye to you. If, hereafter, in your new place

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of abode, I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by letter. Good- bye, Bartleby, and fare you well.”

But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple, he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise deserted room.

As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my pity. I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in getting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to any dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever—but only in theory. How it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a beauti- ful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s departure; but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby’s. The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer to do so. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions.

After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed certain that I should find his chair empty. And so I kept veering about. At the corner of Broad- way and Canal Street, I saw quite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation.

“I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed. “Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.” I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when I

remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore no ref- erence to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broad- way shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness.

As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry for my brilliant suc- cess. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—“Not yet; I am occupied.”

It was Bartleby. I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth,

was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by summer lightning; at

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his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he fell.

“Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascen- dancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly went down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity. Turn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous tri- umph over me—this, too, I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if noth- ing could be done, was there anything further that I could assume in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the doctrine of as- sumption. But upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubi- ous. I resolved to argue the matter over with him again.

“Bartleby,” said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe expression, “I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would suffice—in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,” I added, unaffectedly starting, “you have not even touched that money yet,” pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.

He answered nothing. “Will you, or will you not, quit me?” I now demanded in a sudden passion,

advancing close to him. “I would prefer not to quit you,” he replied, gently emphasizing the not. “What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you pay

any taxes? Or is this property yours?” He answered nothing. “Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered? Could you

copy a small paper for me this morning? or help examine a few lines? or step round to the post-office? In a word, will you do anything at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?”

He silently retired into his hermitage. I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but prudent

to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and the still more unfortu- nate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act—an act which certainly no man could pos- sibly deplore more than the actor himself.1 Often it had occurred to me in my pon-

1. The murder of Samuel Adams by John C. Colt in January 1842 sensationally involved the unwed mother of his child. Condemned to be hanged in November, he committed suicide a half hour before the end. Melville’s interest is allegedly reflected earlier in the final scene of Pierre.

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derings upon the subject that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circum- stance of being alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhal- lowed by humanizing domestic associations—an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance—this it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt.

But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: “A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.”2

Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher considerations, charity often op- erates as a vastly wise and prudent principle—a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy’s sake, and anger’s sake, and hatred’s sake, and selfishness’ sake, and spiritual pride’s sake; but no man, that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity’s sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occa- sion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean anything; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be in- dulged.

I endeavored, also, immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy, that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him, Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage and take up some decided line of march in the direc- tion of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o’clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead- wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him.

Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestley on Necessity.”3 Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine, touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all- wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the pre- destinated purpose of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact;

2. The words of Jesus to his disciples (John 13:34). 3. Two works calculated to inspire him to accept the inevitable with grace. Jonathan Edwards, whose Freedom of the Will (1754), a masterpiece of Calvinistic theology, deals with the relations of the human will with predestination and grace; Joseph Priestley (1733–1804), scientist and nonconformist Unitarian who adopted the new United States in his last decade, rejected Calvinism but based his theory of necessity on natural determinism.

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but my mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such period as you may see fit to remain.

I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that peo- ple entering my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccount- able Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney, having business with me, and calling at my office, and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he came.

Also, when a reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and wit- nesses, and business driving fast, some deeply-occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman’s) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keeping occupying my chambers, and denying my au- thority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpet- ual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my facul- ties together, and forever rid me of this intolerable incubus.

Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But, having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me, that his original determination remained the same; in short, that he still preferred to abide with me.

What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last but- ton. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or, rather, ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cru- elty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What, then, will you do? For all your coax- ing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paper-weight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you.

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Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more, then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move else- where, and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser.

Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place.”

He made no reply, and nothing more was said. On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers,

and, having but little furniture, everything was removed in a few hours. Through- out, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I directed to be re- moved the last thing. It was withdrawn; and, being folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from within me upbraided me.

I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth. “Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bless you;

and take that,” slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the floor, and then—strange to say—I tore myself from him whom I had so longed to be rid of.

Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked, and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms, after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me.

I thought all was going well, when a perturbed-looking stranger visited me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms at No.— Wall Street.

Full of forebodings, I replied that I was. “Then, sir,” said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, “you are responsible for

the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do anything; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” said I, with assumed tranquillity, but an inward tremor, “but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me—he is no relation or appren- tice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for him.”

“In mercy’s name, who is he?” “I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I em-

ployed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some time past.” “I shall settle him, then—good morning, sir.” Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and, though I often felt a char-

itable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a certain squea- mishness, of I know not what, withheld me.

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All is over with him, by this time, thought I, at last, when, through another week, no further intelligence reached me. But, coming to my room the day after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high state of nervous excitement.

“That’s the man—here he comes,” cried the foremost one, whom I recognized as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.

“You must take him away, sir, at once,” cried a portly person among them, advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of No.—Wall Street. “These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any longer; Mr. B——,” pointing to the lawyer, “has turned him out of his room, and he now persists in haunting the building generally, sitting upon the banisters of the stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry by night. Everybody is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; some fears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that without delay.”

Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have locked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was nothing to me—no more than to any one else. In vain—I was the last person known to have anything to do with him, and they held me to the terrible account. Fearful, then, of being exposed in the papers (as one person present obscurely threatened), I considered the mat- ter, and, at length, said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview with the scrivener, in his (the lawyer’s) own room, I would, that afternoon, strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of.

Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting upon the banister at the landing.

“What are you doing here, Bartleby?” said I. “Sitting upon the banister,” he mildly replied. I motioned him into the lawyer’s room, who then left us. “Bartleby,” said I, “are you aware that you are the cause of great tribulation

to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being dismissed from the office?” No answer. “Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something, or

something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you like to en- gage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?”

“No; I would prefer not to make any change.” “Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?” “There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship;

but I am not particular.” “Too much confinement,” I cried, “why, you keep yourself confined all

the time!” “I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle that little

item at once. “How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no trying of the eye-

sight in that.” “I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular.” His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge. “Well, then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills for

the merchants? That would improve your health.” “No, I would prefer to be doing something else.” “How, then, would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young

gentleman with your conversation—how would that suit you?”

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“Not at all. It does not strike me that there is anything definite about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.”

“Stationary you shall be, then,” I cried, now losing all patience, and, for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him, fairly flying into a passion. “If you do not go away from these premises before night, I shall feel bound—in- deed, I am bound—to—to—to quit the premises myself!” I rather absurdly con- cluded, knowing not with what possible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance. Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when a final thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly unindulged before.

“Bartleby,” said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such exciting cir- cumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my office, but my dwelling— and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away.”

“No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.” I answered nothing; but, effectually dodging every one by the suddenness and

rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall Street towards Broad- way, and, jumping into the first omnibus, was soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquillity returned, I distinctly perceived that I had now done all that I possi- bly could, both in respect to the demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified me in the attempt; though, indeed, it was not so successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days, I drove about the upper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact, I almost lived in my rockaway for the time.

When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but, at last, almost approved. The landlord’s en- ergetic, summary disposition, had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not think I would have decided upon myself; and yet, as a last resort, under such pe- culiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.

As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be con- ducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but, in his pale, unmoving way, silently acquiesced.

Some of the compassionate and curious by-standers joined the party; and headed by one of the constables arm-in-arm with Bartleby, the silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon.

The same day I received the note, I went to the Tombs, or, to speak more prop- erly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was, indeed, within. I then as- sured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be

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compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible, till something less harsh might be done—though, indeed, I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must re- ceive him. I then begged to have an interview.

Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and, especially, in the inclosed grass-platted yards thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves.

“Bartleby!” “I know you,” he said, without looking round—“and I want nothing to say

to you.” “It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly pained at his im-

plied suspicion. “And to you, this should not be so vile a place. Nothing reproach- ful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.”

“I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him. As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted

me, and, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said—“Is that your friend?” “Yes.” “Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that’s all.” “Who are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially

speaking person in such a place. “I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide

them with something good to eat.” “Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey. He said it was. “Well, then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands (for so they

called him), “I want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite to him as possible.”

“Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an expres- sion which seemed to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a speci- men of his breeding.

Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and, asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.

“Bartleby, this is a friend; you will find him very useful to you.” “Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant,” said the grub-man, making a low salutation

behind his apron. “Hope you find it pleasant here, sir; nice grounds—cool apart- ments—hope you’ll stay with us some time—try to make it agreeable. What will you have for dinner today?”

“I prefer not to dine to-day,” said Bartleby, turning away. “It would disagree with me; I am unused to dinners.” So saying, he slowly moved to the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the dead-wall.

“How’s this?” said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of astonishment. “He’s odd, ain’t he?”

“I think he is a little deranged,” said I, sadly.

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“Deranged? deranged is it? Well, now, upon my word, I thought that friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and genteel-like, them forg- ers. I can’t help pity ’em—can’t help it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edwards?” he added, touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand pietously on my shoulder, sighed, “he died of consumption at Sing-Sing.4 So you weren’t acquainted with Monroe?”

“No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot stop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see you again.”

Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding him.

“I saw him coming from his cell not long ago,” said a turnkey, “may be he’s gone to loiter in the yards.”

So I went in that direction. “Are you looking for the silent man?” said another turnkey, passing me.

“Yonder he lies—sleeping in the yard there. ’Tis not twenty minutes since I saw him lie down.”

The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common prisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The heart of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strange magic, through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung.

Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him; stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my feet.

The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. “His dinner is ready. Won’t he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?”

“Lives without dining,” said I, and closed the eyes. “Eh!—He’s asleep, ain’t he?” “With kings and counselors,”5 murmured I. There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Imagina-

tion will readily supply the meagre recital of poor Bartleby’s interment. But, ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this little narrative has sufficiently inter- ested him, to awaken curiosity as to who Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present narrator’s making his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet here I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor, which came to my ear a few months after the scrivener’s decease. Upon what basis it rested, I could

4. The state prison at Ossining, New York. 5. Job in his misery (3:14) wished he were dead “with kings and counsellors of the earth, which built desolate places for themselves.”

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never ascertain; and hence, how true it is I cannot now tell. But, inasmuch as this vague report has not been without a certain suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may prove the same with some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The report was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a change in the admin- istration. When I think over this rumor, hardly can I express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten it than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting them for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring—the finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note sent in swiftest charity—he whom it would re- lieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity! 1853, 1856

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Chapter Two

THE EARLY STAGE OF JOHN HICK’S PLURALISM

Our discussion of pluralism centers on the work of John Hick, who is generally acknowledged to be the best-known and most influential proponent of pluralism today.

Other writers have analyzed the development of Hick’s thought over the past forty years, 1 so I will focus on the two major stages in the evolution of his pluralism. This chapter will examine the earlier stage of his thinking, extending roughly from 1970 to 1980; chapter 3 will explore the changes his thinking has undergone since 1980. It is important to see that Hick’s pluralism did not suddenly appear in a mature, fully developed form. It first took root and then grew, sometimes fitfully, as Hick tried first one thing and then another to make his evolving view of pluralism work. Tracing some of these steps can be instructive.

The second stage of Hick’s pluralism marked a major break with elements of his earlier position. In fact, the reason that Hick developed his second stage was because his first attempt at pluralism was, to my mind, a dismal failure. 2 Understanding the mistakes of the first stage will make it easier for us to reach a judgment about the value of stage two.

JOHN HICK’S COPERNICAN REVOLUTION

During the early 1970s John Hick regarded his approach to world religions as so radical that he began to describe it as a Copernican Revolution in religion. As Hick saw things, Christian exclusivism is analogous to the old, outdated Ptolemaic model of the solar system. Claudius Ptolemy, an astronomer and mathematician who lived in Alexandria, Egypt, from around A.D. 100 to 170, taught what is called the geocentric theory of the solar system and pictured the sun and the planets as revolving around the earth. Ptolemy’s view was challenged by the heliocentric, or sun-centered, theory proposed by the Polish astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus (1473 – 1543). For several hundred years now, it has become almost a cliché that scholars who have a dramatically new idea to propose describe it as a “Copernican Revolution.”

However, Hick was doing more than just suggesting that his theory was revolutionary. He found in the Copernican Revolution an appropriate metaphor for his own new understanding of the relation between the major religions of the world. That is, Hick’s proposal in comparative religions was patterned after the transformation from a Ptolemaic model to a Copernican model in cosmology. 3

Hick sees Christian exclusivism as analogous to the outdated Ptolemaic model of the solar system. He defined Ptolemaic theology as a system “whose fixed point is the principle that outside the church, or outside Christianity, there is no salvation.” 4 Unfortunately, when worded in this way, Hick’s definition suggests significant bias against Christianity, because exclusivism can be found in many religions.

Hick’s self-described Copernican alternative to Ptolemaic theology involved the removal of Christianity from any exalted or exclusive place at the center of the world’s religions. Just as Copernicus replaced the earth-centered paradigm with a sun-centered model, so Hick proposed to replace the historic Christian view that Jesus Christ is the center of the religious world with the claim that God is the center. The historic Christian position that there is no salvation apart from Jesus Christ must now be abandoned, according to Hick. His substitute sees all the world religions rotating around God, not Jesus.

The Notion of Epicycles

Many students of astronomy are surprised to learn how well the old Ptolemaic model worked in explaining the apparent motion of the planets. The reason for its success depended on the skill of Ptolemaic astronomers in designing what are called epicycles. An epicycle was an orbit on an orbit, such as the orbit of the moon around the earth, which in turn is orbiting around the sun. There were times when the Ptolemaic astronomers could only explain certain motions of heavenly bodies by postulating orbits on orbits on orbits, as seen in the following diagram.

image1

For several years after Copernicus proposed his competing model of the solar system, Ptolemaic astronomers continued to do a better job of explaining and predicting the movement of the planets. Eventually, astronomers recognized that the successes of the Ptolemaic model were due to a mistake in Copernicus’s thinking. Copernicus believed the planetary orbits were circles. After Johannes Kepler showed convincingly that planetary orbits are elliptical, the power of the Copernican system to explain the solar system became evident.

Ever since, the epicycles of the old Ptolemaic theory have served as an example of arbitrary and contrived theorizing, not based on evidence, adopted solely to enhance the plausibility of the theory. While the repeated addition of more and more epicycles made it possible to preserve the Ptolemaic system a bit longer, the whole enterprise became increasingly cumbersome and complex. The Copernican model was eventually adopted because it was simpler and less cumbersome.

According to John Hick, the religious analogue of Ptolemaic astronomy is any view that places Christianity at the center of the world’s religions. Hick denigrates attempts (whether by exclusivists or inclusivists) to protect Christianity from the challenge of the world’s religions by comparing them to the epicycles of the Ptolemaic system. That is, the efforts of exclusivists and inclusivists to defend their positions are examples of contrived, arbitrary, and artificial measures. Their efforts are not prompted by an honest attempt to conform theory to evidence, but are merely tinkering with one’s model so as to continue delaying its inevitable demise.

Why Was Hick’s “Revolution” Necessary?

Although we will look more closely later at Hick’s reasons for his self-described “revolution,” a brief look at some of them now will be helpful for understanding what Hick was thinking in the early 1970s. One reason was Hick’s growing awareness of saintly and holy people in non-Christian religions. 5 As one observer explains, Hick’s encounters with devout and moral non-Christians led him to think it was no longer possible to “argue that Christianity or Christ is the sole means of salvation since it is evident that many outside Christianity, and outside the influence of the historical Jesus, are in fact saved.” 6

But does encountering pious, devout, and even saintly non-Christians prove the truth of pluralism? As we will see, certain assumptions underlie Hick’s response to these encounters. One of these is Hick’s dubious claim that the apparently contradictory truth-claims found in different religions are not what they seem.

During the first stage in the development of his pluralism, Hick also appealed to the notion of an all-loving God. He believed that the existence of an all-loving God required the rejection of any “Ptolemaic” version of Christianity; by this he rejected any form of Christian exclusivism. The more Hick thought about it, the more convinced he became that a loving God would not exclude anyone from his salvation.

Ironically, Hick himself provided the major reason why this line of thinking had to be rejected. Hick recognized that pluralism could not succeed if any specific knowledge about God is possible. Suppose we knew, for example, that personal monotheism is true. We could then know that polytheism and pantheism are false. But if we know that pantheism is false, then we can hardly continue to view pantheistic systems as paths to God that function on an equal footing with theism. And so we find Hick conceding that God as he (or whatever) really is, is unknowable.

But when Hick then appeals to the love of God as the ground of one of his convictions, he is clearly contradicting himself. A loving God is a supreme being with known properties. As soon as we can legitimately ascribe any properties to God, problems arise for the pluralist, specifically because that God with those attributes (such as love) will conflict with the gods of other religious systems who do not possess those attributes or that set of properties.

Hick has been criticized for attempting to have it both ways. On the one hand, he promoted a pluralistic, non-Christian approach to the world religions while, on the other hand, all his talk about a loving, personal God sounded a lot like Christianity. If, as Hick insists, no one can have any knowledge about God, then no one can know that the Supreme Being is a loving God. But if we cannot know this, then we can hardly use information that we cannot know—that God is love—as the basis of an attack on exclusivism. It took Hick quite a while to see why he could not continue to appeal to divine love in his arguments for pluralism.

Hick also argued that religious beliefs are typically a result of geographic and cultural conditioning. Someone born in Dallas, Texas, is most likely going to be a Christian. Guess what that person would be if born in Sri Lanka, Mecca, Tokyo, Tehran, or New Delhi? A just and loving God would hardly punish people for what is basically an accident of birth. But again we see how difficult it is for Hick to avoid this essentially self-defeating line of thinking. The argument falters unless he can free his appeal to geographic and cultural conditioning from references to divine love.

These reasons cited by Hick as support for the first stage of his pluralism are only mentioned in passing now, but it is not too soon for the reader to begin thinking about the strengths and weaknesses of Hick’s early arguments.

Summary

John Hick reached a point in his life where he rejected Christian exclusivism, a position he compared to the old Ptolemaic theory of the universe. He ridiculed any effort to rescue a Christ-centered system (either exclusivist or inclusivist) as an epicycle, that is, a purely arbitrary move that only revealed the desperation of the old-time view of Christian superiority.

Hick’s own alternative to a Christ-centered view of religion was his so-called Copernican Revolution. This amounted to a proposal to remove Jesus Christ and Christianity from the center among the world’s religions and replace them with “God.” Hick was convinced that his new pluralism would be more tolerant than Christianity and would allow other religions to achieve an equal standing with the Christian faith.

PROBLEMS WITH HICK’S FIRST STAGE

Hick’s movement away from important aspects of his early pluralism was hardly an accident. He changed his position on some issues because it became clear he had to. An examination of Hick’s reasons for changing his mind provides some interesting insights regarding both Hick and his pluralism.

We noticed how Hick’s Copernican Revolution had removed Jesus from any central place in relation to the world’s religions and replaced him with an all-loving God. Hick failed to appreciate that many non-Christian religionists would regard his appeal to an all-loving God as an insult or, even worse from Hick’s standpoint, as a new kind of exclusivism. These people saw clearly how Hick was still operating under the influence of a “narrow” Judeo-Christian type of thinking. To be all-loving, the God operating at the center of Hick’s system would have to be a personal God. But many religious systems express belief in a nonpersonal Supreme Principle; others neither affirm nor deny the existence of a personal God.

Hick ascribed not only personality to his God, but also biblical attributes such as love. This created a dilemma. If the “God” of his new theocentric approach to religion were personal, then Hick would appear guilty of excluding nonpersonalistic views of God (pantheism). But if, by contrast, he opted for a nonpersonal God at the center, then he would be excluding religions such as Christianity, Judaism, and Islam that understand God as personal. Since one of his objectives was tolerance as opposed to “closed-minded Christians,” it did not work to appear intolerant toward anyone.

All this was embarrassing for another reason. It suggests that Hick knew in advance what he wanted his conclusions to be and was simply cutting the cloth to fit the customer. Was not Hick simply churning out his own arbitrary, ad hoc epicycles? He who had set himself up as the radical revolutionary rejecting such evils as exclusivism, intolerance, and epicyclic imaginings appeared to be guilty of those very sins. Clearly he had to do something.

Hick set about to extricate himself from the dilemma. First, he tried arguing that God was both personal and impersonal, as though this would make his system large enough to include theists, pantheists, and everyone else he wanted. But a little reflection showed how unsatisfactory that move was. The world contains some square objects and some round objects, but it does not and cannot contain objects that are round and square at the same time. Likewise, reality might contain a personal God or an impersonal god, but it is logically impossible for God to be both personal and impersonal at the same time. 7

Hick’s Unknowable God

In the midst of this, Hick was also denying that human beings could know God. God, he wrote, “exceeds all human thought.” 8 At the time, in 1973, denying the knowability of God had assumed the status of an initiatory rite into the mysteries of neo-liberal theology. 9 So it is unclear whether Hick’s adoption of theological agnosticism was anything more than a less-than-thoughtful surrender to the liberal zeitgeist. Eventually, however, the unknowability of God would prove to be a key step in his attempt to rescue his Copernican Revolution from all kinds of difficulties.

What Hick failed to see, however, is that his affirming God’s unknowability only created new problems. Let us reflect a bit. Hick tells us that God is unknowable. But in making this claim, Hick reveals at least two things that he knows about God. For one thing, he seems to know that there is a God. Second, to claim that God is unknowable is already to know something very significant about God. If God really were unknowable, then we should be unable to know that he is unknowable.

Hick faced another difficulty. There are two reasons why God might be unknowable. First, his (or its) nature has not been revealed to us. In this case, people could only worship an unknown “God” in ignorance (Acts 17:23). That is not very reassuring. Second, perhaps God has no attributes, but in this case, Hinduism. Theologian D. Forrester has concluded that Hick’s ideas would be acceptable only to followers of the Vedanta strain of Hinduism. 10 But if this were so, Hick’s early theory would have had the ironic consequence of replacing Christian exclusivism with the view of a particular Hindu sect. So Hick’s thought did not quite constitute a revolution. He would only have replaced one alleged Ptolemaic position with one of his own.

In one of his most recent books Hick states that “the Buddhist concept of sunyata in one of its developments, namely as the anti-concept excluding all concepts, provides a good symbol for the Real [that is, God in itself].” 11

Philosopher Doug Geivett thinks there is more to these hints that Hick is really the advocate of a variant of Eastern religious thought. He writes:

As it turns out, Hick’s affinity with the Eastern thread of religious history is partly constituted by his religious pluralism. Historically, pluralism is antagonistic to the core principles of Christianity. But syncretism and pluralism have been prominent features of Eastern thought for centuries. Conceptually, it is clear that Hick is much more at home with Eastern models of religious reality than with the tradition into which he was, as he says, born. (Hick’s own example just goes to show how potentially irrelevant it is to the final outcome of one’s faith, especially in the contemporary world, where one is born or how one is brought up.) 12

Geivett, Forrester, and others who have drawn attention to this often-overlooked aspect of Hick’s thought have identified a serious problem. In a later chapter we will encounter Hick’s challenge to what he calls “the myth of Christian uniqueness.” We have encountered in the last section of this chapter a different myth, something we could call “the myth of Hick’s neutrality.”

CONCLUSION

How Hick eventually tried to escape the problems he created for himself in the 1970s is discussed in chapter 3. But it seems clear that Hick’s first attempt at a Copernican Revolution was a philosophical and theological disaster. Instead of this pluralism flowing logically from a set of plausible premises, the reverse seems to have been the case. Hick started with a conclusion and then sought premises to support it. The opponent of a Ptolemaic-type exclusivism had snared himself in his own version of it; the self-described enemy of theological epicycles had invented his own.

Chapter Five

PLURALISM AND THE CHRISTIAN UNDERSTANDING OF JESUS CHRIST

John Hick recognizes the importance of the orthodox Christian understanding of Jesus Christ to the pluralism-exclusivism debate. He writes, “If Jesus was literally God incarnate, and if it is by his death alone that men can be saved, and by their response to him alone that they can appropriate that salvation, then the only doorway to eternal life is Christian faith. It would follow from this that the large majority of the human race so far have not been saved.” 1 If Jesus really is God and if his atonement is the only ground of human salvation, then pluralism must be false.

Hick contends that

There is a direct line of logical entailment from the premise that Jesus was God, in the sense that he was God the Son, the Second Person of the divine Trinity, living in a human life, to the conclusion that Christianity, and Christianity alone, was founded by God in person; and from this to the further conclusion that God must want all his human children to be related to him through his religion which he has himself founded for us. 2

Hick here uses a well-known form of logical reasoning that assumes the following form:

If A, then B

A Therefore, B

Whenever the first clause ( A) of a true hypothetical statement is true, then the second clause ( B) must be true. 3 For example, consider the true hypothetical statement, “If Pierre is guillotined, then Pierre will be dead.” If the first clause is true, then the second is also true and Pierre is in deep trouble. Consider now a different hypothetical statement: “If the historic Christian understanding of the person and work of Christ is true, then human salvation depends upon a proper relationship to Jesus Christ.” If the first clause of our new hypothetical statement is true, then pluralism is in deep trouble.

Hick recognizes that he has no choice. He must do everything possible to attack the truth of the first clause (concerning the person and work of Christ). He must use every weapon at his disposal to deny such Christian doctrines as the deity of Christ, the Incarnation, and the Trinity.

In this chapter we will examine the major steps in Hick’s attempt to destroy Christian confidence in the high view of Jesus that has characterized historical and orthodox Christianity from its inception. I will lay out, largely without comment, Hick’s theories about what Jesus said and believed about himself, about how the church supposedly deified Jesus over a long period of time, about why the doctrine of the Incarnation is nothing but a myth, and about the alleged uniqueness of Christ and Christianity. There will be little critical response to Hick in these sections, for two reasons. First, astute readers will quickly realize that Hick provides little or no argumentation for his positions. Second, Hick’s claims depend on outdated New Testament scholarship. What Hick presents is often pure speculation or mere dogmatism.

In the last two sections we finally uncover Hick’s putative reasons for his positions. One line of Hick’s argument flows from certain claims he makes as to the historical unreliability of the New Testament documents. If what Christians think they know about Jesus is actually unsupported by trustworthy historical evidence, then many essential Christian beliefs about him—including the Incarnation—will suffer irreparable damage. Hick’s second line of argument attacks the Christian belief that Jesus Christ possesses two natures (divine and human) in one person. The last part of the chapter reviews Hick’s challenges to essential Christian beliefs about the person and work of Jesus Christ.

THE INCARNATION AS MYTH

John Hick holds that the early Christian belief that Jesus Christ is God incarnate is a myth. By “myth” Hick means a story or image that is not literally true. But while myths are never literally true, they may be practically true. The practical truth becomes apparent when the myth is applied appropriately to some object or person. 4

Hick develops a clever analogy in defense of his view of myth: He tells the story of a man in love who declares that his Helen is the sweetest and prettiest girl in the whole world. While such an exaggeration cannot be literally true, it may still be mythically true if it expresses an appropriate attitude of the lover toward the person he loves. In a similar way, early Christians took the simple expression “Jesus is my Lord and Savior,” a psychological statement, and transformed it into a metaphysical claim: “Jesus is the only Lord and Savior.” Hick wishes people would stop thinking of the Incarnation as a metaphysical “truth” and regard it as an “imaginative reconstruction” that expresses “the Christian’s devotion to Jesus as the one who has made the heavenly Father real to him.” 5 Jesus is not the Savior; he is only my savior, Hick contends.

Reducing the Incarnation to the status of myth sets up Hick’s interpretation of the Atonement and the Resurrection. In Hick’s view, no one is saved by Jesus. The nature of the Christian experience of forgiveness and reconciliation led naturally to thinking about Jesus’ death as somehow connected with this forgiveness, and this led in turn to the idea of atonement. There is no special way in which Jesus is unique in the matter of salvation; God’s salvation is available through other religions and other “saviors.”

Hick also rejects any view that Jesus’ alleged resurrection sets him apart from all other supposed “saviors” and provides a reason to believe in his deity. 6 Hick acknowledges the likelihood that the disciples of the Gospels had experiences of Jesus after his death. But Hick claims we do not know what this event was, nor does it really matter—the disciples never connected any “resurrection-event” with Christ’s supposed deity. Not surprisingly, Hick ignores Romans 1:4: “who through the Spirit of holiness was declared with power to be the Son of God by his resurrection from the dead: Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Whatever we make of the resurrection-event, Hick continues, all it shows is that Jesus “had a special place within God’s providence; but this was not equivalent to seeing him as literally divine. For Jesus is not said to have risen in virtue of a divine nature he himself possessed but to have been raised by God.” 7 So, for Hick, the bottom line in all this is that (1) he doubts that a physical resurrection really occurred, and (2) even if it did, it would not prove that Jesus is God.

WHAT DID JESUS BELIEVE AND CLAIM ABOUT HIMSELF?

Hick denies that Jesus was either conscious of being God or claimed to be God. Hick’s reasoning on this is that (1) Jesus was not and is not God, but (2) if he thought he was God, then Jesus was severely handicapped psychologically, and therefore, (3) if he claimed to be God and knew it was not so, then Jesus was morally deficient. Hick the pluralist has no interest in destroying the reputation of the man Jesus, only the supposedly divine Jesus. Hence the importance of trying to show that Jesus himself never believed he was God. 8

Further, Hick states, although Jesus may have been conscious of a special calling from God, he was not conscious of being God. 9 He aways knew that he was just a human being.

I see the Nazarene, then, as intensely and overwhelmingly conscious of the reality of God. He was a man of God, living in the unseen presence of God, and addressing God as abba, father. His spirit was open to God and his life a continuous response to the divine love as both utterly gracious and demanding. He was so powerfully God conscious that his life vibrated, as it were, to the divine life; and as a result his hands could heal the sick, and the “poor in spirit” were kindled to new life in his presence…Thus in Jesus’ presence, we should have felt that we are in the presence of God—not in the sense that the man Jesus literally is God, but in the sense that he was so totally conscious of God that we could catch something of that consciousness by spiritual contagion. 10

There is nothing new, of course, in Hick’s portrait of Jesus. Many unitarians have said the same things.

According to Hick, then, Jesus was simply a human being who managed to attain a special awareness of God and God’s love:

Now we want to say of Jesus that he was so vividly conscious of God as the loving heavenly Father, and so startlingly open to God and so fully his servant and instrument, that the divine love was expressed, and in that sense incarnated, in his life. This was not a matter (as it is in official Christian doctrine) of Jesus having two complete natures, one human and the other divine. He was wholly human; but whenever self-giving love in response to the love of God is lived out in a human life, to that extent the divine love has become incarnate on earth. 11

Two points are worth making here. First, why should not the church’s early response to Jesus, which Hick suggests resulted in an unwarranted apotheosis, be permitted as itself an authentic response to his persona? Does it not conform to Hick’s own criterion? 12 Second, there is justification for thinking that Hick is toying with the word “incarnate,” seeking to retain the term because of its historic significance but totally stripping it of its historic meaning.

All this leads to the conclusion that Jesus possessed no consciousness of his own deity. Rather, Jesus was so conscious of God’s presence around and within him that he could not help but have a profound impact on those in his presence. Being in Jesus’ presence produced an effect like being in God’s presence.

HOW THE CHURCH TURNED JESUS INTO GOD

Hick contends that through a long, gradual process the Christian church deified Jesus—a predictable testimony to the powerful psychological impact Jesus had on people. But this impact was not a result of Christ’s actual deity; rather, it was a consequence of the powerful presence of God’s love in Jesus’ life. It was understandable that many would find it difficult to distinguish Jesus from the God whose presence they felt so powerfully when they were near the Teacher. These experiences of Jesus over time were part of the process that led eventually to a declaration of his deity at the Council of Nicea ( A.D. 325). 13 A similar transformation over a long period of time occurred in the case of the title “Son of God.” Hick repeats every liberal theory offered about this expression. Some cultures of the first century, he suggests, commonly thought some humans had been elevated to the status of gods. At other times the prevailing culture supposedly contained examples of deity existing in human form. Both claims rest on a faulty understanding of the so-called mystery religions of the Hellenistic World. 14

Hick’s most common tactic is to cite the Old Testament application of the expression “Son of God” to King David (Ps. 2:7), which makes it a metaphor. The Old Testament supposedly established its metaphorical nature, and it is easy to see how the early church came to apply the same metaphor to Jesus, who was thought to be a descendent of David. But the original term carried no connotation of deity, Hick contends, so the early church may have thought of Jesus as a “Son of God” in a nonliteral, metaphorical sense. The damage was created when, over several centuries, the church slowly transposed “Son of God” to “God the Son.” In fact, Hick believes that such a view is already apparent in the fourth gospel, which he regards as a late contribution to the New Testament. 15

ARE JESUS AND CHRISTIANITY UNIQUE?

Christians make the uniqueness of Christ a fundamental element of Christian belief. To call something unique is to affirm that it is the only one of its kind. To apply this line of thinking to Jesus is to declare that he is the one and only mediator between God and man, the one and only Savior. Not surprisingly, Hick disagrees. Hick and Paul Knitter begin their book The Myth of Christian Uniqueness by explaining that

We are calling “Christian uniqueness” a “myth,” not because we think that talk of the uniqueness of Christianity is purely and simply false, and so to be discarded. Rather, we feel that such talk, like all mythic language, must be understood carefully; it must be interpreted; its “truth” lies not on its literal surface but within its ever-changing historical and personal meaning. 16

These thinkers dislike the idea that “the uniqueness of Christianity” has assumed “a larger mythological meaning. It has come to signify the unique definitiveness, absoluteness, normativeness, superiority of Christianity in comparison with other religions of the world.” 17 Hick and Knitter reject this sense of the term. The only way Christianity is unique for pluralists is the way any religion is unique: only one of its kind exists and nothing else is exactly like it. But this watered-down sense of uniqueness has nothing to do with absoluteness or superiority.

Hick handles the supposed uniqueness of Jesus in a similar way. While he views Jesus as the unique founder of Christianity, the claim is trivial, because when any religion has only one founder, that person is “unique” for that religion. But outside the bounds of Christian faith, there is nothing at all unique about Jesus. Other religions are equally acceptable paths to God. Hence, the founders of these other religions are as unique in their way as Jesus is in his. Jesus’ uniqueness is relative, not absolute.

THE DEPENDABILITY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT

I believe that Hick’s claims as we have reviewed them here function more as examples of how pluralists hope to counter historic Christian thinking about Jesus with alternative ways of thinking. Before any of Hick’s claims can command respect, it will be necessary—sooner or later—for him to go beyond making dogmatic assertions to forging real arguments. We have now come upon the first of those arguments: he attacks the documents that Christians use to ground their belief in a divine Christ.

Hick believes that attempts to speak informatively about Jesus on the basis of solid information encounter great confusion and uncertainty in the biblical sources. In his view, “New Testament scholarship has shown how fragmentary and ambiguous are the data available to us as we try to look back across nineteen and a half centuries, and at the same time how large and how variable is the contribution of the imagination to our ‘pictures’ of Jesus.” 18

Hick’s Historical Skepticism

Hick falls back on a number of old and outdated attacks on the reliability and integrity of the New Testament documents. He alleges that the data Christians appeal to are incomplete and indecisive as we look back over two millennia of history at the “largely unknown man of Nazareth.” 19

This adoption of historical criticism is understandable, given Hick’s objectives. If he can present a halfway plausible case that the historical Jesus is unknown or even unknowable, perhaps he can make it appear that the Christian doctrines he dislikes can be separated from any foundation in historical truth. Yet he is surprisingly silent about the New Testament scholars whom he enlists in support of his skepticism about the historical Jesus. Our not knowing exactly whom he has in mind makes any evaluation of his claim rather difficult. If Hick really were knowledgeable about New Testament scholarship, he would probably be less dogmatic on the subject, for serious biblical scholars are deeply divided on the issues that promote his skepticism. It would appear, however, that he has in view either proponents of the form-critical approach to the New Testament or proponents of the method known as redaction-criticism. While both schools of thought have fueled skepticism about the historical Jesus, they both also have tended to fade from center stage. This fact certainly makes it appear as though Hick’s position is based on outdated scholarship. Even more ironic is the fact that neither of these two methodologies entails Hick’s kind of skepticism apart from considerable reliance on questionable presuppositions.

Form-Criticism

Proponents of form-criticism viewed the Gospels as the products of a long and complex process by which an original collection of oral traditions about Jesus came to be preserved because of their practical relevance for the church at a time some distance removed from eyewitness testimony. Form-critics emphasized the role of the Gospels as interpretations of Jesus’ life and teaching. They deemphasized any search for objective, dispassionate, eyewitness reports of what the church believed about Jesus at the time the events supposedly occurred. The extent to which the Gospels were reliable sources of information about the historical Jesus became a question to which form-critics gave different, often conflicting answers.

While “New Testament scholarship”—a term Hick uses repeatedly—has moved well beyond form-criticism, the method had some positive value. As a neutral method, it helped produce some valuable insights. 20 Its more debatable side became apparent when the neutral method became mixed with negative, destructive presuppositions. The historical skepticism that Hick may have picked up from some form-critics was not a conclusion mandated by the method but a presupposition linked to the method by theological liberals already inclined toward such a view.

By itself, form-criticism does not oblige anyone to conclude that the early church invented its stories about Jesus. The method has been adopted by people who believe the stories were accurate recollections of what Jesus did and said and so were preserved because of their relevance for some later life-situation in the church. Historian A. N. Sherwin-White comments, “It is astonishing that while Graeco-Roman historians have been growing in confidence, the twentieth-century study of the Gospel narratives, starting from no less promising material, has taken so gloomy a turn in the development of form-criticism that the more advanced exponents of it apparently maintain…that the historical Christ is unknowable and the history of his mission cannot be written.” 21

The real problem in all this is not with form-criticism per se, but with the undefended assumption that the Gospels witness primarily to the life-situation of the church at some later stage of its history and only secondarily to the historical Jesus. But surely it is consistent with the form-critical method to recognize both the role that a later life-situation might have had in preserving a tradition and the reality of the historical events to which the tradition points.

Instead of assuming that the early church fabricated stories about Jesus to help it deal with its problems, it makes better sense to assume that practical relevance led the church to preserve statements originally made by Jesus. D. M. Baillie, for one, complains that it seldom seemed to occur to some form-critics “that the story may have been handed on simply or primarily because it was true, because the incident had actually taken place in the ministry of Jesus, and was therefore of great interest to his followers, even if they sometimes failed to understand it.” 22

It is one thing to note that the Gospel writers selected from the material available to them and applied it to practical uses. It is quite another to suggest that they felt no constraints against inventing new traditions if doing so suited some practical purpose. Selectivity does not entail creativity.

A pivotal issue in the debate is where to place the burden of proof. Skeptics argue that the burden of proof rests on those who regard the biblical sources as authentic. But why should it not be the skeptic who has the burden of proof? Why not presume that if anything is to be proved, it must be the inauthenticity of Jesus’ sayings? I could go on in regard to this widely repudiated theory, 23 but it should be obvious that the assured results of “New Testament scholarship” of this kind provides extremely weak grounds for Hick’s historical skepticism. But perhaps he draws his skepticism from the second school we have mentioned, redaction-criticism.

Redaction-Criticism

While form-critics concentrated on smaller independent units of material within the Gospels, redaction-critics were more interested in the Gospels as literary wholes. They viewed the Gospel writers as more than mere compilers and arrangers; rather, they were theologians whose arrangement of material was affected by their theological interests and their intentions.

But why should this lead us to assume that the Gospel writers invented any of their material? It need not. Although it is easy to identify theological interests at work in the Gospels, it requires a whole set of additional presuppositions to conclude that the Evangelists produced only imaginative interpretations of Jesus with loose or even nonexistent historical ties.

As with form-criticism, a detailed account of redaction-criticism would take us far afield from the study at hand. Our discussion should make it clear that form-criticism and redaction-criticism are not necessarily incompatible with either a high view of Scripture or the conviction that the New Testament picture of Jesus is grounded on trustworthy historical data. Hick’s appeal to “New Testament scholarship”—as though this single expression somehow legitimizes one of his basic claims against New Testament Christology—does more than paper over his begging the question. It also shows how inadequate Hick’s grasp of New Testament scholarship really is, a fact that will become even more evident as we continue the discussion about Christology.

“Behold How Much the Skeptic Knoweth”

There is an ironic twist in the way Hick builds his case for skepticism about the Jesus of history. If we take Hick at his word, the New Testament is profoundly unreliable as a source of historical information about Jesus. But it is important to link this skepticism with all that Hick himself claims to know about the historical Jesus.

Early in 1993, R. Douglas Geivett attended a lecture given by Hick in Indianapolis. Hick pointed to Jesus as a powerful example of a person who holds Hick’s own view of salvation. It occurred to Geivett that “Hick’s moderately high view of Jesus as a paradigmatic saint depends upon our having reliable historical data. In other words, the authentic Jesus must be discernible in the Gospel record if Hick is entitled to regard him with the kind of respect he does.” 24

Geivett recognized that someone should ask Hick about his criterion for selecting which biblical data are authentic and which are not. His exchange with Hick proves to be quite illuminating.

Geivett observed that the biblical record shows Jesus saying and doing things that many people would regard as incompatible with Hick’s allegedly saintly Jesus. Hick asked for an example or two. As Geivett relates it,

I referred to places where it is alleged that Jesus drove the money-changers from the temple with a whip and confronted the hypocrisy of the religious leaders of his day in very strong terms (calling them “whitewashed tombs”). Hick’s reply was twofold. First, he said he was prepared to identify these reports as gradual additions to the tradition. Second, he indicated that if Jesus really did act in the way described in these instances, then “he was appallingly anti-Semitic.” 25

It appears that Hick suffers from a blind spot or two. As Geivett observes, “Clearly, Hick’s own moral intuitions have become a control on what he is willing to acknowledge as an authentic account of what Jesus said and did. Never mind the historical and manuscript evidence, and the difficulty of picking and choosing among pericopes.” 26 And never mind about consistency within Hick’s own system of thought! It appears that Hick’s only criterion for distinguishing between authentic and inauthentic biblical material is compatibility with his own position.

Hick’s Claims About the Evolution of Early Christian Belief

Hick contends that the church’s understanding of Jesus evolved from an early commitment to him as a powerful person in whom they sensed the presence of God into increasingly complex theological constructions about Jesus as Son of God, then as God the Son, and finally as the Second Person of the Trinity. Although these kinds of claims were popular decades ago, scholars have more recently declared such theories untenable. 27

First, British scholar C. F. D. Moule has found some weaknesses in Hick’s views, especially in the claim that neither Jesus nor his early followers regarded him as divine. Moule disputes Hick’s idea—that the evolutionary course of Christology borrowed significantly from beliefs outside of Christianity—as being inconsistent with the New Testament. Moule argues instead that the early Christian recognition of Jesus as divine reflected a pattern in which “the various estimates of Jesus reflected in the New Testament [are], in essence, only attempts to describe what was already there from the beginning. They are not successive additions of something new, but only the drawing out and articulating of what is there.” 28 From the very start, Moule insists, Jesus was someone who could be appropriately described in the very ways he came to be described during the years in which the New Testament was written, that is, as “Lord” and “God.” 29

Second, German New Testament scholar Martin Hengel provides evidence for the claim that the early church called Jesus the “Son of God” during the years between A.D. 30 and 50. 30

It seems clear that Hick will have to present a much stronger case than he has set forth so far if he hopes to persuade evangelicals that the deity of Christ is a metaphysical theory constructed late in the first century. 31

The Positive Evidence That Hick Ignores

Sir Norman Anderson faults Hick for greatly exaggerating “the paucity of positive evidence we have about the one to whom he refers as the ‘largely unknown man of Nazareth.’” 32 Hick ignores Jesus’ own statements about his coming death, as attested by the Synoptic writers (Matt. 20:17 – 19; 26:12f.; Mark 10:33f.; Luke 18:31 – 34). He ignores Jesus’ act of forgiving sins, an act in which Jesus acted as God (Mark 2:8 – 12). When Jesus forgave people, he went beyond what any mere human is able to do. Any of us can forgive people for the things they do to us. Jesus did that, of course; but he also forgave people for the sins they had committed against others! In all these cases, Jesus acted as though the sins against other humans were violations of his holy law and thus sins against him as well.

Paul’s earliest letters, usually dated to about two decades after the Resurrection, reveal the existence of a developed Christology. This shows that the high view of Christ to which Hick objects can be found in documents that many scholars consider the earliest of all New Testament writings. 33 In 2 Corinthians 13:14 Paul affirms Jesus’ standing as God (as part of the Trinity). In Philippians 2:5 – 11 he claims Jesus’ equality with God. In 1 Thessalonians 1:10 he presents Jesus as God’s only medium of deliverance. It is impossible to explain away such statements as late-first-century theorizing.

Nor should anyone overlook the contradictions in Hick’s position, a point already noted. After asserting his skepticism about the historical Jesus, Hick fills his writings with numerous claims about how this largely unknown Jesus still manages to disclose God’s presence and love. Hick amazes us with all that he knows about the “unknown Nazarene.”

Hick and the Fourth Gospel

Hick’s dislike for the fourth gospel is understandable, given its strong and unequivocal support for the deity of Christ (John 10:30; 14:6, 9). If Jesus really said the things attributed to him in the fourth gospel, Hick’s efforts to attack the high Christology that grounds exclusivism would be doomed. According to Hick, Christology must not and cannot be based on the supposition that the historical Jesus really said what John’s gospel attributes to him.

But Hick’s claim that the fourth gospel rewrites Jesus’ teaching is groundless. As C. F. D. Moule has shown, a supernatural Christology is clearly present in the Synoptic Gospels. 34 Even if Hick could get rid of the fourth gospel, his problems would remain.

All this shows the extent to which Hick’s attack on the church’s Christology depends on his question-begging appeal to certain unnamed New Testament scholars whose positions are at the very least contradicted by scholars of equal reputation. But Hick ignores any New Testament authority who disagrees with his prejudices. Anyone consulting the New Testament scholars cited in my notes will quickly discover how badly outdated both Hick and his authorities are. The rest of his assertions noted earlier in this chapter are pure speculation and exercises in liberal dogmatism with no credibility. 35

HICK’S ATTACK ON THE TWO NATURES OF CHRIST

One final issue must be examined, even though it will entail a long and somewhat technical discussion. That issue is Hick’s attack on the doctrine of Christ’s two natures, human and divine.

Christians use the word Incarnation to express their belief that the birth of Jesus Christ marked the entrance of the eternal and divine Son of God into the human race. The Incarnation is an essential Christian belief. If this doctrine is false, the Christian faith is false. Correct thinking about Jesus Christ diminishes neither his full and complete humanity nor his full and complete deity. Jesus Christ is God—let there be no mistake about this. But he is also human. Any wavering on either claim results in a defective Christology and a heretical faith.

We are not surprised, then, when opponents of the historic Christian faith take aim at this core doctrine. The Incarnation is an inviting target, not only because it is a central belief, but also because it seems susceptible to the charge that this is one point where Christians believe a logical contradiction. Hick echoes this charge when he states that claims that Jesus is both God and man are as self-contradictory and meaningless as statements that a drawn figure is a square circle. 36 To him, the doctrine of Christ’s two natures is clearly a logical contradiction and hence necessarily false.

The general line of Hick’s thought goes as follows: The Christian God has attributes such as omnipotence, omniscience, incorporeality, and sinlessness. God also exists necessarily, which means, among other things, that there can be neither beginning nor end to his existence. Moreover, these properties belong to God essentially or necessarily, which is to say that if God were to lose any of these essential properties, he would cease to be God. A being cannot be God if he lacks omnipotence, omniscience, and the like.

But when we reflect on the nature of humanness, we encounter creatures with precisely the opposite properties. Human beings are not omnipotent, omniscient, incorporeal, or sinless. Nor do we exist necessarily. Our existence is contingent—that is, dependent on many things other than ourselves. Given these seemingly obvious incompatibilities between God and man, how could any being possibly be both God and man?

This is a serious difficulty. Developing an appropriate response to Hick’s challenge will require hard thinking about complex issues. Thomas Morris, a philosophy professor at Notre Dame, has sought a solution to the problem that leaves the two-natures doctrine intact. 37 Morris’s argument has two parts. First, he attempts to show that the two-natures doctrine does not entail a logical contradiction. Second, he presents a theory that he hopes will make the doctrine easier to understand.

Some scholars question the second part of Morris’s argument as verging on an ancient heresy known as Nestorianism. 38 Because of these reservations, I will not deal with that second argument in this book.

The fact is, if Morris succeeds in the first part, it does not matter what happens in the second. A successful defense of the two-natures doctrine from the charge of logical inconsistency will stand on its own. It is one thing for a doctrine about the eternal God to surpass human understanding (Rom. 11:33 – 35; Job 11:7 – 8; Isa. 55:8 – 9); it is quite another for that belief to lack logical coherence. Just because something is above reason, it does not follow that it is against reason. Morris’s defense of the logical coherence of the two-natures doctrine succeeds even if his more ambitious attempt to explain the doctrine may not.

According to Morris, we can work our way out of the logical problem if we first understand and then properly apply three philosophical distinctions, namely,

1.The distinction between essential and nonessential properties;

2.The distinction between essential and common properties; and

3.The distinction between being fully human and merely human.

Essential and Nonessential Properties

A property is a feature or characteristic of something. We can identify many of the properties of Socrates simply by filling in the blank in the following sentence: “Socrates is __________.” All these terms denote properties or traits of Socrates: “bald,” “citizen of Athens,” “honorable,” “short,” “the husband of Xanthippe.” Everything has properties, and one way we refer to those properties is by using them as predicates applied to a given subject.

Next, we must recognize that properties come in two types, essential and nonessential. Consider a red ball. The color of the object is nonessential in the sense that if we somehow changed the color to yellow or green, the object would still be a ball. But with a ball, the property of roundness is an essential property. We cannot have a ball that is not round. 39 If we change this feature of our object, it is no longer a ball.

Put in its simplest terms, an essential property is one that cannot be changed or lost without the object in question ceasing to be the kind of thing it is. Roundness is an essential property of being a ball. When an object that once was a member of the class of all balls loses its roundness, it also loses its membership in that class.

A number of properties are essential to the being of God, including at least the following: necessary existence, omnipotence, omniscience, and sinlessness. Any being lacking these and the other essential properties of deity could not be God. Obviously, then, when Christians affirm that Jesus is God, they are also affirming that Jesus possesses eternally and necessarily all the essential properties of God. That much is easy.

Matters become more difficult when we try to identify the essential properties of a human being. Aristotle thought that rationality (thinking and reasoning) was an essential property of humans. Rationality certainly seems to be one property among others that make up the essence of a human being, that set humans apart from other creatures on our planet.

In his criticism of the Incarnation, Hick makes a crucial error in believing that such properties as lacking omnipotence, lacking omniscience, and lacking sinlessness are also essential in some way to humanness. But to proceed further with our argument we must first introduce the distinction between essential properties and common properties.

Essential Properties and Common Properties

What Morris calls common properties are often mistaken for essential properties. This error is the basis for believing that the doctrine of the Incarnation entails a contradiction. A common property is any property that human beings typically possess without also being essential. Morris gives the example of having ten fingers. Because almost every human has ten fingers, it is a common human property. But clearly, having ten fingers is not essential to being a human being. A person can lose one or more fingers and still be a human being. Therefore the common human property of having ten fingers is not an essential property.

Likewise, we could say that living on earth is a common human property. But it is conceivable that at some time in the future, some people will be born and live out their entire lives on other planets. So once again, a property that we have found common to all people turns out not to be essential.

Now, we could say that all of us—each human being apart from Jesus—are characterized by properties that are the counterparts of such divine properties as omnipotence and omniscience. But on what basis can we say that these limitations are somehow essential to our humanness? These limitations are possibly only common human properties, not essential ones.

Being Fully Human and Being Merely Human

Morris explains that “An individual is fully human [in any case where] that individual has all essential human properties, all the properties composing basic human nature. An individual is merely human if he has all those properties plus some additional limitation properties as well, properties such as that of lacking omnipotence, that of lacking omniscience, and so on.” 40

Orthodox Christians, Morris adds, insist on the claim that “Jesus was fully human without being merely human.” 41 This means two things: (1) Jesus possessed all the properties that are essential to being a human being, and (2) Jesus also possessed all the properties that are essential to deity. Morris suggests that the properties Hick makes so much of and insists are essential to humanity (such as lacking omniscience) are simply being confused with common properties.

Once Christians understand these distinctions about properties they are equipped to counter challenges such as those of John Hick that orthodox Christology is self-contradictory. The orthodox understanding of the Incarnation expresses the claims that (1) Jesus Christ is fully God—that is, he possesses all the essential properties of God, (2) Jesus Christ is also fully human—that is, he possesses all the essential properties of a human being, none of which turn out to be limiting properties, and (3) Jesus Christ was not merely human—that is, he did not possess any of the limiting properties that are in fact complements of the divine attributes. In the face of these distinctions, the contradiction Hick is concerned about disappears.

Hick’s Response to Morris

John Hick apparently saw the strength in Morris’s rebuttal to the charge that the doctrine of the Incarnation is logically incoherent and responded to it in 1989 in a very long review article. 42 Just as Morris’s argument had two parts, so Hick’s response has two distinct sections. It is noteworthy that almost eighty percent of Hick’s article deals with Morris’s less than satisfactory efforts to explain the Incarnation. But many Christians themselves are not interested in defending this second part of Morris’s argument because of its tendencies toward Nestorianism.

What is ironic about Hick’s long critique of Morris’s second argument is the way it mirrors ancient orthodox attacks on Nestorianism. This leaves us with a situation in which Hick echoes the thinking of ancient orthodox Christians but mistakenly believes these arguments advance his attack on the Incarnation. Therefore a traditional or conservative Christian could readily agree with the last eleven pages of Hick’s article without accepting Hick’s conclusion. 43 But no matter how instructive and interesting that discussion may be, it seems to be irrelevant to the claim that the two-natures doctrine is logically inconsistent.

So this leaves us with Hick’s four-page treatment of the first part of Morris’s argument. But what Hick regards as a refutation of Morris is hardly a model of clarity or persuasiveness. It is at best an attempt to “muddy the waters.” Hick does this by trying to counter Morris’s distinctions (such as that between common and essential properties) with some puzzling examples (such as being fully human and being fully an alligator). This avails little since Hick himself admits that Morris can escape his challenge in a variety of ways 44 —which leaves us wondering why Hick goes to the trouble. We are left with a two-part reply to Morris in which part one is by Hick’s own admission inconclusive and in which part two is irrelevant.

Christians can safely conclude, then, that even though they cannot understand everything about the Incarnation and the relationship between Christ’s human and divine natures, the doctrines are logically coherent and Hick’s attempted rebuttal fails.

SUMMARY

Hick’s initial thunder and lightning about the Incarnation turn out to be no more than a series of dogmatic assertions. Separated from any relevant arguments that function as a ground for his claims, they reveal much about Hick’s present state of thinking but mount no serious challenge to the Christology of the orthodox church.

This is not the case with Hick’s two major arguments, namely, his skepticism about the historical dependability of the New Testament and his allegation that the Incarnation involves Christians in a logically contradictory theory. My response to the first argument is that Hick relies on outdated critical theories and doubtful sources to make his case; my response to the second argument is that his failure to make adequate distinctions about the properties of humanness dooms his charge that the Incarnation is a self-contradictory and logically incoherent doctrine. I conclude that Hick’s assault on the historical and orthodox Christian understanding of Jesus Christ fails.

Chapter Four

REASON, TRUTH, AND RELIGIOUS PLURALISM

Read carefully the following statements by pluralist thinkers:

1. John Hick claims that exclusivism rests uncritically on Aristotelian notions of truth, where truth “is essentially a matter of either-or. It is either this or not this: it cannot be both.” 1

2. Wilfred Cantwell Smith thinks that exclusivism is based on an outdated and Western view of the law of the excluded middle: either A is true or non-A is true. In Smith’s words, “[I]n all ultimate matters, truth lies not in an either-or but in a both-and.” 2

3. Paul Knitter writes that “all religious experience and all religious language must be two-eyed, dipolar, a union of opposites.” 3

Each of these statements appears to be an all-out assault on the usual role that logical thinking is presumed to have in responsible thought and action. Paul Knitter, for example, appears to link pluralism with a repudiation of logical categories of thinking that leads some people to reason that if Christianity is true, then non-Christian forms of faith must be false.

W. C. Smith also eschews either-or thinking in religion in spite of the irrationality that follows when we ignore either-or thinking anywhere else in life. Consider the statement “either this mushroom is poisonous or it is not.” Turning this either-or into a both-and could be fatal in ways that transcend logic. Whatever Smith’s theory turns out to mean, he clearly contradicts the common-sense position that the truth of Christianity implies the falsity of other religions. 4 The above quote from John Hick places him squarely in the same company. These statements from leading pluralists raise the issue of where they stand with respect to reason and truth in religion.

PLURALISM AND THE LAWS OF LOGIC

One of the fundamental laws of logic is the principle of the excluded middle. Stated formally, this principle says that “Either A [some proposition] is true or A is false.” One example of the law of the excluded middle is “Either Ross Perot will be the next President of the United States or Ross Perot will not be the next President of the United States.” Any proposition having this form is necessarily true. But contrast that statement with this one: “Ross Perot will be the next President of the United States and Ross Perot will not be the next President of the United States.” Any proposition having this second form—a form that is inconsistent with the law of the excluded middle—must be false.

The law of non-contradiction exhibits the form “A [something that exists] cannot be both B and non-B at the same time in the same sense.” Any proposition that attributes contradictory properties to some subject at the same time and in the same sense must be false.

I suspect that John Hick, W. C. Smith, and Paul Knitter avoid violating these logical principles whenever they deal with nonreligious issues. But do their earlier statements really suggest that religion is one area of life where the laws of logic are not necessary? Are Hick, Smith, and Knitter religious irrationalists? If the quotations we cited are any indication, they certainly seem to be.

If pluralists really object to exclusivism because of its reliance on such logical laws as the principle of the excluded middle or the law of non-contradiction, pluralism is in serious trouble. This would mean that in their view of things, any one who would become a pluralist must first abandon the very principles of logic that make all significant thought, action, and communication possible. 5 As Harold Netland argues, “[T]he price one must pay for rejecting the principle of non-contradiction is simply too high.” He explains,

The price of rejecting the principle of noncontradiction is forfeiture of the possibility of meaningful affirmation or statement about anything at all—including statements about the religious ultimate. One who rejects the principle of noncontradiction is reduced to utter silence, for he or she has abandoned a necessary condition for any coherent or meaningful position whatsoever. 6

This path leads to nothing less than intellectual suicide. Hick and the other pluralists surely do not want to make the repudiation of logic an essential feature of pluralism. To uncover what they do mean, however, will require a shift to the separate but related issue of truth.

PLURALISM AND THE QUESTION OF TRUTH

Christians believe that the proposition “Jesus Christ is God Incarnate” is true. Muslims believe that the proposition “Jesus Christ is not God Incarnate” is true. According to the pluralists’ statements, these two propositions should not be viewed as contradictory. Because we are giving these pluralists the benefit of the doubt and assume they are not rejecting the laws of logic, we must seek another way to understand their conviction that both these beliefs about Jesus are true.

What Is Truth?

The first thing to note about truth is that it is a property of propositions. To say that x is a property of something is to mean that x is a characteristic, feature, or trait of that thing. Just as baldness is a property of some men and redness a property of some roses, so truth is a property of some propositions.

What is a proposition? It is a statement in which the predicate affirms or denies something about the subject. Understood in this way, propositions are different from other uses of language such as commands (statements like “Close the door”) and expressions of emotion (the reaction of someone who has just hit his thumb with a hammer). Examples of propositions are the following: “The door is closed” or “Ron Nash is the world’s greatest living golfer” 7 or “Reformed Theological Seminary has a campus in Orlando, Florida.”

Propositions may have a number of different properties. Propositions may be long or short, simple or complex. They may also be true or false. The word or (another appearance of the principle of the excluded middle) is important in the preceding sentence. No proposition may be both true and false in the same sense and at the same time. One way we can identify a false proposition is if it asserts a contradiction, as in the statement “Some bachelors are happily married men.” Because the word bachelor means an unmarried man, the foregoing proposition is logically contradictory and thus necessarily false. One way we can identify a true proposition is whether it describes the way things really are. If I state, for example, that on April 20, 1993, the Orlando Magic basketball team had a record of forty-one wins and forty-one losses, we can easily check to see whether the claim is true. It is true if the team really had that number of wins and losses; otherwise it is false.

Some people want to use the word truth as a property of things other than propositions. For example, “Michael Jordan is a true shooting guard” or “That lady is wearing a true fur coat” 8 or “Joe Smith is a true friend.” 9 As we will discover, pluralists appeal to such usage as part of their way of reconciling what appear to be conflicting religious beliefs. I will argue, however, that all of these other usages of the word true are dependent upon its primary sense as a property—not of basketball players or fur coats or friends, but of propositions.

Propositions and Beliefs

Propositions are related to acts of believing. When someone says that he believes that such and such is the case, the “such and such” is always a proposition. To say that I believe that today is Friday is equivalent to saying that I believe the proposition “Today is Friday” is true.

Philosophers often distinguish between two kinds of believing, belief that and belief in. In belief that, my act of believing is directed toward some proposition. But in belief in, my act of believing is directed toward a person. If I believe in my friend, Joe Smith, it means that I trust him. When I believe in God, it means that I trust God and have committed myself to him. It is very important to see that belief in presupposes belief that. If I believe in God, it is because of all the propositions about God that I believe are true. 10

The apparently conflicting beliefs of the different world religions, I will argue, all make unavoidable reference to logically contradictory propositions affirmed by the followers of these religions. It is the pluralists’ rejection of this claim that contains the key to understanding their apparent repudiation of logic in the quotations provided. The pluralist simply denies that apparently conflicting truth-claims are really truth-claims; he or she thinks that they will turn out to be something different.

THE PLURALIST’S NEW UNDERSTANDING OF RELIGIOUS TRUTH-CLAIMS

So far we have learned that pluralists think that what we usually take to be the truth-claims of the world’s great religions are not really contradictory. This is not because pluralists (at least the ones examined in this book) reject the laws of logic, but because they deny that what look like truth-claims really are. Because the statements are something other than cognitive truth-claims, they turn out to complement, not contradict, each other. In 1981, Hick tried to explain all this by saying that the supposed truth-claims of competing religions are in fact “linguistic pictures or maps of the universe, whose function is to enable us to find salvation/liberation, the limitlessly better quality of existence that the nature of reality is said to make possible.” 11

A major influence on Hick’s thinking about this issue has been Wilfred Cantwell Smith, from whom Hick learned to oppose the older view of religions as competitive systems of belief or mutually incompatible systems. 12 Because of Smith’s influence on pluralist thinking about truth, we must briefly survey his position.

W. C. Smith and Rejection of Propositional Truth in Religion

W. C. Smith argues that the notions of truth and falsity should not be applied to religion. 13 It is wrong, he contends, to think of Christianity as true and Islam as false.

Christianity is not true absolutely, impersonally, statically; rather, it can become true, if and as you or I appropriate it to ourselves and interiorize it, insofar as we live it out from day to day. It becomes true as we take it off the shelf and personalize it, in actual experience. 14

For Smith, exclusivism errs in making beliefs (and therefore propositions as well) an essential feature of religious traditions. This easily leads to a misleading distinction between true and false beliefs. It no longer makes sense to ask which religion is truest, Smith believes.

Smith distinguishes between what he calls the “cumulative tradition” of a religious community and the faith of the individual believer. While the tradition is external and objective, the believer’s faith is internal and subjective. The tradition is “the entire mass of overt objective data that constitute the historical deposit, as it were, of the past religious life of the community in question.” 15 Creeds and codes that nourish the faith of individual people are an important part of this tradition. Faith, by contrast, is Smith’s way of referring to “an inner religious experience of involvement of a particular person…[It is] the impingement on him of the transcendent, putative or real.” 16 Faith refers to the way a person feels and lives when encountering transcendence. Basic, then, to Smith’s new view of religious truth is the claim that we should stop concentrating on the idea of “religion” and focus instead on external cumulative traditions and internal faith.

It takes a long time for the external cumulative tradition to form. Typically, when one thinks of a religion such as Hinduism or Christianity, it is this tradition that is in view. But Smith contends that the subjective faith of the individual believer is far more important than the external tradition.

One important consequence of Smith’s theory is its effect on doctrines, rituals, and the like, which henceforth possess only secondary importance. The propositional truth that some people still view as important resides in the cumulative tradition. But because primary importance attaches to inward faith, propositional truth must become secondary. 17

All this leads Smith to think that religious “truth” differs considerably from the kind of truth we encounter in everyday life. Instead of being propositional, religious truth is personal; it must have an existential impact on the life of the believer. It transforms and changes the person’s life. The cumulative traditions of this or that religion become true as they transform the lives of individual believers within that tradition. 18 Smith considers it misleading to talk about the supposed truth of Christ’s resurrection as though this were objective, static, and merely propositional. Christ’s resurrection only becomes true insofar as it transforms individual people. Hence, no religion is true in the objective or propositional sense. But all religions are true subjectively! And of course, this personal, subjective view of religious truth ends up implying that the same religious claim (proposition) can be true for me and false for you. It also implies that a religious proposition that was false for me yesterday can become true tomorrow.

An Evaluation of Smith’s Position

Does not Smith’s position still involve a repudiation of logical principles such as the law of non-contradiction and the law of the excluded middle? It is obvious that Smith thinks it does not. The “truth” that interests Smith is not related to the propositions that are part of the external traditions; it is rather a function of the purely subjective attitudes and feelings of different people. When religious “truths” are nonpropositional, they cannot contradict other nonpropositional “truths.”

I find several difficulties in Smith’s position:

1. Smith’s position leads to several absurd consequences. Consider the different ways that broccoli affects people. While less dramatic perhaps than some religious issues, broccoli has been known to have an existential or transforming effect on some people. Imagine a dispute between two people, one of whom is former U.S. President George Bush. The other person is a professional nutritionist whom we will call Violet Jones. Ms. Jones utters the proposition “Broccoli is good,” while George Bush denies her proposition. Do we have a contradiction here? Not really, because—extending Smith’s analysis of religious “truth” to this case—Ms. Jones is really uttering the subjective judgment “I like broccoli” while President Bush is really saying, “I do not like broccoli.” The reason that the two utterances are not contradictory is because each is describing something different. Ms. Jones’s words are doing nothing more than describing her feelings on the subject, while President Bush’s words are describing his feelings. There is no contradiction; both statements are true at the same time.

Although W. C. Smith’s way of handling religious “truth” might appear to solve a serious problem for pluralists (the problem created by their apparent rejection of logic), it only raises new and equally troubling questions. For one thing, Smith’s position on religious “truth” entails that no two people ever really disagree over religious truth-claims. After all, Ms. Jones and President Bush are not really disagreeing; each is simply describing a personal preference. Do pluralists really mean to say that the many apparently serious disagreements over religious claims are reducible to trivial disputes over different subjective states?

In addition, Smith’s position implies that no two people ever mean the same thing when they utter the same religious proposition. Two people could sing a duet to the famous words “Jesus loves me, this I know.” But because, according to Smith, what is important in this context is the subjective, existential impact the propositions have and because subjective impacts differ considerably from person to person, the vocalists would in fact be singing about two different things. The soprano might be singing about the effect of Jesus’s love on her subjective states while the alto might be referring to what is occurring in her subjective consciousness.

Finally, Smith’s theory of religious truth entails that no religious claim can ever be false; all of them are true, in Smith’s sense of the word. When a Christian affirms the deity of Christ, he is honestly reporting the subjective effect that his belief has on him. When a Muslim denies the deity of Christ, he is honestly reporting what is occurring in his subjective religious consciousness. Neither person is wrong. How wonderful! Or how ironic that religious pluralism is bought at such a high price. If Smith is right, then almost every follower of the world’s major religions is wrong in his or her understanding of what is going on in that religion.

2. Smith’s approach ignores the fact that in addition to expressing personal feelings and the like, adherents to a religion are always making cognitive assertions in propositions that have some presumed objective truth value. This point has been well-stated by Stephen T. Davis, a philosopher at the University of Claremont and a former colleague of John Hick.

Of course, theological propositions do not exhaustively explain a religion; we must look to what might be called practice as well as theory. Perhaps Smith means that a religion is “true” if, say, its adherents practice it sincerely, or if their lives are morally admirable, or if the religion automatically “works” for them. If he does mean something like this, he is right that the truth of Christianity does not entail the falsity of, say, Buddhism or Islam. But this is hardly to refute the notion that there is a broad propositional or theological element in religion. 19

This leads Davis to conclude that “The fact that for some person Christianity has become truth (in Smith’s sense) is quite unrelated to what I am calling the truth or falsity of Christianity, that is, the truth or falsity of its crucial claims.” 20

Smith’s highly eccentric theory of religious “truth” turns out to be irrelevant to the concerns of most religious believers in the world. As difficult as it might be for Smith to sway traditionalist Christians to his view, there are also millions of Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists out there who will oppose his theory as strenuously as Christians, and for good reason. For his theory to work, Smith must redefine and in the process distort a huge set of propositions that all these people believe and regard as essential to their so-called tradition and their personal faith.

3. Finally, the pluralist’s subordination of propositional truth to private, personal truth has the relation between the two completely wrong. Smith holds that the fundamental sense of truth is personal and private and that the objective, propositional type of truth is derivative. A little reflection will quickly show that the fundamental sense of truth that underlies any other use of the term is propositional.

Harold Netland summarizes Smith’s understanding of personal truth as follows: “[I]n religion, truth is to be understood primarily as personal, that is, as having its locus in persons who satisfactorily appropriate religious beliefs.” 21 For convenience, suppose we call this summary of Smith’s position S.

Now, Netland asks, does Smith expect the rest of us to accept his S as true? Surely so. But S can only be true in the sense of propositional truth because, Netland continues,

S expresses a proposition which makes a claim about reality; it asserts that reality is such that truth is primarily personal and has its locus in persons who satisfactorily appropriate religious beliefs. And in proposing S Smith is suggesting that we accept it because it is true, that is, that reality actually is as the proposition expressed by S asserts it to be. 22

If the truth of S were only personal and subjective, then that “truth” would depend upon someone’s appropriating it, upon S’s affecting my life in some way. But this would mean that S could be true for Jones, but not true for Nash. Yet Smith could never allow for the relativity of S. He presumes that S is true for everyone. But this then means that S’s truth reflects the propositional sense of truth.

Once again we find the pluralists submerged in quicksand. Each time they attempt to escape from one problem, they seem to end up landing in another difficulty. Sometimes, the later problems encountered are far worse that the earlier ones. In this case Smith ignores how wise people will only appropriate beliefs subjectively if they think those beliefs are true in the propositional sense. 23

To say that “Allah is a righteous judge” is true would then be to recognize that a particular Muslim’s life and conduct is congruous with belief that Allah is a righteous judge. But this presupposes that the Muslim accepts and appropriates not only a set of practices and a manner of life but also a set of beliefs and values which taken together articulate a comprehensive perspective on reality. And such beliefs will be accepted in the first place because the Muslim regards them as true, [namely,] as accurately portraying the way reality actually is. Thus personal truth should not be regarded as an alternative to propositional truth, for it presupposes propositional truth. 24

All this leads Netland to a very important conclusion: “Smith seems to be confusing the question of truth with that of response to the truth…But the truth value of a belief or proposition and the degree to which one allows that belief to impact upon one’s life are two very different things.” 25 While beliefs and propositions are not equivalent, and while belief certainly includes more than mental assent to a proposition, belief always includes believing something, and that something is a proposition. Belief may be more than mental assent, but it cannot be less. “The fact is,” Netland concludes, “that adherents of the various religions believe certain propositions about the religious ultimate, humanity, and the nature of the universe to be true. And where these beliefs conflict—as they occasionally do—we have the problem of conflicting truth-claims.” 26

John Hick and the Rejection of Propositional Truth in Religion

John Hick takes a similar approach as W. C. Smith to the apparent conflict among the truth-claims of the world religions. Smith linked doctrines and other religious propositions to external traditions and then subordinated these traditions to the more important subjective faith of individual believers. Hick transforms religious doctrines into myths, or pictures, that help direct humans toward the infinite, unknowable, divine reality. 27 Hick’s reduction of religious beliefs and doctrines to myth is totally foreign to the way most religious devotees understand their faiths. Moreover, it suffers the same logical fate as W. C. Smith’s theory. Harold Netland explains,

[M]ythological statements about the Real are only informative to the extent that they are parasitic upon nonmythological-literal-truth. For the question whether any given behavior or pattern of life (loving one’s neighbor, fasting regularly, sacrificing children to Moloch) is to be regarded as an appropriate response to the Real will depend upon our ability to formulate clearly certain propositions about the nature of the Real and our relationship to the Real. 28

Hick’s claim that myths become true to the extent that they produce appropriate responses to the Real on the part of believers is indistinguishable from W. C. Smith’s theory. Hick is attempting to escape the clutches of logical rules such as the law of non-contradiction. He attempts this by redefining religious truth in a nonpropositional way, which makes his theory susceptible to the same criticisms that make Smith’s similar views so untenable.

WHAT SHOULD NON-CHRISTIANS THINK OF THE SMITH-HICK THEORY OF RELIGIOUS TRUTH?

Through almost everything he writes about pluralism, John Hick leaves the impression that the people he most hopes will accept his views are the recalcitrant Christian exclusivists of the world. He leaves little doubt that he regards this Christian recalcitrance as a product of ignorance, prejudice, intolerance, and no small amount of cultural conditioning—all defects that Hick himself presumes to be free of.

There is merit in recognizing that many non-Christians have their own good reasons to reject Hick’s work. This is certainly the case with Hick’s handling of the issue of propositional truth in other religions.

As Harold Netland explains, pluralism is committed “to the position that the many different conceptions of the divine or religious ultimate (Allah, Shiva, Krishna, Yahweh, Nirvana, Sunyatta, etc.) are all various culturally and historically conditioned images of the same single divine reality. This entails that [all these terms] ultimately have the same referent, although the connotations of the respective terms may differ.” 29

Netland notes the implausibility of this stance. Consider the different meanings these names for the ultimate have in the traditions to which they belong. For example, Netland writes, “the ontological implications of the Judaeo-Christian image of the divine as Yahweh, who is ontologically distinct from, and independent of, the created world, are incompatible with the ontological monism of the notion of Nirguna Brahman from Advaita Vedanta, or the monistic idealism of the Yogacara school of Buddhism.” 30

It defies common sense to suppose that the people who uttered all the competing claims we find in the major religions believed they were doing anything other than truly describing the nature of reality. Not only are the things they say apparently truth-claims to our minds, but also they were understood to be truth-claims by the people who uttered them. Basic to Hick’s approach to the world religions is the conviction that regardless of what the followers of these religions thought they were doing, pluralists know better. This is hardly convincing as a foundation for interreligious tolerance. It is also a highly questionable method of hermeneutics. Hick’s assumption on this point is indefensible both historically and hermeneutically.

Netland has even stronger words of criticism for pluralism.

It is difficult to escape the conclusion that [Hick’s] resolute desire to resolve the problem of conflicting truth-claims without admitting that some beliefs of some traditions are false has driven him to a radical reinterpretation of religious beliefs and doctrines in mythological terms. The price for resolving the problem in this manner, however, is that Hick’s theory must be called into question as a general explanation of the nature of religious experience. For his understanding of religious beliefs bears little resemblance to that of most believers in the major traditions and consequently will be vigorously resisted by all within the mainstream of these traditions. 31

It simply will not do to downplay, ignore, or minimize the serious and very real differences among the world religions. They do conflict logically. In his book Dissonant Voices, Netland explores and documents at some length the logical incompatibilities among Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, and Shintoism with special reference to three questions: What do these religions teach about the nature of the religious ultimate? about the nature of the human predicament? and about the nature of salvation or enlightenment or liberation? 32

It is not plausible, Netland argues, “to maintain, as many do today, that the different religions all make essentially the same claims and teach basically the same truth.” On the contrary, he states,

Careful examination of the basic tenets of the various religious traditions demonstrates that, far from teaching the same thing, the major religions have radically different perspectives on the religious ultimate, the human predicament, and the nature of salvation. Any attempt to produce an essential unity in outlook among the many religions will result in distorting at least some of the actual religious beliefs of followers of the various traditions. 33

A number of specialized books provide additional support for Netland’s claim. 34

The major religions conflict at the level of essential doctrine. The pluralist claim that doctrinal disputes are irrelevant because they have little or nothing to do with salvation flies in the face of the evidence. Most religions insist that correct believing is a necessary condition for salvation. This is certainly true in the case of Christianity (Acts 16:31 and John 3:16). Parallels to this can also be found in non-Christian religions. 35

World religions also conflict at the level of the kinds of conduct they advocate. Not surprisingly, Netland maintains that “the common assumption that all religions ultimately are teaching the same things in their own culturally conditioned ways is prima facie untenable. Not only are they not all saying the same things, but the particular issues addressed in the various religions are not necessarily the same.” 36 According to William Christian, attempts to play down the major disagreements among the world’s religions by suggesting that they all teach pretty much the same thing “seem very implausible, and certainly much current talk in the aid of these views is loose and sentimental.” 37

With all this as background, it is hard to deny that the world’s major religions contain some false teaching. Naturally, Muslim or Buddhist exclusivists will think the errors are to be found in systems other than their own. Moreover, the millions of non-Christians in the world will not be satisfied with the distortions that pluralists like Hick and Smith introduce into their beliefs.

CONCLUSION

We must keep in mind that the tortuous moves that pluralists such as John Hick and W. C. Smith make in matters pertaining to truth and logic are made necessary by their rejection of exclusivism and their claims that pluralism is intellectually superior. We contend that any theory that so mishandles truth and logic cannot stand.

Chapter Three

THE SECOND STAGE OF HICK’S PLURALISM

Stage one of Hick’s evolving pluralism was his move from a Christ-centered approach to religion to a God-centered model. During the 1980s Hick moved from this theocentric theory to a salvation-centered model. One way to approach these changes in Hick’s thinking is to notice some elements that he borrowed from the eighteenth-century philosopher Immanuel Kant.

HICK AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF IMMANUEL KANT

Hick came under the influence of Kant’s philosophy during graduate studies at the University of Edinburgh. Interestingly, Kant had described his own theory of knowledge as a Copernican Revolution in philosophy. Kant’s “revolution” attacked the usual way philosophers had thought about human knowledge before he came along. 1 In Kant’s terms, the prevailing picture of human knowledge had placed reality at the center of the knowing process. 2 Humans attained knowledge when their thinking accommodated itself to the structure of reality. In this pre-Kantian theorizing, reality was paramount and human knowledge was derivative or dependent.

Kant changed all this by theorizing that the human mind was at the center of the knowing process. Knowledge of the world depended on the fundamental structure of the human mind. Once the real world that lies beyond human consciousness begins feeding us sensory information such as colors, sounds, tastes, and smells, the mind organizes and relates this information in various ways. Our knowledge of the world is therefore a product of two factors, information received through the senses and the organizing powers of the human mind.

This new way of looking at things required Kant to distinguish between the way the world appears to us (the phenomenal world) and the way the world really is (the noumenal world). 3 The so-called phenomenal world is the world as it appears to human consciousness; these appearances necessarily reflect the organizing powers of the human mind. The world that appears to us is not necessarily the way the world really is; it is more correct to think of the phenomenal world as a product of the ways our mind forces us to conceive it. All this points to another world “behind” the world of appearance; this is, for Kant, the real world or, in his phrase, the noumenal world.

This noumenal world exists independently of our consciousness. A little reflection reveals why, for Kant, the noumenal world must be both unknown and unknowable. After all, the only way we can attain knowledge of the real or noumenal world is if we can somehow free ourselves from the controlling influence that our minds have on knowledge. Of course, that is impossible.

Basic to Hick’s move to a second stage of pluralism is his distinction between the phenomenal God and the noumenal God. In Hick’s words, “This is the familiar distinction, classically drawn by Immanuel Kant, between something as it is in itself, a Ding an sich, and that same thing as humanly perceived, with all that the human mind contributes in the process of perception.” 4 Hick believes the distinction is justified because of the many different and sometimes conflicting ways that the real God (the noumenal God) appears to people in the different religions (the phenomenal God). All of the phenomenal concepts of God we encounter in the religions of the world are misleading and inadequate. What we should be seeking is God as it, he, or she is in itself.

THE UNKNOWN GOD OF JOHN HICK

Hick also suggests that we drop the word “God” from our religious language. The old term is simply too loaded with connotations that remind people of specific religions. Instead of “God,” Hick talks of Reality or the Real or Ultimate Reality. Hick defines “the Ultimate” as

that putative reality which transcends everything other than itself but is not transcended by anything other than itself. The Ultimate, so conceived, is related to the universe as its ground or creator, and to us human beings, as conscious parts of the universe as the source both of our existence and of the value or meaning of that existence. 5

It should be obvious that with this approach Hick is attempting to get away from the mistakes he made in the first stage of his pluralism, which often found him operating with elements of an older, more theistic, even Christian concept of God. A serious pluralist does not want to do that.

The earlier Hick was admired for his ability to talk about complex philosophical and theological theories in a clear way. The older Hick seems to have lost some of that skill. He summarizes his newer way of thinking about God as follows: “The divine presence is the presence of the Eternal One to our finite human consciousness, and the human projects are the culturally conditioned images and symbols in terms of which we concretize the basic concepts of deity.” 6

This is a rather tortured way of saying that human beings need finite anthropomorphic images or pictures that will help direct their minds toward the infinite unknowable divine reality. Different religions provide us with different images and symbols. Even though all these pictures are culturally conditioned (and thus distorted), they nonetheless help followers of these religions to reach a more definite understanding of God. Moreover, Hick thinks, these culturally conditioned images have the Ultimate Reality as their source.

We are never aware of God as God really is, Hick advises, since “that would be equivalent to perceiving the world as it is unperceived.” 7 Rather, we are aware of God

as God is thought of and experienced through the conceptual “lens” of our own tradition. For each tradition functions as a kind of mental “lens”—consisting of concepts, stories (both historical and mythical), religious practices, artistic styles, forms of life—through which we perceive the divine. And because there is a plurality of such “lenses” there is a plurality of ways in which God is concretely thought and experienced. 8

We should note here that Hick is precluded from saying that he knows any of these points. After all, it would be an obvious contradiction to say, as Hick does, that God is unknowable and then proceed to describe God as “the Eternal One.” Hick evades this contradiction by treating all his comments about the Ultimate as hypotheses. Even if God is unknowable, he contends, it is nevertheless plausible to believe that something Real stands behind the various religious experiences, and that the Real is essentially the same thing experienced in different, even conflicting, ways. 9 However, one observes that Hick’s confident assertions about God lack any thing resembling the tentativeness that usually accompanies hypothetical musings.

Hick’s earlier pluralism saw him wrestling with a God who was both personal and impersonal. Hick’s distinction between the phenomenal God and the noumenal God helped him escape his dilemma. He began to make the quite different claim that the Real or Ultimate could be authentically thought of and experienced as both personal and nonpersonal. 10

Believers in religions such as Christianity, Judaism, and Islam perceive the Real as personal, whereas believers in some other religions perceive the Ultimate as impersonal. None of these concepts gives us the Real as it really is. Instead, each results from the Real affecting different people within the contexts of differing religious traditions. But, Hick continues, we cannot say that the Real

is personal or impersonal, one or many, active or passive, substance or process, good or evil, just or unjust, purposive or purposeless. No such categories can be applied, either positively or negatively, to the noumenal. Thus, whilst it is not correct to say, for example, that the Real is personal, it is also not correct to say that it is impersonal—nor that it is both personal and impersonal, or neither personal nor impersonal. All that one can say is that these concepts, which have their use in relation to human experience, do not apply, even analogically, to the Real an sich [in itself]. 11

In other words, Hick states that among the things we cannot know is whether God is good or evil. Such a disclaimer is inevitable, given Hick’s necessary skepticism about the Real as it is in itself. But we should remember this claim when Hick talks about how the Real is involved in all the authentic religions that bring men and women to salvation. The test of salvation turns out to be Hick’s major device in eliminating inauthentic religions, such as the cults of Jim Jones and David Koresh. But once it becomes clear that we lack all awareness of whether the Real is good or evil, who is to say that an evil cult may not function as an authentic response to the Ultimate?

Hick’s claim that we may “authentically” think of the Real as both personal and nonpersonal is puzzling. Hick’s adverb implies that these personal and nonpersonal conceptions and experiences are true in some way. One has the nagging feeling that Hick really thinks he can figure out what the Unknowable Real is really like, even if no one else can. Furthermore, all this knowledge about the unknowable God functions as the basis for his rejection of the knowledge claims of Christianity. Each reader will have to decide if Hick really is operating on two different levels—sometimes acting as though he is simply setting forth hypotheses, and at other times as though he has a confidence about these things that borders on what we usually call knowledge.

Hick goes a step further when he writes that “the very plurality and variety of human experiences of the Real provide a wider basis for theology than can the experience of any one religious tradition taken by itself.” 12 This seems like an odd thing to say. Hick is claiming that a large number of conflicting experiences, all of an unknown God whom we shouldn’t even call “God,” are somehow supposed to bring us closer to a more accurate understanding of that which is essentially unknowable.

Hick tells us that no predicates can be applied to the Real. This means that we cannot say that God is loving or all-knowing or all-powerful or holy or a spirit or a person. We cannot say that God is good or evil. Is it not natural, then, to suppose that Hick’s words for God have no significant content? Once we have unpacked the ramifications of Hick’s radical theological skepticism in this way, David Basinger wonders why we should not hold instead “that there is no higher Reality beyond us and thus all religious claims are false—i.e., why not opt for naturalism? Or why not adopt the exclusivistic contention that the religious claims of only one perspective are true?” 13 When you begin by stating that point A in your system is the recognition that humans cannot know anything about God, how can you rationally get from point A to point B—or anywhere, for that matter?

HICK’S CRITERION FOR GRADING RELIGIONS

Another question arises in connection with the second stage of Hick’s pluralism: Does Hick’s position mean that we are stuck with every religion humans have followed—no matter how evil or absurd—or are there criteria by which religious systems can be graded? Some religions have practiced human sacrifice and cannibalism. The pivotal sacrament in the Jim Jones cult involved drinking Kool-Aid laced with strychnine. Does an acceptance of pluralism require us to treat every religion as equally valid? Hick responds no and proposes that religions be graded in terms of how they measure up to the criterion of “salvation.”

Two observations are in order here. First, Hick’s move clearly indicates that he does not believe that all religions are equal. Some religions are better than others, and some “religions” may be unworthy of support. Second, Hick’s insistence on a test to grade religions does not mean that the followers of inadequate religions will be lost. Hick is not only a pluralist, but also a universalist. Ultimately and eventually, every member of the human race will be saved. This salvation will encompass even the worst moral monsters of history, including Adolf Hitler and the Nazis, Joseph Stalin and his secret police, and the entire gamut of serial killers, rapists, child molesters, and the like.

In his book An Interpretation of Religion, published in 1989, Hick states that

the great world faiths embody different perceptions and conceptions of, and correspondingly different responses to, the Real from within the major variant ways of being human; and that within each of them the transformation of human existence from self-centeredness to Reality-centeredness is taking place. These traditions are accordingly to be regarded as alternative soteriological “spaces” within which, or “ways” along which, men and women find salvation/liberation/ultimate fulfillment. 14

The threefold expansion of “salvation” into “salvation/liberation/ultimate fulfillment” suggests that Hick is going to explain salvation in a very broad way.

Hick maintains that the great world religions share a common concern with salvation “which identifies the misery, unreality, triviality, and perversity of ordinary human life, affirms an ultimate unity of reality and value in which or in relation to which a limitlessly better quality of existence is possible, and shows the way to realise that radically better possibility.” 15 The differences between what one finds in Christianity and other religions “are variations within different conceptual schemes on a single fundamental theme: the sudden or gradual change of the individual from an absorbing self-concern to a new centering in the supposed unity-of-reality-and-value that is thought of as God, Brahman, the Dharma, Sunyata or the Tao.” 16

What Hick calls “salvation” assumes different forms in the different major religions. Within Christianity, for example,

the concrete reality of salvation is the transformation of human existence from a sinful and alienated self-centeredness to a new centering in God, revealed in Christ as both limitless claim and limitless grace. The [Christian] experience of salvation is the experience of being an object of God’s gratuitous forgiveness and love, freeing the believer to love his and her neighbour. 17

Once we turn from Christianity to consider the other major religions, it quickly becomes apparent how elastic the notion of “salvation” is as a criterion for grading religions. For example, in Buddhism Hick explains, “the salvific human transformation is understood as liberation from the powerful illusion of ‘me’ or ‘self.’” 18 The many varieties of the family of Indian religions that Western scholars came to call Hinduism offer three paths to liberation: (1) a path of spiritual insight by which I realize that I am identical with the Universal Self; 19 (2) salvation by action or doing or living a particular kind of life; 20 and (3) the way known as bhakti, which Hick explains as “self-giving devotion to the Real encountered as the divine Thou,” which takes the form “of loving devotion to a divine Lord and Saviour.” 21

Islam creates a few problems in Hick’s search for some view of salvation/liberation/ultimate fulfillment in each of the major religions. As Hick explains,

Islam does not use the concept of “salvation” and does not think of the human condition in terms of a “fall” involving a guilt and alienation from God that can only be cancelled by a divine act of atonement. However, the Qur’an does distinguish radically between the state of islam—a self-surrender leading to peace with God—and the contrary state of those who have not yielded themselves to their Maker and who are therefore in the last resort enemies of God. 22

We must keep in mind that this rapidly expanding set of examples of salvation/liberation/ultimate fulfillment constitutes the test by which Hick will discriminate between authentic and inauthentic religions.

An Initial Critique of Hick’s Use of Salvation

It is reassuring to see that Hick realized his need for some criterion to grade religious systems. Without it, his pluralism would appear a bit ridiculous, since he would end up endorsing a host of foolish or evil systems as equals with the major world religions. But his criterion is too elastic and vague.

Once one identifies salvation as the ultimate test of a genuine religion, everything begins to turn on how “salvation” is defined. Consider the options:

If salvation is the attainment of illumination, then Buddhism can save.

If salvation is union with a Universal Self, then Hinduism can save.

If salvation is forgiveness and justification, then Christianity can save.

f salvation is maintaining a proper relation to one’s ancestors, then Shintoism can save.

But if salvation is defined as overthrowing an oppressor class and establishing a classless society, why can’t we say that communism can save as well? Did not those systems that practiced child-sacrifice or mutilation or cannibalism also offer what they thought was salvation? Did not Jim Jones offer his followers salvation? Is not Hick’s appeal to salvation so vague and general that he ends up offering a kind of religious supermarket with countless paths to salvation? Of course, Hick tries to avoid this kind of chaos by insisting that all legitimate forms of salvation exhibit one common trait, namely, a movement from a state of self-centeredness to Reality-centeredness. But how does Hick arrive at this particular concept of salvation? He claims that he derives it from a careful investigation of the major religions. As we will see later, this is questionable in that his procedure requires him to ignore anything that weakens his thesis and obliges him to introduce considerable distortion into almost every religion he discusses.

Hick’s propensity to oversimplify becomes apparent once we remember that the world’s religions not only understand the Ultimate differently (for some of these religions, there is no Ultimate), but also differ in their understanding of the basic human predicament and the means by which humans are delivered (saved) from this predicament. Harold Netland asks,

Is the human predicament brought on by sin against a righteous and holy God, or is it due to maya (illusion) and avidya (ignorance)? Is salvation to be thought of in terms of justification before God or in terms of liberation from samsara? It is highly misleading to speak as if all religions share a common soteriological goal and simply differ on the means to reach it. 23

Hick’s criterion simply will not work until it becomes possible to determine the truth or falsehood of assorted major beliefs taught by each religion. According to Netland,

Christianity can only be considered effective in providing salvation as justification if the human predicament is in fact characterized by alienation from God due to human sin and if God has in fact made possible through Jesus Christ justification of sinful humanity. Similarly, Theravada Buddhism can only be said to be effective in providing liberation if the human condition is in fact one of ignorance concerning the true nature of reality combined with a bondage to craving and desire, and if strictly following the Noble Eightfold Path will indeed bring the elimination of craving and thus nirvana. In other words, a given religion can be regarded as soteriologically effective only if its diagnosis of the human condition is accurate and if its proposed way for achieving the intended soteriological goal will indeed bring about the desired effect. 24

As much as he might like to try, Hick cannot escape the pivotal question of truth. This important issue will be the subject of the next chapter.

An Exception to Hick’s Transformation of Self-Centeredness

On pages 52 – 55 of his Interpretation of Religion, Hick admits to a bizarre exception to his previous statements about salvation. To fully appreciate what happens on these pages, one must see Hick’s move against the backdrop of several contemporary developments in theology, in Western society, and in many centers of American higher education. These developments include what is called liberation theology, whose advocates reduce Christianity to a movement to eradicate poverty and oppression. What is problematic is the tendency of liberation theologians to care only about the poor and oppressed people who interest them and to seek to address the issues of poverty from an unabashed and unrepentant Marxist perspective. 25

What is called feminist theology (or even better, feminist liberation theology) often links up with powerful segments of the liberationist movement and what still passes for Marxism these days. 26 Feminist theology contends that the historic Christian faith must be repudiated as a haven for patriarchal sexism that oppresses women even as “capitalism” according to the Marxist view oppresses the poor. 27 Both liberationist Marxism and feminist Marxism extend their power in American society through the political correctness movement that now holds captive many American institutions of higher learning.

Hick shows that he passes the political correctness test, but in the process raises doubts about his analysis of salvation and the consistency of his thought. Hick begins his discussion by noting how many feminist theologians object to his analysis of salvation as a repudiation of self-centeredness. Hick assures us that these feminist thinkers “are today contributing major and sometimes startling insights which it would be a serious mistake for others to ignore.” 28 One such “insight” from the feminists turns out to be their challenge to Hick’s thesis that salvation is a movement away from self-centeredness to Reality-centeredness. Hick cites St. Augustine (and Augustine’s analysis of sin as pride or self-assertion) as one ancient source for his understanding of salvation.

Hick explains the source of the feminist’s discomfort with all this: “The feminist critique of this strand of Christian thought is that self-assertion is not the basic human temptation but rather the characteristic male temptation; and that its female counterpart, within the existing patriarchal world cultures, is different.” 29

In the politically correct world of the radical feminist, the attitudes of pride and self-assertiveness define what feminists think is good, at least for feminists. While pride and self-assertiveness are basic sins for men, the proper female analogue to male pride (man’s defining sin) is female timidity, sentimentality, triviality—in short, all the attributes that radical feminists associate with passive women in a male-dominated society.

To reduce a long, incredible concession to political correctness to its bottom line, Hick admits that female salvation may well be the opposite of male salvation. Female salvation, at least for oppressed and male-dominated women, is the transformation from weakness to self-centeredness!

So Hick, who, I contend, sometimes misrepresents the content of major religions when it advances his thesis, is now willing to redefine the central concept of his later system (salvation) when faced with the risk of offending militant, radical feminists.

Perhaps out of embarrassment, Hick attempts to put his glaring inconsistency in a better light by suggesting that not all women have weak egos. So perhaps for them, his more usual analysis of “sin” might still hold. In Hick’s own words,

In so far as anyone, female or male, lacks the ego-development and fulfillment necessary for a voluntary self-transcendence, the prior achievement of self-fulfilled ego may well be necessary for a true relationship to the Real. For in order to move beyond the self one has first to be a self. This means that the contemporary woman’s liberation movement, as a part of the larger movement for human liberation, is in the front line of salvific change in our world today. 30

CONCLUSION

It is evident that John Hick saw the need to move beyond the serious inadequacies of his first version of pluralism, even if he has refused to acknowledge these defects. The problems that afflict his second version are more difficult to uncover. Simply put, this is because, like the Ptolemaic astronomers of old, every time Hick is confronted by a difficulty, he takes another step backward into an epicycle. His distinction between the phenomenal gods and the noumenal God only serves to plunge him into serious conceptual difficulties. His appeal to salvation as the essential core of the major religions works only when he oversimplifies or distorts his data from these religions.

In all of this, we must remember that this collection of confusions is Hick’s alternative to historic Christian theism. Hick’s reasoning obviously has appeal for many people in the academic world, most notably those who are already biased against an exclusivist religion. It may also appeal to people with a sentimental bent whose emotions are affected by what they can understand from Hick’s contemporary prose. But some will conclude that what Hick does best is show the power that an anti-Christian ideology can have.

Chapter One

IS JESUS THE ONLY SAVIOR?

Three conflicting answers to the question “Is Jesus the only Savior?” spark a debate that is dividing religious thinkers in the English-speaking world. This chapter explains the oldest of the three views, Christian exclusivism, the position that answers our question with an unqualified yes. The other two answers, pluralism and inclusivism, arise mainly out of opposition to exclusivism.

I have three major reasons for writing this book: (1) To see whether pluralism succeeds in developing a strong enough case against exclusivism to lead thoughtful people to abandon the Christian church’s historic teaching that Jesus is the only Savior (part 1); (2) to see whether inclusivism succeeds in developing a strong enough case against exclusivism to lead thoughtful Christians to embrace inclusivism (part 2); and (3) to present at least some of the reasons why many thoughtful and conscientious Christians continue to espouse Christian exclusivism.

A DEFINITION OF CHRISTIAN EXCLUSIVISM

Christian exclusivism can be defined as the belief that (1) Jesus Christ is the only Savior, and (2) explicit faith in Jesus Christ is necessary for salvation. The first claim denies that there are or can be other saviors, a fact that distinguishes it from pluralism. The second claim denies that people may be saved without conscious and explicit faith in Jesus Christ, which sets it apart from inclusivism. Christian exclusivists begin by believing that the tenets of one religion—in this case, Christianity—are true and that any religious beliefs that are logically incompatible with those tenets are false.

EXCLUSIVISM AND BIBLICAL AUTHORITY

Some people cannot understand why the Bible plays such a normative role in Christian thinking. Such people need to recognize that while humans are free to reject the authority of Scripture, they will only substitute some other authority in its place. Usually that authority is either their own opinions or those of other people. Christians believe that the Bible is God’s special revelation “inscripturated,” or communicated in writing. People who think this way understandably prefer the authority of God to that of some fallen and fallible human being.

The church’s access to truth cannot be credited to the natural, human wisdom of its apostles. Rather, it lies in the fact that God himself has graciously revealed himself and truth about himself to select individuals who have given the church an inscripturation of that revealed truth in the Bible.

Many who teach in self-described Christian seminaries and colleges today do not believe and probably do not understand this time-honored notion of revealed truth.

To a great extent, much nonorthodox theology over the past two hundred years is a chronicle of futile attempts to retain respectability for religious faith while denying Christianity access to revealed truth. About the only thing such thinkers can agree on is that God has not spoken and, indeed, cannot speak. And even if God could speak, according to this view, humans are incapable of understanding whatever he might say. The human relationship to God, therefore, must be understood according to some model other than that of receiving information or truth. Instead, it must be understood as an inward personal experience with God devoid of any objective, cognitive means of testing its validity.

Influenced by such views, many theologians and clergy trivialize or repudiate the central role that revealed truth has played in the Christian religion. Knowledge about God is simply declared impossible and replaced by personal encounter, religious feeling, trust, or obedience. This relatively new teaching clashes with the traditional view that divine special revelation is a communication of truth and that human knowledge of this revealed truth is essential to any personal relationship with God.

A study of the literature reveals that religious thinkers who reject the possibility of revealed truth seldom bother to support their position with arguments. 1 Their theory has simply become part of the theological mind-set in many departments of religion. Moreover, the doctrine of revealed truth that is so widely rejected today is a straw man—a false target. And finally, the most serious problems with their noncognitive (noninformational) view of revelation are simply ignored. 2 The theological agnosticism that is such an important feature of contemporary nonorthodox theology marks a dramatic break with a major tradition of historic Christianity, a tradition that has affirmed both an intelligible revelation from God and a divinely given human ability to know the transcendent God through the medium of true propositions.

English philosopher John Hick is the major representative of pluralism. We will study his views in great detail in chapters 2 – 6. John Hick professes to have experienced an evangelical kind of Christian conversion when he was nineteen years old and also reports that his early Christian beliefs were generally conservative or orthodox. 3 How did Hick come gradually to renounce every essential Christian belief he once affirmed? The obvious starting point lies in his defective understanding of divine revelation and Scripture. Hick’s capitulation to the prevailing neo-liberal or neo-orthodox view of Scripture was apparent by the time he published his book Faith and Knowledge in 1957. 4 Paul Eddy explains:

Although [Hick] had definitely departed from evangelical theology with his adoption of a non-propositional view of revelation and the attendant implications for the Scriptures, he nonetheless maintained a generally conservative, if neo-orthodox theology. The problem, of course, was that the philosophical foundations for such a theology had been severely undercut by his religious epistemology. In tracing Hick’s theological pilgrimage from this point on, one is primarily tracing the effects of the logical implications of his religious philosophy [that is, his defective understanding of special revelation] upon this theology. Thus, one could argue that nearly every major theological development throughout the next four decades was in one sense or another implicit in this early religious philosophy. 5

While Eddy applauds Hick’s early commitment to such essential Christian beliefs as the Incarnation, he points out that the basis for Hick’s actions was less than stable:

In faithfulness to his views of non-propositional revelation and the epistemological primacy of religious experience, Hick finds the cognitive grounds for Christological orthodoxy not in a cognitively-based revelation of truth from God, but rather in the very human attempts of the early Christian community to formulate what they perceived to be the theological implications of their religious experience of Jesus. With this as a model, it is not surprising to find Hick’s entire theology continuously spiraling away from its original orthodox source. 6

In other words, Hick retained a generally orthodox theology at the same time he had abandoned the epistemological foundation for those beliefs. Something had to give, and eventually it did. One by one, the early orthodox beliefs of John Hick disappeared from his system of thought. And as with almost all his neo-liberal peers, it apparently never occurred to Hick to examine critically the faulty presuppositions that had led him to deny even the possibility of divinely revealed truth.

My own critical examination of those unsupported, neo-liberal assumptions is the subject of an earlier book. 7 When theologians begin to think that knowledge about God is impossible and that religious truth is unimportant, it is only a matter of time until doctrines and creeds lose their relevance. Why worry about denials of Christian creeds if doctrine and truth are unimportant? Hick started down that path, and we will see where he ended up. Regrettably, many self-described evangelical thinkers today find Hick’s starting point acceptable. In this book we will see how their faulty understanding of divine revelation may have contributed to their own theological wanderings.

In another book I explained that every human being approaches life and thought from the perspective of some worldview, a comprehensive system of beliefs offering answers to life’s ultimate questions. 8 I also showed that many people do not realize that they even have a worldview. For that reason, many are also unaware of the content of their worldview and how it controls the way they think and live.

The Christian worldview is related to the Bible in at least two important ways. First, the basic assumption of the Christian worldview is the belief that human beings and the universe in which they reside are the creation of the God who has revealed himself in Scripture. This link between God and the Scriptures is both proper and necessary. It would be foolish for Christians to drive a wedge between God and his self-disclosure in the canon of Scripture. We have already seen what this did to John Hick’s thinking.

Second, the content of the Christian worldview is derived from God’s special revelation in the Bible. What this basically means is that if the Christian worldview passes the tests that should be applied to every worldview, this success reflects back positively upon the basic control-belief of the Christian’s worldview (expressed in the previous paragraph). Any positive appraisal of that belief must then reflect favorably upon the Christian’s basic religious authority, the Bible. 9 Since the biblical worldview passes the appropriate tests, the religious authority from which that worldview is drawn receives support from the same procedure. In other words, the Bible does not somehow get plugged into the process through some kind of irrational, blind “leap of faith.”

All of this means that Christians have a right to draw their convictions from Scripture and to test the claims of other Christians against the teaching of the Bible. They would be both foolish and inconsistent to do otherwise.

EXCLUSIVISM AND THE NEW TESTAMENT

Christian exclusivists believe that the New Testament affirms their position in several different but complementary ways. First, the New Testament repeatedly declares that salvation comes only through faith in Jesus Christ. One of many passages with this message is John 3:16 – 18:

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son.

In these words Jesus himself not only states that those who believe in him have eternal life but also warns that those who do not believe stand condemned.

In another familiar text, Jesus asserts in no uncertain terms, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6).

Of course, both these passages appear in the gospel of John and, as we will see, pluralists do not like the fourth gospel. Because it contains so much material that conflicts with their position, pluralists dismiss the authenticity of this gospel and the words it attributes to Jesus. Jesus, they contend, could never or would never have uttered the many “offensive” statements that appear in the fourth gospel. 10 No one who believes such statements could possibly be a pluralist. I will evaluate this dismissal of biblical material later, but for now we must see how exclusivism is clearly taught elsewhere in the New Testament.

Exclusivism is obviously taught in the book of Acts, which is Luke’s extension of his gospel. In Acts 4:12, Peter proclaims that “Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved.” Acts 8 relates that the Ethiopian eunuch is saved when Philip builds on his interest in Isaiah 53 and connects that passage to the good news about Jesus (Acts 8:35). When the Philippian jailer asks Paul and Silas what he must do to be saved, they reply, “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved” (Acts 16:31).

Paul’s epistle to the Romans is a detailed analysis of the nature and ground of justification, the act by which God imputes Christ’s righteousness to sinful humans who have trusted in Jesus. Paul makes it clear that the one and only ground of human justification before the holy God is the atoning work of Jesus Christ (see Romans 3:10 – 28; 5:1 – 11). In Romans 10, Paul explains how sinful men attain the righteousness that saves: “That if you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised [Jesus] from the dead, you will be saved” (v. 9). In 1 Timothy 2:5, Paul declares that “there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.”

In addition, Scripture also declares that human nature is so sinful that people are utterly hopeless apart from Jesus. 11 The New Testament affirms the importance of hearing the gospel and believing, as, for example, in Peter’s message at the first Pentecost (Acts 2) and Jesus’ Great Commission (Matt. 28:19 – 20).

Now, pluralists have their ways of dealing with biblical passages like these, and inclusivists have some techniques of their own as well. We will look at these methods later. The important point for now is that we can easily understand how and why Christians from the very inception of their faith have traditionally regarded exclusivism as an essential part of the total Christian message.

EXCLUSIVISM AND THEOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS

Besides the clear teaching of the New Testament, Christian exclusivists find natural support in a number of related theological ideas. A short list of these interconnected doctrines includes the deity of Christ, the Incarnation, the Atonement, and the Resurrection. If Jesus Christ is the eternal Son of God who became human for the express purpose of dying, and if he died as an atonement for human sin and then rose bodily from the grave, it is difficult to see how anyone can believe it is possible for some people to attain salvation apart from him. It is precisely because pluralists like John Hick see the logical entailments among these Christian doctrines that they exert such effort to deny them. To be a pluralist is unthinkable apart from a repudiation of the doctrinal heart of the historic Christian message.

John Hick admits to a logical connection between exclusivism and such Christian doctrines as the deity of Christ:

There is a direct line of logical entailment from the premise that Jesus was God, in the sense that he was God the Son, the Second Person of the Divine Trinity, living in a human life, to the conclusion that Christianity, and Christianity alone, was founded by God in person; and from this to the further conclusion that God must want all his human children to be related to him through his religion which he has himself founded for us; and then to the final conclusion, [that] “Outside Christianity, [there is] no salvation.” 12

Hick is certainly right in observing that if anyone accepts Christian doctrines such as these, that person is logically committed to accepting Jesus Christ as the only Savior. As we will see, Hick’s rejection of Christian exclusivism logically requires him to reject these essential Christian beliefs.

EXCLUSIVISM IN NON-CHRISTIAN RELIGIONS

Christian exclusivism receives an enormous amount of criticism in academic and ecclesiastical circles these days. But Christians are not the only exclusivists in the world. Most religions are exclusivist in the sense that each regards its own tradition’s central claims as true and competing claims as false. If anyone doubts this, all one needs to do is share the Christian gospel with some Muslim or Hindu and observe what happens.

It is ironic that when religious exclusivism gets savaged these days, one seldom, if ever, finds the self-professed guardians of religious “tolerance” and “open-mindedness” criticizing the many non-Christian exclusivists in the world. I am not quite sure what to make of this except possibly that some people are really more anti-Christian than they are anti-exclusivist.

SOME OTHER FACETS OF EXCLUSIVISM

A full account of Christian exclusivism should take note of several other convictions. One of these is the belief that unevangelized mature persons 13 will not only experience God’s judgment, but deserve such. Yet it is important to remember that Christian exclusivists often disagree greatly about the nature of hell and the condition of the lost. Opponents of exclusivism almost always ignore these disagreements and represent all exclusivists as advocates of the most extreme views on the subject of hell.

Another aspect of exclusivism that will require more comment later is the belief held by almost all exclusivists that human destiny is fixed at the moment of physical death. 14 The attainment of Christ’s redemption requires that people trust in Christ before death.

A significant disagreement between exclusivists and inclusivists involves the possible role of general revelation in salvation. Inclusivists insist that people outside any sphere of Christian influence may nonetheless be saved by trusting in whatever they may learn from God’s general revelation in Creation, conscience, and history. Exclusivists disagree.

Bruce Demarest identifies in the Puritan view of general revelation several points that are shared by most exclusivists. General revelation, Demarest explains,

teaches no redemptive truths. But if general revelation…provides insufficient light for the salvation of the soul, it does nevertheless serve at least two practical ends. In the first place, general revelation leaves the unrepentant sinner without excuse. Objectively, the divine self-disclosure in Creation, history, and conscience is sufficiently clear that God should be known as Creator, Ruler, and Judge. 15

The apostle Paul notes in Romans 1 how humans willfully rebel against the light that God gives them in nature, history, and conscience. In Demarest’s words, Paul “proceeds to establish the link between rejection of the witness of general revelation and man’s guiltiness. Since all people are brought face-to-face with the light of God in Creation, providence, and conscience, all are morally responsible for the rational choices they make. Since all people plainly see the signature of God written on His works, no pleas of ignorance can be offered.” 16 This helps explain why all humans are “without excuse” (Rom. 1:20). 17

This leads Demarest to conclude that

General revelation thus performs the function of rendering man judicially accountable before God. If God were not discernible in His works, if general revelation were invalid or failed to mediate knowledge of God, then the masses of people who have never heard the gospel would be innocent of their ungodliness and irreligion. But since knowledge of God is mediated to all by general revelation, human accountability to God is firmly established. Hence in practice, general revelation becomes a vehicle not for salvation but for divine judgement. 18

This position is totally rejected by pluralists, who believe that non-Christian religions are equally legitimate vehicles for salvation, and by inclusivists, who insist that the content of general revelation is sufficient to bring unevangelized people to salvation in the total absence of information about the Christian gospel.

EXCLUSIVISM AND ITS OPPONENTS

If Christian exclusivism is true, then all the following alternatives are false:

1.Atheism

2.Universalism

3.Non-Christian Religions

4.Pluralism

5.Inclusivism

Because this book focuses on the dispute among exclusivists, pluralists, and inclusivists, we will not discuss atheism.

In one sense, the broad topic of universalism is also beyond the scope of this book, even though many pluralists such as John Hick are also universalists. By “universalism,” I mean the belief that no human being will ultimately be lost. Sooner or later, universalists believe, God will eventually save every person. We will refer to universalism later only in connection with some observations as to why Christian inclusivists tend to reject the position.

This book will also say very little about the specific content of various non-Christian religions. I have intentionally given this book a narrow focus. It would require a quite different book, probably twice as long as this one, to examine specific details of non-Christian religions. My focus in this work is on positions 4 and 5 on my list, pluralism and inclusivism.

PLURALISM

A pluralist is a person who thinks humans may be saved through a number of different religious traditions and saviors. John Hick explains his own pluralism this way: “There is not merely one way but a plurality of ways of salvation or liberation…taking place in different ways within the contexts of all the great religious traditions.” 19

Hick, whose many writings on the subject set the pace for many Western pluralists, wants to avoid a relativism that treats all religious beliefs and systems equally. He has proposed a test that enables us to grade religions, and as he sees things, at least the major religions of the world pass this test. All qualify equally as valid roads to salvation. However, movements such as the Peoples’ Temple of Jim Jones and the Branch Davidian cult of David Koresh fail the test, as do systems that practice human sacrifice or cannibalism. Unfortunately, pluralists have not identified a criterion to mark the line between authentic and inauthentic “responses to the Transcendent” clearly enough to make it work on a broad scale. Even though Hick tells us that Jim Jones was on the wrong side of the line, it will not be clear to everyone how to apply the same criterion in other cases. 20

But Hick and other prominent pluralists do not think that the salvific value of the great religions requires anyone to believe in the existence of the myriad gods found in these systems. That would only commit pluralism to what amounts to a new religion, namely, a new type of polytheism with a confusing and contradictory amalgam of beliefs. As Joseph Runzo explains, sophisticated pluralists hold “that there is only One Ultimate Reality, but that Ultimate Reality is properly, though only partially, understood in different ways.” 21 (A bit later, when we hear pluralists like Hick tell us that God or Ultimate Reality is unknowable, I will ask the reader to reflect a bit on how the pluralist can know the content of propositions like Runzo’s.)

INCLUSIVISM

Inclusivists agree with exclusivists and differ from pluralists in affirming that Jesus Christ is the only Savior. No man or woman can possibly be saved apart from the redemptive work of Jesus Christ, inclusivists say, and this is so whether the person is raised under a Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, or Hindu system.

But inclusivists also part company with exclusivists, a point that at first may seem confusing. How can a position that insists on the deity of Jesus Christ and the indispensability of his redemptive work for salvation be a source of concern to theologically conservative Christians?

One way to answer this question is to introduce two technical terms that inclusivists frequently use. They distinguish between the ontological necessity of Christ’s work as redeemer and the separate claim that Christ’s redemptive work is epistemologically necessary.

The word ontology refers to what is the case in the world of being or reality. Inclusivists affirm the ontological necessity of Christ’s redemptive work; they agree with exclusivists that Jesus’ atoning work is the necessary ground for the salvation of any human being. The word epistemology points to an entirely different matter, that of what people know or believe. When inclusivists deny the epistemological necessity of Christ’s work, they are saying that it is not necessary for people to know about Jesus or believe in Jesus to receive the benefits of his redemptive work.

So inclusivists believe that salvation is impossible apart from Jesus and that he is the only Savior. But this does not mean that people have to know about Jesus or actually believe in him to receive that salvation. There are problems, inclusivists argue, in limiting salvation to those who have a conscious knowledge of and explicit faith in Jesus Christ. What do we do with the millions of people, past and present, who never heard the gospel? Is God’s grace limited to the relatively few who, often through accidents of time and geography, happen to have responded to the gospel? 22 Isn’t it reasonable to think that millions of others over the long course of human history would have believed had only they known? Inclusivists dismiss exclusivists as cold, uncaring people who are unwilling to explore other ways to expand the scope of God’s love.

Many people find this kind of emotional appeal persuasive. Of course, exclusivists reject the way they and their beliefs are stereotyped. Exclusivists also think it is important to consider some other information before allowing one’s feelings to dictate Christian doctrine.

Many inclusivists appear to have more respect for pluralism than for exclusivism. In some cases, as we will see, they suggest that if they ever found reasons to abandon their inclusivism, they would move toward pluralism and away from exclusivism. 23

According to inclusivist Clark Pinnock, exclusivists “have made it ridiculously easy for liberals to attack classical theology (in particular, its christology). Scholars such as John Hick have been making mincemeat out of us [evangelical Christians], arguing all too convincingly that evangelicals have nothing to contribute to the discussion of religious pluralism.” 24 Few of us enjoy being reduced to mincemeat. When we examine the pluralist’s case against exclusivism, we will have to see whether the complaints of John Hick and other pluralists are as powerful as Pinnock seems to think.

CONCLUSION

This chapter has introduced the three positions we will examine in this book. They can be distinguished in terms of their response to the following two propositions:

1.Jesus Christ is the only Savior.

2.No one can be saved unless he or she knows the information about Jesus’ person and work contained in the Gospel and unless he or she exercises explicit faith in Jesus Christ.

Pluralists, as we now know, reject both (1) and (2). Inclusivists accept (1) but reject (2). And exclusivists affirm both (1) and (2). The major question I will seek to answer in the rest of this book is whether pluralists or inclusivists have produced arguments strong enough to justify the repudiation of exclusivism, which is the position of historic Christianity. I believe the reader will discover a host of reasons to embrace Christian exclusivism.

THEO 313

Book Analyses Instructions

Ronald Nash's book, Is Jesus the Only Savior? The first analysis will cover Chapters 1–6 on pluralism, analysis will consist of two parts: a five-page minimum analysis and a one-page minimum personal conclusion. Both parts of each analysis should be completed in one Word document.

Specific Information about the Book Analysis

While some information about the author may be appropriate, this should be limited to no more than 10% of your analysis. Do not yield to the temptation of summarizing each chapter. You could organize your analysis according to the sequence of the chapters.

Analyze the author’s arguments, supports, logic, Bible verses, theological presuppositions, claims, organization, writing style, etc. Avoid paraphrasing. Do not use the first person. This is not the place to state whether or not you agree with the author. Stay focused on analyzing the strength of the arguments.

Please observe the following requirements for this assignment:

· Use 12 point Times New Roman

· Double-space

· One-inch margins

· Use a works cited section if you refer to other sources (Turabian)

· Divide the paper into “Analysis” and “Personal Conclusion”

· Five-page minimum for the analysis

· One-page minimum for the personal conclusion

The analysis assignment for Chapters 1–6 will be due by 11:59 p.m. (ET) on Monday of Module/Week 5.

193

Week Eight: Reason and Revolution Part III / The Romantic, the Real and the American Indian

Perkins−Perkins: Selections from American Literature

Washington Irving Author Bio © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2003

Washington Irving (1783–1859)

R With Cooper, Poe, and Hawthorne, Irving has survived all other American writers of fiction before Melville, and he still finds new readers with every passing generation. He was the first great prose stylist of American romanticism, and his familiar style was destined to outlive the formal prose of such contemporaries as Scott and Cooper, and to provide a model for the prevailing prose narra- tive of the future.

The apparent ease of his writing is not simply that of the gifted amateur; it results from his purposeful identification of his whole personality with what he wrote. He was urbane and worldly, yet humorous and gentle; a robust connoisseur, yet innately reserved; a patrician, yet sympathetic toward the people. His vast reading, following only the impulse of his own enthusiasms, resulted in a rich if random literary inheritance, revealed in all that he wrote. His response to the period of Addison, Swift, and Johnson, with its great and graceful style, and his enthusiasm for the current European romanticism, enabled him to combine these with his independent literary personality and American roots.

It is instructive to consider the number of his literary innovations. He was our first great belletrist, writing always for pleasure, and to produce pleasure; yet readers of all classes responded to him in a country in which the didactic and utilitarian had formerly prevailed. He gave an impetus both to the extravagant American humor of which Mark Twain became the classic, and to the urbane wit that has survived in writers ranging from Holmes and Lowell to the New Yorker wits of the past and present. In his Sketch Book appeared the first modern short stories and the first great American juvenile literature. He was among the first of the moderns to write good history and biography as literary entertainment. He introduced the familiar essay to America. On his own whimsical terms, Irving restored the waning Gothic romances which Poe soon infused with psychological subtleties. The scope of his life and his writing was international, and produced a certain breadth of view in his readers; yet his best-known stories awakened an interest in the life of American regions from the Hudson valley to the prairies of the West. His influence abroad, as writer, as visitor, and as diplomat, was that of a gifted cultural ambassador, at home on both continents, at a time when his young country badly needed such representation. He was the only American writer of his generation who could chide the British in an atmosphere of good humor.

The events of Irving’s life are characterized by the same casual approach and distinguished results. Gently born and well educated, the youngest of eleven children of a prosperous New York merchant, he began a genteel reading for the law at sixteen, but preferred a literary Bohemianism. At nineteen he published, in his brother’s newspaper, his “Jonathan Oldstyle” satires of New York life. By the age of twenty-three, when he was admitted to the New York bar, he had roamed the Hudson valley and been a literary vagabond in England, Holland, France, and Italy, reading and

The standard edition of Irving’s work has been The Works of Washington Irving, Author’s Uniform Revised Edition, 21 vols., 1860–1861, reissued in 12 vols., 1881. The Complete Works of Washington Irving, ed. Henry A. Pochmann and others, was published in 30 volumes, 1969–1989. The Journals of Washington Irving, 3 vols., 1919, were edited by W. P. Trent and G. S. Hellman, and a number of volumes of the letters have been published. Several later editions, individual volumes, are easily available; note especially Knickerbocker’s History of New York, edited by Stanley T. Williams and Tremaine McDowell, 1927; and Edwin T. Bowden, ed., A History of New York, 1964. Washington Irving: Representative Selections, edited by Henry A. Pochmann, American Writers Series, 1934, has a useful introduction and bibliography.

Pierre M. Irving published the first standard Life and Letters, 4 vols., 1862–1864; other good lives are those by Charles Dudley Warner, 1890, and G. S. Hellman, 1925. However, the definitive biographical and critical study is that by Stanley T. Williams: The Life of Washington Irving, 2 vols., 1935. See also Edward Wagenknecht, Washington Irving: Moderation Displayed, 1962; William L. Hedges, Washington Irving, an American Study, 1965; Haskell Springer, Washington Irving: A Reference Guide, 1976; Andrew B. Myers, A Century of Commentary on the Works of Washington Irving, 1976; Martin Roth, Comedy and America: The Lost World of Washington Irving, 1976; Mary W. Bowden, Washington Irving, 1981; and Jeffrey Rubin-Dorsky, Adrift in the Old World: The Psychological Pilgrimage of Washington Irving, 1988.

194 LITR220

Perkins−Perkins: Selections from American Literature

Washington Irving Author Bio © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2003

studying what pleased him, which was a great deal, and reveling in the lively world of the theater. Back in New York, he joined with his brother, William, and James Kirke Paulding, in 1807, in producing the Salmagundi papers, Addisonian commentaries on New York society and frivolities. A History of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker (1809), a rollicking burlesque of a current serious history of the early Dutch settlers, has become a classic of humor, and might have launched an immediate career for its author.

A personal tragedy, however, changed his course for a time; the death of his fiancée, Matilda Hoffman, coincided with the demands of the family cutlery firm, and in 1810 he went to Washington as representative of the business. In 1815 he again turned restlessly to his European roving, with headquarters in England during the next seventeen years, but his literary career was soon to catch up with him again. In 1818 the failure of the Irving firm, which had bountifully supported his leisure, threw family responsibilities upon him, and he loyally plunged into the authorship for which he had almost unconsciously prepared himself. The Sketch Book appeared serially in 1819–1820; in volume form shortly thereafter, it at once had an international success. Bracebridge Hall followed in 1822; then he first went to Germany in pursuit of an interest in German romanticism, which flavored the Tales of a Traveller (1824) and other later writings. Meanwhile in Paris he had met John Howard Payne, the American dramatist and actor, with whom he wrote the brilliant social comedy Charles the Second, or The Merry Monarch.

From 1826 to 1829 he was in Spain on diplomatic business, residing for a time in the Alhambra. His reading at that period, including the study of Spanish historical sources, resulted in a number of important works: A History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (1828), A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada (1829), Voyages and Discoveries of the Companions of Columbus (1831), a famous volume of stories and sketches––The Alhambra (1832)––and “Legends of the Conquest of Spain” (in The Crayon Miscellany, 1835).

Before The Alhambra appeared, he was on his way back to the United States after two years as secretary of the American legation in London (1829–1831). American reviewers had commented, often with irritation, on his seeming preference for Europe, but the charges were exaggerated. After seventeen years abroad he returned with the desire to portray his own country again, and although such western adventures as A Tour on the Prairies (1835), Astoria (history of Astor’s fur trade, 1836), and The Adventures of Captain Bonneville (explorations in the Rocky Mountains, 1837) are not among his best work, they broke new trails in our literature. In 1836 he made his home at Sunnyside, near Tarrytown, so lovingly described years before as “Sleepy Hollow.” He had already declined a nomination to Congress; now he declined to run for mayor of New York, or to become Van Buren’s secretary of the navy. Instead he wrote a good Life of Oliver Goldsmith (1840), and began the Life of George Washington (published 1855–1859), long a standard work. From 1842 to 1845 he served as minister to Spain, then settled at Sunnyside, which he remodeled and enlarged, while preparing the revised edition of his works, and completing his Washington. The fifth and last volume of the latter appeared just before his death in 1859.

Washington Irving: Author Bio 195

Perkins−Perkins: Selections from American Literature

Washington Irving Rip Van Winkle © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2007

WASHINGTON IRVING

Rip Van Winkle1

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

By Woden,2 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 3

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knicker- bocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch his- tory 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 bookworm.4

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 un- questionable 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

1. This famous tale (ending the first installment of The Sketch Book) has been regarded as the first American short story. Within ten years (1829) it began in Philadelphia its long stage career. This in- volved adaptations and inheritance by many authors and actors, until it was stabilized in the version acted by the third Joseph Jefferson (1829–1905). 2. Sometimes Wodan or Odin; in Norse and Teutonic mythology, the god of war and wisdom—also “the Thunderer.” 3. William Cartwright (1611–1643), short-lived prodigy of the “Tribe of Ben,” of whom Jonson said, “My son Cartwright writes all like a man.” 4. Thus, in The Sketch Book, Irving continued to use the fictitious Dutch historian, Knickerbocker, from his earlier History of New York. But in a footnote at the end of “Rip Van Winkle” he gave a clue to the German source of the folk tale by denying that Knickerbocker had based it on a “superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart.” This led to the identification of a probable source, “Peter Klaus the Goatherd,” in a collection of German legends that Irving had read (see H. A. Pochmann, “Irv- ing’s German Sources in The Sketch Book,” Studies in Philology, XXVII, July 1930, 477–507).

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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,”5 and it begins to be suspected, that he never in- tended 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 well worth having; partic- ularly 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,6 or a Queen Anne’s Farthing.7]

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 times 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.8 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 hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the

5. Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I, ii, 231–232. 6. A silver medal presented by the British crown to all participants in the Battle of Waterloo (June 18, 1815) or in the engagements of the two previous days. 7. In the reign of Queen Anne (1702–1714) farthings (bronze coins worth a quarter of a penny) bearing her image were minted. 8. Referring to events treated in his History of New York. Stuyvesant was the autocratic governor of New Amsterdam (1647–1664); he seized Fort Christina on the Delaware from the Swedes in 1655.

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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 pa- tience 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 vil- lage, 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 gossip- ings, 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 vil- lage, 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 nib- ble. 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 old 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 pesti- lent little piece of ground in the whole country; every thing 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 set- ting in just as he had some outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial es- tate 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 con- ditioned 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 his father’s cast-off galligaskins,9 which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.

9. Knee breeches.

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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 every thing 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 hen-pecked husband.

Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked 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 with- stand 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 be- tween his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side-long 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 con- sole 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 news- paper fell into their hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, 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 any thing that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehe- mently, 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;

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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 terma- gant 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 Ved- der 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 es- cape 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 af- ternoon, 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 Hud- son, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflec- tion 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 mus- ing 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 encoun- tering 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 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 his assis- tance, 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,

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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 an instant, 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 perpendic- ular 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. Dur- ing the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled 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 nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short dou- blets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor- mous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes: the face of an- other 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,1 high crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses2 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, and 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 evi- dently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most myste- rious 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 to- gether. 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

1. A short, curved sword worn at the side. 2. Rosettes.

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flavor of excellent Hollands.3 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 wobegone party at nine-pins––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 roysters 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 com- panion 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, work- ing his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, 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 surround- ing forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whis- tled 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, se- cure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexi- ties. 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 firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.

3. A Dutch gin long famous for excellence.

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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 sur- prise, 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––every thing 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 win- dows 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 deso- lateness overcame all his connubial fears––he called loudly for his wife and chil- dren––the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again 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 gap- ing 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,4 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 scep- tre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.

4. The “liberty cap,” familiar symbol of the French Revolution, was often displayed in the United States.

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There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recol- lected. 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––mem- bers of congress––liberty––Bunker’s Hill––heroes of seventy-six––and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon5 to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 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, eyeing 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?”6 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 by-standers—“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 pip-

ing 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?”

5. Cf. Genesis 11:1–9. The “confusion of tongues” occurred at Babel. 6. The earliest American political parties—Federalist (Hamiltonian) and Democratic Republican (Jeffer- sonian).

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“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point7––others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony’s Nose.8 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 un- derstand: 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 de- manded 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 every thing’s changed, and I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”

The by-standers 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 passed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, fright- ened 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; but 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.”

7. A strategic headland on the Hudson below West Point, captured by Mad Anthony Wayne, July 18, 1779, in one of the most daring and brilliant exploits of the Revolution. 8. Another fortified promontory on the Hudson, scene of a bloody contest in 1777.

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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 neigh- bor––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 gen- eral 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 histo- rian9 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 cor- roborated 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 Halfmoon; being per- mitted 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.1 That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the moun- tain; 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 at- tend to any thing 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 mak- ing 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

9. Adriaen Van der Donck (c. 1620–1655), Dutch lawyer and founder of Yonkers, wrote a description of New Netherland, published in Dutch (Amsterdam, 1655). 1. The town of Hudson handled considerable shipping in Irving’s youth. Henry (not Hendrick) Hudson, an English adventurer, discovered and explored the river for the East Indian Company in 1609; aban- doned on Hudson Bay by mutineers in 1611, he passed from history into legend.

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inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chroni- cle 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 resig- nation 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 thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbor- hood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon.

NOTE.––The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Roth- bart 2 and the Kypphauser mountain; the subjoined note, however, which he had ap- pended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity.

“The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the sub- ject taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice’s own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.”

1819

2. Frederick I, Holy Roman Emperor (1152–1190), called “Rothbart” or “Barbarossa” for his red beard. According to legend he did not die, but slept in a cave in the mountain.

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In pursuing an ideal reality that they believed embodied a higher truth than theevidence provided by substantial things, romantic writers risked failures of repre- sentation concerning the world that most people lived and worked in. Distinctions between the novel, for everyday reality, and the romance, for the uncommon and marvelous, proved useful, but critics continued to deplore romantic excesses of sentimentality and pathos that they considered just as false to a presumed standard of ideal truth as it was to the demonstrably real. After the Civil War, the controversy was submerged in the new vogue for the literature called realism.

The selections that follow include samples of early and later criticism. Sir Wal- ter Scott succinctly establishes the ground for generic distinctions between the novel and the romance; William Gilmore Simms makes a case for romantic literature gen- erally, and for the American romance in particular; and Henry James looks back from the beginning of the twentieth century to consider and refine the differences. Between these discussions we have placed selections of verse and poetry by Lydia Maria Child and Lydia Howard Huntley Sigourney, popular writers of the roman- tic era. Students interested in the literary treatment of Indians in this period and in the distinctions between romance and realism may want to consider these examples beside the more familiar writings of Cooper, Sedgwick, Parkman, and Longfellow.

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771–1832)

Nineteenth-century novelists in Europe and America owed much to the immensely popular Sir Walter Scott. Cooper, sometimes called “the American Scott,” ac- cepted the comparison but claimed his own powers of “invention” were greater than Scott’s. Hawthorne read Scott’s Waverly novels in college, imitated plot and character elements in his writing, and in the prefaces to The House of the Seven Gables and The Blithedale Romance insisted on the romance qualities of those works. Twain later claimed that chivalric ideals drawn by southerners from Scott’s works contributed to the Civil War. The following selection is taken from Scott’s “Essay on Romance” (1824).

CROSSCURRENTS The Romantic, the Real, and the American Indian

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[ The Novel and the Romance]

* * * We would be rather inclined to describe a Romance as “a fictitious narra- tive in prose or verse; the interest of which turns upon marvellous and uncommon incidents;” thus being opposed to the kindred term Novel, which Johnson1 has described as “a smooth tale, generally of love”; but which we would rather define as “a fictitious narrative, differing from the Romance, because the events are ac- commodated to the ordinary train of human events, and the modern state of soci- ety.” Assuming these definitions, it is evident, from the nature of the distinction adopted, that there may exist compositions which it is difficult to assign precisely or exclusively to the one class or the other; and which, in fact, partake of the na- ture of both. But, generally speaking, the distinction will be found broad enough to answer all general and useful purposes.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS (1806–1870)

William Gilmore Simms was a southern rival to the achievement of Cooper. In The Yemassee (1835), his most famous of over thirty novels, he presented sympa- thetic portrayals of the Indians in their struggles with South Carolina settlers in 1715. In the following selection, taken from the preface to The Yemassee, he ar- gues for the romance as a lofty form, open to “invention,” allied to the epic poem, and free to depart from “what is known, or even what is probable.”

[The American Romance]

* * * When I wrote, there was little understood, by readers generally, in respect to the character of the red men; and, of the opinions entertained on the subject, many, according to my own experience, I knew to be incorrect. I had seen the red men of the south in their own homes, on frequent occasions, and had arrived at conclusions in respect to them, and their habits and moral nature, which seemed to me to remove much of that air of mystery which was supposed to disguise most of their ordinary actions. These corrections of the vulgar opinions will be found unobtrusively given in the body of the work, and need not be repeated here. It needs only that I should say that the rude portraits of the red man, as given by those who see him in degrading attitudes only, and in humiliating relation with the whites, must not be taken as a just delineation of the same being in his native woods, unsubdued, a fearless hunter, and without any degrading consciousness of inferiority, and still more degrading habits, to make him wretched and ashamed. My portraits, I contend, are true to the Indian as our ancestors knew him at early periods, and as our people, in certain situations, may know him still. What liber- ties I have taken with the subject, are wholly with his mythology. That portion of the story, which the reverend critics, with one exception, recognised as sober his- tory, must be admitted to be a pure invention. * * *

1. Samuel Johnson (1709–1784), English writer and critic.

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You will note that I call “The Yemassee” a romance, and not a novel. You will permit me to insist upon the distinction. I am unwilling that the story shall be examined by any other than those standards which have governed me in its com- position; and unless the critic is prepared to adopt with me those leading princi- ples, in accordance with which the book has been written, the sooner we part company the better.

* * * The Romance is of loftier origin than the Novel. It approximates the poem. It may be described as an amalgam of the two. It is only with those who are apt to insist upon poetry as verse, and to confound rhyme with poetry, that the re- semblance is unapparent. The standards of the Romance * * * are very much those of the epic. It invests individuals with an absorbing interest—it hurries them rapidly through crowding and exacting events, in a narrow space of time—it re- quires the same unities of plan, of purpose, and harmony of parts, and it seeks for its adventures among the wild and wonderful. It does not confine itself to what is known, or even what is probable. It grasps at the possible; and, placing a human agent in hitherto untried situations, it exercises its ingenuity in extricating him from them, while describing his feelings and his fortunes in his progress. The task has been well or ill done, in proportion to the degree of ingenuity and knowledge which the romancer exhibits in carrying out the details, according to such proprieties as are called for by the circumstances of the story. These proprieties are the standards set up at his starting, and to which he is required religiously to confine himself.

“The Yemassee” is proposed as an American romance. It is so styled as much of the material could have been furnished by no other country. Something too much of extravagance—so some may think,—even beyond the usual license of fic- tion—may enter into certain parts of the narrative. On this subject, it is enough for me to say, that the popular faith yields abundant authority for the wildest of its incidents. The natural romance of our country has been my object, and I have not dared beyond it. For the rest—for the general peculiarities of the Indians, in their undegraded condition—my authorities are numerous in all the writers who have written from their own experience. * * *

Yours Faithfully, W. GILMORE SIMMS.

Charleston, June, 1853.

LYDIA MARIA CHILD (1802–1880)

As a child of twelve or thirteen, living with a married sister and her husband in Norridgewock, Maine, Lydia Maria Child came to know the Abenaki Indians of that town, who were then less than two generations removed from the power they wielded from ancient times through the French and Indian Wars and into the American Revolution. Ten years later, her Maine experience blossomed in her novel Hobomok (1824), one of the first American historical romances. Set in Pu- ritan times, it tells of a marriage between a white woman and an Indian.

In the following story, she used the materials and techniques of romance to deplore the fate of the Eastern Woodland Indians.

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The Lone Indian

A white man, gazing on the scene, Would say a lovely spot was here,

And praise the lawns so fresh and green Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not—I would the plain Lay in its tall old groves again.

—BRYANT

Powontonamo was the son of a mighty chief. He looked on his tribe with such a fiery glance, that they called him the Eagle of the Mohawks. His eye never blinked in the sunbeam, and he leaped along the chase like the untiring waves of Niagara. Even when a little boy, his tiny arrow would hit the frisking squirrel in the ear, and bring down the humming bird on her rapid wing. He was his father’s pride and joy. He loved to toss him high in his sinewy arms, and shout, “Look, Eagle- eye, look! and see the big hunting-grounds of the Mohawks! Powontonamo will be their chief. The winds will tell his brave deeds. When men speak of him, they will not speak loud; but as if the Great Spirit had breathed in thunder.”

The prophecy was fulfilled. When Powontonamo became a man, the fame of his beauty and courage reached the tribes of Illinois; and even the distant Osage showed his white teeth with delight, when he heard the wild deeds of the Mohawk Eagle. Yet was his spirit frank, chivalrous, and kind. When the white men came to buy land, he met them with an open palm, and spread his buffalo for the traveller. The old chiefs loved the bold youth, and offered their daughters in marriage. The eyes of the young Indian girls sparkled when he looked on them. But he treated them all with the stern indifference of a warrior, until he saw Soonseetah raise her long dark eye-lash. Then his heart melted beneath the beaming glance of beauty. Soonseetah was the fairest of the Oneidas. The young men of her tribe called her the Sunny-eye. She was smaller than her nation usually are; and her slight, grace- ful figure was so elastic in its motions, that the tall grass would rise up and shake off its dew drops, after her pretty moccasins had pressed it. Many a famous chief had sought her love; but when they brought the choicest furs, she would smile dis- dainfully, and say, ‘Soonseetah’s foot is warm. Has not her father an arrow?’ When they offered her food, according to the Indian custom, her answer was, ‘Soonsee- tah has not seen all the warriors. She will eat with the bravest.’ The hunters told the young Eagle that Sunny-eye of Oneida was beautiful as the bright birds in the hunting-land beyond the sky; but that her heart was proud, and she said the great chiefs were not good enough to dress venison for her. When Powontonamo lis- tened to these accounts, his lip would curl slightly, as he threw back his fur-edged mantle, and placed his firm, springy foot forward, so that the beads and shells of his rich moccasin might be seen to vibrate at every sound of his tremendous war song. If there was vanity in the act, there was likewise becoming pride. Soonseetah heard of his haughty smile, and resolved in her own heart that no Oneida should sit beside her, till she had seen the chieftain of the Mohawks. Before many moons had passed away, he sought her father’s wigwam, to carry delicate furs and shin- ing shells to the young coquette of the wilderness. She did not raise her bright melting eyes to his, when he came near her; but when he said, “Will the Sunny-eye look on the gift of a Mohawk? his barbed arrow is swift; his foot never turned from the foe;’ the colour of her brown cheek was glowing as an autumnal twi-

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light. Her voice was like the troubled note of the wren, as she answered, ‘The furs of Powontonamo are soft and warm to the foot of Soonseetah. She will weave the shells in the wampum belt of the Mohawk Eagle.’ The exulting lover sat by her side, and offered her venison and parched corn. She raised her timid eye, as she tasted the food; and then the young Eagle knew that Sunny-eye would be his wife.

There was feasting and dancing, and the marriage song rang merrily in Mo- hawk cabins, when the Oneida came among them. Powontonamo loved her as his own heart’s blood. He delighted to bring her the fattest deers of the forest, and load her with ribbons and beads of the English. The prophets of his people liked it not that the strangers grew so numerous in the land. They shook their heads mourn- fully, and said, ‘The moose and the beaver will not live within sound of the white man’s gun. They will go beyond the lakes, and the Indians must follow their trail.’ But the young chief laughed them to scorn. He said, ‘The land is very big. The moun- tain eagle could not fly over it in many days. Surely the wigwams of the English will never cover it.’ Yet when he held his son in his arms, as his father had done before him, he sighed to hear the strokes of the axe levelling the old trees of his forests. Sometimes he looked sorrowfully on his baby boy, and thought he had perchance done him much wrong, when he smoked a pipe in the wigwam of the stranger.

One day, he left his home before the grey mist of morning had gone from the hills, to seek food for his wife and child. The polar-star was bright in the heavens ere he returned; yet his hands were empty. The white man’s gun had scared the beasts of the forest, and the arrow of the Indian was sharpened in vain. Powonton- amo entered his wigwam with a cloudy brow. He did not look at Soonseetah; he did not speak to her boy; but, silent and sullen, he sat leaning on the head of his arrow. He wept not, for an Indian may not weep; but the muscles of his face be- trayed the struggle within his soul. The Sunny-eye approached fearfully, and laid her little hand upon his brawny shoulder, as she asked, ‘Why is the Eagle’s eye on the earth? What has Soonseetah done, that her child dare not look in the face of his father?’ Slowly the warrior turned his gaze upon her. The expression of sadness deepened, as he answered, ‘The Eagle has taken a snake to his nest: how can his young sleep in it?’ The Indian boy, all unconscious of the forebodings which stirred his father’s spirit, moved to his side, and peeped up in his face with a mingled ex- pression of love and fear.

The heart of the generous savage was full, even to bursting. His hand trem- bled, as he placed it on the sleek black hair of his only son. ‘The Great Spirit bless thee! the Great Spirit bless thee, and give thee back the hunting ground of the Mo- hawk!’ he exclaimed. Then folding him, for an instant, in an almost crushing em- brace, he gave him to his mother, and darted from the wigwam.

Two hours he remained in the open air; but the clear breath of heaven brought no relief to his noble and suffering soul. Wherever he looked abroad, the ravages of the civilized destroyer met his eye. Where were the trees, under which he had frolicked in infancy, sported in boyhood, and rested after the fatigues of battle? They formed the English boat, or lined the English dwelling. Where were the holy sacrifice-heaps of his people? The stones were taken to fence in the land, which the intruder dared to call his own. Where was his father’s grave? The stranger’s road passed over it, and his cattle trampled on the ground where the mighty Mohawk slumbered. Where were his once powerful tribe? Alas, in the white man’s wars they had joined with the British, in the vain hope of recovering their lost privileges. Hun-

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dreds had gone to their last home; others had joined distant tribes; and some pitiful wretches, whom he scorned to call brethren, consented to live on the white man’s bounty. These were corroding reflections; and well might fierce thoughts of vengeance pass through the mind of the deserted prince; but he was powerless now; and the English swarmed, like vultures around the dying. ‘It is the work of the Great Spirit,’ said he. ‘The Englishman’s God made the Indian’s heart afraid; and now he is like a wounded buffalo, when hungry wolves are on his trail.’

When Powontonamo returned to his hut, his countenance, though severe, was composed. He spoke to the Sunny-eye with more kindness than the savage generally addresses the wife of his youth; but his look told her that she must not ask the grief which had put a woman’s heart within the breast of the far-famed Mohawk Eagle.

The next day, when the young chieftain went out on a hunting expedition, he was accosted by a rough, square-built farmer. ‘Powow,’ said he, ‘your squaw has been stripping a dozen of my trees, and I don’t like it over much.’ It was a mo- ment when the Indian could ill brook a white man’s insolence. ‘Listen, Buffalo- head!’ shouted he; and as he spoke he seized the shaggy pate of the unconscious offender, and eyed him with the concentrated venom of an ambushed rattlesnake— ‘Listen to the chief of the Mohawks! These broad lands are all his own. When the white man first left his cursed foot-print in the forest, the Great Bear looked down upon the big tribes of Iroquois and Abnaquis. The wigwams of the noble Delawares were thick, where the soft winds dwell. The rising sun glanced on the fierce Pequods; and the Illinois, the Miamies, and warlike tribes like the hairs of your head, marked his going down. Had the red man struck you then, your tribes would have been as dry grass to the lightning! Go—shall the Sunny-eye of Oneida ask the pale face for a basket?’ He breathed out a quick, convulsive laugh, and his white teeth showed through his parted lips, as he shook the farmer from him, with the strength and fury of a raging panther.

After that, his path was unmolested, for no one dared to awaken his wrath; but a smile never again visited the dark countenance of the degraded chief. The wild beasts had fled so far from the settlements, that he would hunt days and days without success. Soonseetah sometimes begged him to join the remnant of the Onei- das, and persuade them to go far off, toward the setting sun. Powontonamo replied, ‘This is the burial place of my fathers;’ and the Sunny-eye dared say no more.

At last, their boy sickened and died, of a fever he had taken among the En- glish. They buried him beneath a spreading oak, on the banks of the Mohawk, and heaped stones upon his grave, without a tear. ‘He must lie near the water,’ said the desolate chief, ‘else the white man’s horses will tread on him.’

The young mother did not weep; but her heart had received its death-wound. The fever seized her, and she grew paler and weaker every day. One morning, Powontonamo returned with some delicate food he had been seeking for her. ‘Will Soonseetah eat?’ said he. He spoke in a tone of subdued tenderness; but she an- swered not. The foot which was wont to bound forward to meet him, lay motion- less and cold. He raised the blanket which partly concealed her face, and saw that the Sunny-eye was closed in death. One hand was pressed hard against her heart, as if her last moments had been painful. The other grasped the beads which the young Eagle had given her in the happy days of courtship. One heart-rending shriek was rung from the bosom of the agonized savage. He tossed his arms wildly above his head, and threw himself beside the body of her he had loved as fondly,

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deeply, and passionately, as ever a white man loved. After the first burst of grief had subsided, he carefully untied the necklace from her full, beautiful bosom, crossed her hands over the sacred relic, and put back the shining black hair from her smooth forehead. For hours he watched the corpse in silence. Then he arose and carried it from the wigwam. He dug a grave by the side of his lost boy; laid the head of Soonseetah toward the rising sun; heaped the earth upon it, and cov- ered it with stones, according to the custom of his people.

Night was closing in, and still the bereaved Mohawk stood at the grave of Sunny-eye, as motionless as its cold inmate. A white man, as he passed, paused, and looked in pity on him. ‘Are you sick?’ asked he. ‘Yes; me sick. Me very sick here,’ answered Powontonamo, laying his hand upon his swelling heart. ‘Will you go home?’ ‘Home!’ exclaimed the heart broken chief, in tones so thrilling, that the white man started. Then slowly, and with a half vacant look, he added, ‘Yes; me go home. By and by me go home.’ Not another word would he speak; and the white man left him, and went his way. A little while longer he stood watching the changing heavens; and then, with reluctant step, retired to his solitary wigwam.

The next day, a tree, which Soonseetah had often said was just as old as their boy, was placed near the mother and child. A wild vine was straggling among the loose stones, and Powontonamo carefully twined it around the tree. ‘The young oak is the Eagle of the Mohawks,’ he said; ‘and now the Sunny-eye has her arms around him.’ He spoke in the wild music of his native tongue; but there was none to answer. ‘Yes; Powontonamo will go home,’ sighed he. ‘He will go where the sun sets in the ocean, and the white man’s eyes have never looked upon it.’ One long, one lingering glance at the graves of his kindred, and the Eagle of the Mo- hawks bade farewell to the land of his fathers.

For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen standing at the conse- crated spot we have mentioned; but, just thirty years after the death of Soonseetah, he was noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed old and way-worn. Age had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an ex- pression of deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Powonton- amo—he who had once been the Eagle of the Mohawks! He came to lie down and die beneath the broad oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. Alas! the white man’s axe had been there! The tree he had planted was dead; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, now, yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only things left in the wide world for him to love, and they were gone! He looked abroad. The hunting land of his tribe was changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe now shot down the river, like a bird upon the wing. The laden boat of the white man alone broke its smooth surface. The Englishman’s road wound like a serpent around the banks of the Mohawk; and iron hoofs had so beaten down the war- path, that a hawk’s eye could not discover an Indian track. The last wigwam was destroyed; and the sun looked boldly down upon spots he had visited only by stealth, during thousands and thousands of moons. The few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic mourning of autumn; the long line of heavy clouds, melting away before the coming sun; and the distant mountain, seen through the blue mist of departing twilight, alone remained as he had seen them in his boyhood. All

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things spoke a sad language to the heart of the desolate Indian. ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘the young oak and the vine are like the Eagle and the Sunny-eye. They are cut down, torn, and trampled on. The leaves are falling, and the clouds are scattering, like my people. I wish I could once more see the trees standing thick, as they did when my mother held me to her bosom, and sung the warlike deeds of the Mohawks.’

A mingled expression of grief and anger passed over his face, as he watched a loaded boat in its passage across the stream. ‘The white man carries food to his wife and children, and he finds them in his home,’ said he. ‘Where is the squaw and the papoose of the red man? They are here!’ As he spoke, he fixed his eye thoughtfully upon the grave. After a gloomy silence, he again looked round upon the fair scene, with a wandering and troubled gaze. ‘The pale face may like it,’ murmured he; ‘but an Indian cannot die here in peace.’ So saying, he broke his bow string, snapped his arrows, threw them on the burial place of his fathers, and departed for ever.

None ever knew where Powontonamo laid his dying head. The hunters from the west said a red man had been among them, whose tracks were far off toward the rising sun; that he seemed like one who had lost his way, and was sick to go home to the Great Spirit. Perchance, he slept his last sleep where the distant Mis- sissippi receives its hundred streams. Alone, and unfriended, he may have laid him down to die, where no man called him brother; and the wolves of the desert, long ere this, may have howled the death-song of the Mohawk Eagle.

1828

LYDIA HOWARD HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY (1791–1865)

Born and educated in Connecticut, Lydia Sigourney became a prolific writer of popular newspaper verse, much of it elegiac. Her collected works, including nov- els, a memoir of her son, and an autobiography, amounted to some sixty volumes. In the poems reprinted below, she employs a romantic and sentimental style to convey a genuine concern, common to many writers and thinkers of the time, for the displacement and potential disappearance of the American Indian.

The Indian’s Welcome to the Pilgrim Fathers

“On Friday, March 16th, 1622, while the colonists were busied in their usual labors, they were much surprised to see a savage walk boldly towards them, and salute them with, ‘much welcome, English, much welcome, Englishmen.’”

Above them spread a stranger sky Around, the sterile plain,

The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh, Beyond,—the wrathful main:

Chill remnants of the wintry snow 5 Still chok’d the encumber’d soil,

Yet forth these Pilgrim Fathers go, To mark their future toil.

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’Mid yonder vale their corn must rise In Summer’s ripening pride, 10

And there the church-spire woo the skies Its sister-school beside.

Perchance ’mid England’s velvet green Some tender thought repos’d,—

Though nought upon their stoic mien. 15 Such soft regret disclos’d.

When sudden from the forest wide A red-brow’d chieftain came,

With towering form, and haughty stride, And eye like kindling flame: 20

No wrath he breath’d, no conflict sought, To no dark ambush drew,

But simply to the Old World brought, The welcome of the New.

That welcome was a blast and ban 25 Upon thy race unborn.

Was there no seer, thou fated Man! Thy lavish zeal to warn?

Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail A weak, invading band, 30

But who shall heed thy children’s wail, Swept from their native land?

Thou gav’st the riches of thy streams, The lordship o’er thy waves,

The region of thine infant dreams, 35 And of thy fathers’ graves,

But who to yon proud mansions pil’d With wealth of earth and sea,

Poor outcast from thy forest wild, Say, who shall welcome thee? 40

1835

Indian Names

“How can the Red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving?”

Ye say, they all have passed away, That noble race and brave,

That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave;

That ’mid the forests where they roamed 5

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There rings no hunter’s shout; But their name is on your waters,

Ye may not wash it out.

’Tis where Ontario’s billow Like Ocean’s surge is curl’d, 10

Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake The echo of the world,

Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tributes from the west,

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 15 On green Virginia’s breast.

Ye say, their cone-like cabins, That clustered o’er the vale,

Have fled away like withered leaves Before the autumn gale: 20

But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore,

Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it 25 Within her lordly crown,

And broad Ohio bears it Amid her young renown;

Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, 30

And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves.

Wachuset hides its lingering voice Within his rocky heart,

And Alleghany graves its tone 35 Throughout his lofty chart;

Monadnock on his forehead hoar Doth seal the sacred trust,

Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust. 40

1838

HENRY JAMES (1843–1916)

Born in New York City, Henry James lived most of his adult life in England. Alongside William Dean Howells and Mark Twain, he played a key role in the fundamental shift from romanticism to realism that marked American literature in the second half of the nineteenth century. Yet, like Howells, while deploring the

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excesses of “romanticism,” he remained enthusiastic about the romances of Nathaniel Hawthorne, praising that writer for his fundamental faithfulness to an ideal reality and his focus on the psychology of character. In his preface to The American, composed thirty years after that novel’s original publication, he wrote that, although he had intended to write a realistic novel, he had unwittingly turned his story into a romance. His discussion of the qualities that distinguish the two forms of fiction remains a landmark of genre criticism.

Preface to The American

* * * If in “The American” I invoked the romantic association without malice prepense,1 yet with a production of the romantic effect that is for myself unmis- takeable, the occasion is of the best perhaps for penetrating a little the obscurity of that principle. By what art or mystery, what craft of selection, omission or com- mission, does a given picture of life appear to us to surround its theme, its figures and images, with the air of romance while another picture close beside it may af- fect us as steeping the whole matter in the element of reality? * * *

The real represents to my perception the things we cannot possibly not know, sooner or later, in one way or another; it being but one of the accidents of our hampered state, and one of the incidents of their quantity and number, that par- ticular instances have not yet come our way. The romantic stands, on the other hand, for the things that, with all the facilities in the world, all the wealth and all the courage and all the wit and all the adventure, we never can directly know; the things that can reach us only through the beautiful circuit and subterfuge of our thought and our desire. There have been, I gather, many definitions of romance, as a matter indispensably of boats, or of caravans, or of tigers, or of “historical characters,” or of ghosts, or of forgers, or of detectives, or of beautiful wicked women, or of pistols and knives, but they appear for the most part reducible to the idea of the facing of danger, the acceptance of great risks for the fascination, the very love, of their uncertainty, the joy of success if possible and of battle in any case. This would be a fine formula if it bore examination; but it strikes me as weak and inadequate, as by no means covering the true ground and yet as landing us in strange confusions. * * *

The only general attribute of projected romance that I can see, the only one that fits all its cases, is the fact of the kind of experience with which it deals— expe- rience liberated, so to speak; experience disengaged, disembroiled, disencumbered, exempt from the conditions that we usually know to attach to it and, if we wish so to put the matter, drag upon it, and operating in a medium which relieves it, in a particular interest, of the inconvenience of a related, a measurable state, a state subject to all our vulgar communities. The greatest intensity may so be arrived at evidently—when the sacrifice of community, of the “related” sides of situations, has not been too rash. It must to this end not flagrantly betray itself; we must even be kept if possible, for our illusion, from suspecting any sacrifice at all. The bal- loon of experience is in fact of course tied to the earth, and under that necessity we swing, thanks to a rope of remarkable length, in the more or less commodious car

1. Premeditated.

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of the imagination; but it is by the rope we know where we are, and from the mo- ment that cable is cut we are at large and unrelated: we only swing apart from the globe—though remaining as exhilarated, naturally, as we like, especially when all goes well. The art of the romancer is, “for the fun of it,” insidiously to cut the cable, to cut it without our detecting him. What I have recognised then in “The American,” much to my surprise and after long years, is that the experience here represented is the disconnected and uncontrolled experience—uncontrolled by our general sense of “the way things happen”—which romance alone more or less suc- cessfully palms off on us. * * * There is our general sense of the way things hap- pen—it abides with us indefeasibly, as readers of fiction, from the moment we demand that our fiction shall be intelligible; and there is our particular sense of the way they don’t happen, which is liable to wake up unless reflexion and criticism, in us, have been skilfully and successfully drugged. There are drugs enough, clearly— it is all a question of applying them with tact; in which case the way things don’t happen may be artfully made to pass for the way things do.

Amusing and even touching to me, I profess, at this time of day, the ingenuity (worthy, with whatever lapses, of a better cause) with which, on behalf of New- man’s adventure, this hocus-pocus is attempted: the value of the instance not being diminished either, surely, by its having been attempted in such evident good faith. Yes, all is romantic to my actual vision here, and not least so, I hasten to add, the fabulous felicity of my candour. The way things happen is frankly not the way in which they are represented as having happened, in Paris, to my hero. * * *

1907

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James Fenimore Cooper Author Bio © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2007

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER (1789–1851)

The novels of Cooper, appearing immediately after the great success of the early novels of Sir Walter Scott, at first attained phenomenal popularity, then survived partially because of their appeal for younger readers. Occasionally undervalued in the United States, in Europe Cooper has been perhaps the most popular American author of his century. Although his stilted rhetoric and many of his idealized situa- tions and characters, especially his women, sometimes forbid close analysis, he is respectfully remembered as a master of adventurous narrative and, even more, as the creator of an American hero-myth. For the serious reader of today, Cooper has gained stature as a critic of American society, not only in his novels of Ameri- can history, but also in the comparative judgments of Europe and the United States to be found in his excellent volumes of travels and in the critical commentaries which, as a patrician democrat, he addressed to his countrymen during the Jack- sonian age of egalitarian excess.

The son of Judge William Cooper and Susan Fenimore, Cooper was born at Burlington, New Jersey, September 15, 1789. The next year his father settled on the family estate, now Cooperstown, at the foot of Otsego Lake, in New York. There the family was dominant; Judge Cooper was by nature the landed propri- etor. Young Cooper was privately tutored; then he attended Yale about three years, without achieving a degree. After a year at sea before the mast, he was commis- sioned a midshipman in the United States Navy in 1808. Three years later he mar- ried Susan Augusta DeLancey, daughter of a wealthy family in Mamaroneck, Westchester County, New York; he then resigned his commission and became the country gentleman, devoting himself to his family and to agricultural, political, fi- nancial, and social interests in Cooperstown and in Westchester County.

According to a charming legend, Cooper’s first novel (Precaution, 1820) was a response to his wife’s challenge to improve on the current British society fiction, and the failure of this work turned him to historical novels. The Spy (1821), a novel of the Revolution, foreshadowed his typical hero in Harvey Birch and launched his career as the American rival of Sir Walter Scott in the popular field of historical romance. In the remaining thirty years of his life, he poured out a stag- gering total of thirty-three novels, numerous volumes of social comment, a His- tory of the Navy, and five volumes of travels.

In the Leather-Stocking Tales the American frontier hero first materialized, to run his limitless course to the present day, through the romance, dime novel, drama, movies, and television. Fearless and miraculously resourceful, he survives the rigors of nature and human villainy by superior strength and skill and by the help of heaven, for he is always quaintly moral. In short, he is the knight of the Christian romances transplanted to the soil of democracy and the American forest and frontier. Cooper’s Natty Bumppo appears in the five novels under various names which, like a knight of old, he has gained by his exploits. Deerslayer merges into Hawk-eye, Pathfinder, and Leather-stocking.

Cooper did not plan these novels as a series, nor did he publish them in the chronological order of the events in their hero’s life. In The Pioneers (1823), the

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author’s third novel, Natty Bumppo first appeared, as a seasoned scout in advanc- ing years, accompanied by the dying Chingachgook, the old Indian chief who has been his faithful comrade in adventure. The Leather-Stocking Tales are named below in the order of events in the life of Natty Bumppo: The Deerslayer (1841), early adventures with the hostile Hurons, on Lake Otsego, New York, in 1740–1745; The Last of the Mohicans (1826), an adventure of the French and In- dian Wars, in the Lake George country in 1757; The Pathfinder (1840), continuing the same border warfare in 1760, in the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario country; The Pioneers (1823), described above, taking place in 1793, as the eastern forest frontier begins to disappear and old Chingachgook dies; and The Prairie (1827), set in the new frontier of the western plains in 1804, where the aged Leather-stock- ing, having assisted some white pioneers and the Pawnees against the Sioux, takes leave of life amid people who can still value his devotion to a dying chivalry. In 1850 Cooper published a new edition of these novels, arranged in the chronologi- cal sequence of Natty Bumppo’s life (as above) and wrote a general “Preface” for the edition.

Almost as popular in their own day as the Leather-Stocking Tales were Cooper’s romances of seafaring and naval combat; of these The Pilot (1823) set the pattern and provided the typical heroes in Long Tom Coffin and the mysteri- ous “Pilot,” generally taken to represent the gallant John Paul Jones. Later novels of the sea included, notably, The Red Rover (1828), The Water-Witch (1830), The Two Admirals (1842), and The Wing-and-Wing (1842).

Cooper’s earnestness as a social critic was strongly evident in his novels based on European history. The Bravo (1831), The Heidenmauer (1832), and The Headsman (1833) are satires of European feudalism but follow the conventional pattern which Scott had established for historical romance. From 1826 to 1833 Cooper lived observantly abroad, ostensibly as American consul at Lyon, but ac- tually as a persistent traveler. His novels of foreign locale, as well as his travel books and volumes of social comment, reflect his continuous awareness of con- trasts in society, behavior, and government between the United States and Europe, particularly Great Britain. Abroad he was regarded as a champion of American life, but at home, his comments ironically gained him a reputation as a defender of the aristocracy. His Sketches of Switzerland and Gleanings in Europe, pub- lished in five volumes between 1836 and 1838, genuine contributions to our liter- ature of travel, antagonized egalitarian democrats, and the breach was widened by such commentaries and novels as A Letter to His Countrymen (1834), Home- ward Bound, Home as Found, and The American Democrat (all 1838).

He had returned to Cooperstown in 1834. Soon unbalanced reviews led him to institute a number of lawsuits for slander. Litigation over the trespass of the community on his lands confirmed his reputation as an aristocratic reactionary. Curiously enough, his popularity as a novelist was affected but little.

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Among the best contributions of his prolific later years is a trilogy of novels, Satanstoe (1845), The Chainbearer (1845), and The Redskins (1846), in which the author employs the fiction of certain “Littlepage Manuscripts,” purported to con- tain records of three generations of a great family of upstate New York landhold- ers. The novels form a consecutive social history of three generations of Dutch patroon society in the Hudson valley, ending with the Anti-Rent Wars of the 1840s, when the tenants successfully opposed the feudal leases and perpetual sovereignty of the lords of the manor. Thus was founded the family novel of several volumes. Uneven in quality, the Littlepage Manuscripts succeed by their fine sense of history and their narrative intensity, and they are the last of Cooper’s works to do so.

A modern edition of Cooper’s writings, begun by James Franklin Beard in 1980, has been continued by others at the State University of New York Press. The Author’s Revised Edition appeared in 12 vols. in 1851, followed by an edition illustrated by F. O. C. Darley, 32 vols., 1859– 1861. The Household Edition, 32 vols., 1876–1884, contains valuable introductory essays by Susan Fenimore Cooper, the novelist’s daughter. The Works, 33 vols., 1895–1900, is another edition. An excellent collection of the nonfiction is Cooper: Representative Selections, edited by Robert E. Spiller, American Writers Series, 1936. James F. Beard’s Letters and Journals of James Fenimore Cooper comprises 6 vols., 1960–1968. An earlier compilation of The Correspondence, 2 vols., by J. F. Cooper, 1922, is useful.

There is no definitive biography, but Fenimore Cooper, Critic of His Times, by Robert E. Spiller, 1931, is authoritative and may be supplemented by the same author’s Introduction to the Representative Selec- tions. The comments by Susan Fenimore Cooper in The Cooper Gallery, 1865, and T. R. Lounsbury’s biography, 1882, are useful, as is Donald A. Ringe, James Fenimore Cooper, 1962. Critical studies include Thomas L. Philbrick, James Fenimore Cooper and the Development of American Sea Fiction, 1961; George Dekker, James Fenimore Cooper: The American Scott, 1967; George Dekker and John P. McWilliams, Fenimore Cooper: The Critical Heritage, 1973; Daniel Peck, A World by Itself: The Pastoral Moment in Cooper’s Fiction, 1977; Stephen Railton, Fenimore Cooper: A Study of His Life and Imagination, 1979; Wayne Franklin, The New World of James Fenimore Cooper, 1982; William P. Kelly, Plotting America’s Past: Fenimore Cooper and the Leatherstocking Tales, 1984; James D. Wallace, Early Cooper and His Audience, 1986; Warren Motley, The American Abraham: James Fenimore Cooper and the Frontier Patriarch, 1987; Geoffrey Rans, Cooper’s Leather-Stocking Series: A Secular Reading, 1991; and Donald G. Darnell, James Fenimore Cooper, Novelist of Manners, 1993.

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James Fenimore Cooper The Pioneers — Chapter I © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2007

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

From The Pioneers,1

or The Sources of the Susquehanna

A DESCRIPTIVE TALE

Chapter I

See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train; Vapors, and clouds, and storms—

—THOMSON 2

Near the centre of the State of New York lies an extensive district of country, whose surface is a succession of hills and dales, or, to speak with greater deference to geographical definitions, of mountains and valleys. It is among these hills that the Delaware takes its rise; and flowing from the limpid lakes and thousand springs of this region, the numerous sources of the Susquehanna meander through the val- leys, until, uniting their streams, they form one of the proudest rivers of the United States. The mountains are generally arable to the tops, although instances are not wanting where the sides are jutted with rocks, that aid greatly in giving to the country that romantic and picturesque character which it so eminently possesses. The vales are narrow, rich, and cultivated; with a stream uniformly winding through each. Beautiful and thriving villages are found interspersed along the mar- gins of the small lakes, or situated at those points of the streams which are favor- able to manufacturing; and neat and comfortable farms, with every indication of wealth about them, are scattered profusely through the vales, and even to the mountain tops. Roads diverge in every direction, from the even and graceful bot- toms of the valleys, to the most rugged and intricate passes of the hills. Acade- mies, and minor edifices of learning, meet the eye of the stranger at every few miles, as he winds his way through this uneven territory; and places for the wor- ship of God abound with that frequency which characterizes a moral and reflect- ing people, and with that variety of exterior and canonical government which

1. The present text is that of the edition illustrated by F. O. C. Darley and published in New York by W. A. Townsend and Company in 1859. A few printer’s errors have been silently corrected. The Pioneers was first published by Charles Wiley in New York in 1823, but the first printing was poorly proofread. Cooper corrected that edition in three subsequent printings that year and revised the book in 1831 and again in 1850. The Townsend text preserved the 1850 revisions.

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flows from unfettered liberty of conscience. In short, the whole district is hourly exhibiting how much can be done, in even a rugged country, and with a severe cli- mate, under the dominion of mild laws, and where every man feels a direct inter- est in the prosperity of a commonwealth, of which he knows himself to form a part. The expedients of the pioneers who first broke ground in the settlement of this country, are succeeded by the permanent improvements of the yeoman, who intends to leave his remains to moulder under the sod which he tills, or, perhaps, of the son, who, born in the land, piously wishes to linger around the grave of his father. Only forty years3 have passed since this territory was a wilderness.

Very soon after the establishment of the independence of the States, by the peace of 1783, the enterprise of their citizens was directed to a development of the natural advantages of their widely extended dominions. Before the war of the rev- olution the inhabited parts of the colony of New York were limited to less than a tenth of its possessions. A narrow belt of country, extending for a short distance on either side of the Hudson, with a similar occupation of fifty miles on the banks of the Mohawk, together with the islands of Nassau and Staten, and a few insu- lated settlements on chosen land along the margins of streams, composed the country, which was then inhabited by less than two hundred thousand souls. Within the short period we have mentioned, the population has spread itself over five degrees of latitude and seven of longitude, and has swelled to a million and a half of inhabitants,4 who are maintained in abundance, and can look forward to ages before the evil day must arrive, when their possessions shall become unequal to their wants.

Our tale begins in 1793, about seven years after the commencement of one of the earliest of those settlements, which have conduced to effect that magical change in the power and condition of the state, to which we have alluded.

It was near the setting of the sun, on a clear, cold day in December, when a sleigh was moving slowly up one of the mountains, in the district we have de- scribed. The day had been fine for the season, and but two or three large clouds, whose color seemed brightened by the light reflected from the mass of snow that covered the earth, floated in a sky of the purest blue. The road wound along the brow of a precipice, and on one side was upheld by a foundation of logs, piled one upon the other, while a narrow excavation in the mountain, in the opposite direction, had made a passage of sufficient width for the ordinary travelling of that day. But logs, excavation, and everything that did not reach several feet above the earth, lay alike buried beneath the snow. A single track, barely wide enough to receive the sleigh,5 denoted the route of the highway, and this was sunk nearly two feet below the surrounding surface. In the vale, which lay at a distance of sev-

3. “The book was written in 1823” [Cooper’s note]. 4. “The population of New York is now (1831) quite 2,000,000” [Cooper’s note]. 5. “Sleigh is the word used in every part of the United States to denote a traineau. It is of local use in the west of England, whence it is most probably derived by the Americans. The latter draw a distinction between a sled, or sledge, and a sleigh; the sleigh being shod with metal. Sleighs are also subdivided into two-horse and one-horse sleighs. Of the latter, there are the cutter, with thills so arranged as to permit the horse to travel in the side track; the ‘pung,’ or ‘tow-pung,’ which is driven with a pole; and the ‘gumper,’ a rude construction used for temporary purposes, in the new countries.

“Many of the American sleighs are elegant, though the use of this mode of conveyance is much less- ened with the melioration of the climate, consequent on the clearing of the forests” [Cooper’s note].

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eral hundred feet lower, there was what in the language of the country was called a clearing, and all the usual improvements of a new settlement; these even ex- tended up the hill to the point where the road turned short and ran across the level land, which lay on the summit of the mountain; but the summit itself remained in forest. There was a glittering in the atmosphere, as if it were filled with innumer- able shining particles; and the noble bay horses that drew the sleigh were covered, in many parts, with a coat of hoar frost. The vapor from their nostrils was seen to issue like smoke; and every object in the view, as well as every arrangement of the travellers, denoted the depth of a winter in the mountains. The harness, which was of a deep dull black, differing from the glossy varnishing of the present day, was ornamented with enormous plates and buckles of brass, that shone like gold in those transient beams of the sun, which found their way obliquely through the tops of the trees. Huge saddles, studded with nails, and fitted with cloth that served as blankets to the shoulders of the cattle, supported four high, square-topped tur- rets, through which the stout reins led from the mouths of the horses to the hands of the driver, who was a negro, of apparently twenty years of age. His face, which nature had colored with a glistening black, was now mottled with the cold, and his large shining eyes filled with tears; a tribute to its power, that the keen frosts of those regions always extracted from one of his African origin. Still there was a smiling expression of good humor in his happy countenance, that was created by the thoughts of home, and a Christmas fire-side, with its Christmas frolics. The sleigh was one of those large, comfortable, old-fashioned conveyances, which would admit a whole family within its bosom, but which now contained only two passengers besides the driver. The color of its outside was a modest green, and that of its inside a fiery red. The latter was intended to convey the idea of heat in that cold climate. Large buffalo skins, trimmed around the edges with red cloth, cut into festoons, covered the back of the sleigh, and were spread over its bottom, and drawn up around the feet of the travellers—one of whom was a man of mid- dle age, and the other a female, just entering upon womanhood. The former was of a large stature; but the precautions he had taken to guard against the cold left but little of his person exposed to view. A greatcoat, that was abundantly orna- mented by a profusion of furs, enveloped the whole of his figure, excepting the head, which was covered with a cap of marten skins, lined with morocco, the sides of which were made to fall, if necessary, and were now drawn close over the ears, and fastened beneath his chin with a black riband. The top of the cap was sur- mounted with the tail of the animal whose skin had furnished the rest of the mate- rials, which fell back, not ungracefully, a few inches behind the head. From beneath this mask were to be seen part of a fine manly face, and particularly a pair of expressive, large blue eyes, that promised extraordinary intellect, covert humor, and great benevolence. The form of his companion was literally hid be- neath the garments she wore. There were furs and silks peeping from under a large camlet cloak, with a thick flannel lining, that, by its cut and size, was evidently in- tended for a masculine wearer. A huge hood of black silk, that was quilted with down, concealed the whole of her head, except at a small opening in front for breath, through which occasionally sparkled a pair of animated jet-black eyes.

Both the father and daughter (for such was the connexion between the two travellers) were too much occupied with their reflections to break a stillness, that received little or no interruption from the easy gliding of the sleigh, by the sound

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of their voices. The former was thinking of the wife that had held this their only child to her bosom, when, four years before, she had reluctantly consented to re- linquish the society of her daughter, in order that the latter might enjoy the advan- tages of an education, which the city of New York could only offer at that period. A few months afterwards death had deprived him of the remaining companion of his solitude; but still he had enough of real regard for his child, not to bring her into the comparative wilderness in which he dwelt, until the full period had ex- pired, to which he had limited her juvenile labors. The reflections of the daughter were less melancholy, and mingled with a pleased astonishment at the novel scenery she met at every turn in the road.

The mountain on which they were journeying was covered with pines, that rose without a branch some seventy or eighty feet, and which frequently doubled that height, by the addition of the tops. Through the innumerable vistas that opened beneath the lofty trees, the eye could penetrate, until it was met by a dis- tant inequality in the ground, or was stopped by a view of the summit of the moun- tain, which lay on the opposite side of the valley to which they were hastening. The dark trunks of the trees rose from the pure white of the snow, in regularly formed shafts, until, at a great height, their branches shot forth horizontal limbs, that were covered with the meagre foliage of an evergreen, affording a melancholy contrast to the torpor of nature below. To the travellers, there seemed to be no wind; but these pines waved majestically at their topmost boughs, sending forth a dull, plain- tive sound, that was quite in consonance with the rest of the melancholy scene.

The sleigh had glided for some distance along the even surface, and the gaze of the female was bent in inquisitive, and, perhaps, timid glances, into the recesses of the forest, when a loud and continued howling was heard, pealing under the long arches of the woods, like the cry of a numerous pack of hounds. The instant the sound reached the ears of the gentleman, he cried aloud to the black—

“Hold up, Aggy; there is old Hector; I should know his bay among ten thou- sand! The Leather-stocking has put his hounds into the hills, this clear day, and they have started their game. There is a deer-track a few rods ahead;—and now, Bess, if thou canst muster courage enough to stand fire, I will give thee a saddle for thy Christmas dinner.”

The black drew up, with a cheerful grin upon his chilled features, and began thrashing his arms together, in order to restore the circulation to his fingers, while the speaker stood erect, and, throwing aside his outer covering, stepped from the sleigh upon a bank of snow, which sustained his weight without yielding.

In a few moments the speaker succeeded in extricating a double-barrelled fowling-piece from among a multitude of trunks and bandboxes. After throwing aside the thick mittens which had encased his hands, that now appeared in a pair of leather gloves tipped with fur, he examined his priming, and was about to move for- ward, when the light bounding noise of an animal plunging through the woods was heard, and a fine buck darted into the path, a short distance ahead of him. The ap- pearance of the animal was sudden, and his flight inconceivably rapid; but the trav- eller appeared to be too keen a sportsman to be disconcerted by either. As it came first into view he raised the fowling-piece to his shoulder, and, with a practised eye and steady hand, drew a trigger. The deer dashed forward undaunted, and appar- ently unhurt. Without lowering his piece, the traveller turned its muzzle towards his victim, and fired again. Neither discharge, however, seemed to have taken effect.

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The whole scene had passed with a rapidity that confused the female, who was unconsciously rejoicing in the escape of the buck, as he rather darted like a meteor, then ran across the road, when a sharp quick sound struck her ear, quite different from the full, round reports of her father’s gun, but still sufficiently distinct to be known as the concussion produced by fire-arms. At the same instant that she heard this unexpected report, the buck sprang from the snow to a great height in the air, and directly a second discharge, similar in sound to the first, followed, when the animal came to the earth, falling headlong, and rolling over on the crust with its own velocity. A loud shout was given by the unseen marksman, and a couple of men instantly appeared from behind the trunks of two of the pines, where they had evidently placed themselves in expectation of the passage of the deer.

“Ha! Natty, had I known you were in ambush, I should not have fired,” cried the traveller, moving towards the spot where the deer lay—near to which he was followed by the delighted black, with his sleigh; “but the sound of old Hector was too exhilarating to be quiet; though I hardly think I struck him either.”

“No—no—Judge,” returned the hunter, with an inward chuckle, and with that look of exultation that indicates a consciousness of superior skill; “you burnt your powder only to warm your nose this cold evening. Did ye think to stop a full grown buck, with Hector and the slut open upon him within sound, with that pop-gun in your hand? There’s plenty of pheasants among the swamps; and the snow-birds are flying round your own door, where you may feed them with crumbs, and shoot them at pleasure, any day; but if you’re for a buck, or a little bear’s meat, Judge, you’ll have to take the long rifle, with a greased wadding, or you’ll waste more powder than you’ll fill stomachs, I’m thinking.”

As the speaker concluded, he drew his bare hand across the bottom of his nose, and again opened his enormous mouth with a kind of inward laugh.

“The gun scatters well, Natty, and it has killed a deer before now,” said the traveller, smiling good-humoredly. “One barrel was charged with buck-shot; but the other was loaded for birds only. Here are two hurts; one through the neck, and the other directly through the heart. It is by no means certain, Natty, but I gave him one of the two.”

“Let who will kill him,” said the hunter, rather surlily, “I suppose the creature is to be eaten.” So saying, he drew a large knife from a leathern sheath, which was stuck through his girdle or sash, and cut the throat of the animal. “If there are two balls through the deer, I would ask if there wer’n’t two rifles fired—besides, who ever saw such a ragged hole from a smooth-bore, as this through the neck?— and you will own yourself, Judge, that the buck fell at the last shot, which was sent from a truer and a younger hand, than your’n or mine either; but for my part, although I am a poor man, I can live without the venison, but I don’t love to give up my lawful dues in a free country. Though, for the matter of that, might often makes right here, as well as in the old country, for what I can see.”

An air of sullen dissatisfaction pervaded the manner of the hunter during the whole of this speech; yet he thought it prudent to utter the close of the sentence in such an under tone, as to leave nothing audible but the grumbling sounds of his voice.

“Nay, Natty,” rejoined the traveller, with undisturbed good humor, “it is for the honor that I contend. A few dollars will pay for the venison; but what will re- quite me for the lost honor of a buck’s tail in my cap? Think, Natty, how I should

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triumph over that quizzing dog, Dick Jones, who has failed seven times already this season, and has only brought in one woodchuck and a few grey squirrels.”

“Ah! the game is becoming hard to find, indeed. Judge, with your clearings and betterments,” said the old hunter, with a kind of compelled resignation. “The time has been, when I have shot thirteen deer, without counting the fa’ns, stand- ing in the door of my own hut!—and for bear’s meat, if one wanted a ham or so, he had only to watch a-nights, and he could shoot one by moonlight, through the cracks of the logs; no fear of his over-sleeping himself neither, for the howling of the wolves was sartin to keep his eyes open. There’s old Hector,”—patting with affection a tall hound, of black and yellow spots, with white belly and legs, that just then came in on the scent, accompanied by the slut he had mentioned; “see where the wolves bit his throat, the night I druv them from the venison that was smoking on the chimbly top;—that dog is more to be trusted than many a Chris- tian man; for he never forgets a friend, and loves the hand that gives him bread.”

There was a peculiarity in the manner of the hunter that attracted the notice of the young female, who had been a close and interested observer of his appearance and equipments, from the moment he came into view. He was tall, and so meagre as to make him seem above even the six feet that he actually stood in his stockings. On his head, which was thinly covered with lank, sandy hair, he wore a cap made of fox-skin, resembling in shape the one we have already described, although much inferior in finish and ornaments. His face was skinny, and thin almost to emacia- tion; but yet it bore no signs of disease;—on the contrary, it had every indication of the most robust and enduring health. The cold and the exposure had, together, given it a color of uniform red. His grey eyes were glancing under a pair of shaggy brows, that overhung them in long hairs of grey mingled with their natural hue; his scraggy neck was bare, and burnt to the same tint with his face; though a small part of a shirt collar, made of the country check, was to be seen above the over- dress he wore. A kind of coat, made of dressed deerskin, with the hair on, was belted close to his lank body, by a girdle of colored worsted. On his feet were deer- skin moccasins, ornamented with porcupines’ quills, after the manner of the Indi- ans, and his limbs were guarded with long leggings of the same material as the moccasins, which, gartering over the knees of his tarnished buckskin breeches, had obtained for him, among the settlers, the nickname of Leather-stocking. Over his left shoulder was slung a belt of deerskin, from which depended an enormous ox horn, so thinly scraped, as to discover the powder it contained. The larger end was fitted ingeniously and securely with a wooden bottom, and the other was stopped tight by a little plug. A leathern pouch hung before him, from which, as he con- cluded his last speech, he took a small measure, and, filling it accurately with pow- der, he commenced reloading the rifle, which, as its butt rested on the snow before him, reached nearly to the top of his foxskin cap.

The traveller had been closely examining the wounds during these movements, and now, without heeding the ill-humor of the hunter’s manner, he exclaimed—

“I would fain establish a right, Natty, to the honor of this death; and surely if the hit in the neck be mine, it is enough; for the shot in the heart was unneces- sary—what we call an act of supererogation, Leather-stocking.”

“You may call it by what larned name you please, Judge,” said the hunter, throwing his rifle across his left arm, and knocking up a brass lid in the breech, from which he took a small piece of greased leather, and wrapping a ball in it,

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forced them down by main strength on the powder, where he continued to pound them while speaking. “It’s far easier to call names than to shoot a buck on the spring; but the cretur came by his end from a younger hand than either your’n or mine, as I said before.”

“What say you, my friend,” cried the traveller, turning pleasantly to Natty’s companion; “shall we toss up this dollar for the honor, and you keep the silver if you lose; what say you, friend?”

“That I killed the deer,” answered the young man with a little haughtiness, as he leaned on another long rifle, similar to that of Natty.

“Here are two to one, indeed,” replied the Judge, with a smile; “I am out- voted—over-ruled, as we say on the bench. There is Aggy, he can’t vote, being a slave; and Bess is a minor—so I must even make the best of it. But you’ll sell me the venison; and the deuce is in it, but I make a good story about its death.”

“The meat is none of mine to sell,” said Leather-stocking, adopting a little of his companion’s hauteur; “for my part I have known animals travel days with shots in the neck, and I’m none of them who’ll rob a man of his rightful dues.”

“You are tenacious of your rights, this cold evening, Natty,” returned the Judge, with unconquerable good nature; “but what say you, young man; will three dollars pay you for the buck?”

“First let us determine the question of right to the satisfaction of us both,” said the youth, firmly but respectfully, and with a pronunciation and language vastly superior to his appearance; “with how many shot did you load your gun?”

“With five, sir,” said the Judge, a little struck with the other’s manner; “are they not enough to slay a buck like this?”

“One would do it; but,” moving to the tree from behind which he had ap- peared, “you know, sir, you fired in this direction—here are four of the bullets in the tree.”

The Judge examined the fresh marks in the bark of the pine, and shaking his head, said, with a laugh—

“You are making out the case against yourself, my young advocate—where is the fifth?”

“Here,” said the youth, throwing aside the rough overcoat that he wore, and exhibiting a hole in his under garment, through which large drops of blood were oozing.

“Good God!” exclaimed the Judge with horror; “have I been trifling here about an empty distinction, and a fellow-creature suffering from my hands with- out a murmur? But hasten—quick—get into my sleigh—it is but a mile to the vil- lage, where surgical aid can be obtained;—all shall be done at my expense, and thou shalt live with me until thy wound is healed, aye, and for ever afterwards.”

“I thank you for your good intention, but I must decline your offer. I have a friend who would be uneasy were he to hear that I am hurt and away from him. The injury is but slight, and the bullet has missed the bones; but I believe, sir, you will now admit my title to the venison.”

“Admit it!” repeated the agitated Judge: “I here give thee a right to shoot deer, or bears, or anything thou pleasest in my woods, for ever. Leather-stocking is the only other man that I have granted the same privilege to; and the time is coming when it will be of value. But I buy your deer—here, this bill will pay thee, both for thy shot and my own.”

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The old hunter gathered his tall person up into an air of pride, during this di- alogue, but he waited until the other had done speaking.

“There’s them living who say, that Nathaniel Bumppo’s right to shoot on these hills is of older date than Marmaduke Temple’s right to forbid him,” he said. “But if there’s a law about it at all, though who ever heard of a law that a man shouldn’t kill deer where he pleased!—but if there is a law at all, it should be to keep people from the use of smooth bores. A body never knows where his lead will fly, when he pulls the trigger of one of them uncertain fire-arms.”

Without attending to the soliloquy of Natty, the youth bowed his head silently to the offer of the bank note, and replied—

“Excuse me; I have need of the venison.” “But this will buy you many deer,” said the Judge; “take it, I entreat you,”

and lowering his voice to a whisper, he added—“it is for a hundred dollars.” For an instant only, the youth seemed to hesitate, and then, blushing even

through the high color that the cold had given to his cheeks, as if with inward shame at his own weakness, he again declined the offer.

During this scene the female arose, and, regardless of the cold air, she threw back the hood which concealed her features, and now spoke, with great earnestness.

“Surely, surely—young man,—sir—you would not pain my father so much, as to have him think that he leaves a fellow-creature in this wilderness, whom his own hand has injured. I entreat you will go with us, and receive medical aid.”

Whether his wound became more painful, or there was something irresistible in the voice and manner of the fair pleader for her father’s feelings, we know not; but the distance of the young man’s manner was sensibly softened by this appeal, and he stood in apparent doubt, as if reluctant to comply with, and yet unwilling to refuse her request. The Judge, for such being his office, must in future be his title, watched, with no little interest, the display of this singular contention in the feelings of the youth; and advancing, kindly took his hand, and as he pulled him gently towards the sleigh, urged him to enter it.

“There is no human aid nearer than Templeton,” he said, “and the hut of Natty is full three miles from this;—come—come, my young friend, go with us, and let the new doctor look to this shoulder of thine. Here is Natty will take the tidings of thy welfare to thy friend; and should’st thou require it, thou shalt return home in the morning.”

The young man succeeded in extricating his hand from the warm grasp of the Judge, but he continued to gaze on the face of the female, who, regardless of the cold, was still standing with her fine features exposed, which expressed feelings that eloquently seconded the request of her father. Leather-stocking stood, in the meantime, leaning upon his long rifle, with his head turned a little to one side, as if engaged in sagacious musing; when, having apparently satisfied his doubts, by revolving the subject in his mind, he broke silence.

“It may be best to go, lad, after all; for if the shot hangs under the skin, my hand is getting too old to be cutting into human flesh, as I once used to. Though some thirty years agone, in the old war, when I was out under Sir William,6 I trav-

6. Sir William Johnson (1715–1774), British leader in the French and Indian Wars. In Chapter XIII Natty says he was with Sir William when he captured Fort Niagara (1759).

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elled seventy miles alone in the howling wilderness, with a rifle bullet in my thigh, and then cut it out with my own jack-knife. Old Indian John knows the time well. I met him with a party of the Delawares, on the trail of the Iroquois, who had been down and taken five scalps on the Schoharie.7 But I made a mark on the red- skin that I’ll warrant he carried to his grave! I took him on his posteerum, saving the lady’s presence, as he got up from the ambushment, and rattled three buck shot into his naked hide, so close, that you might have laid a broad joe8 upon them all—” here Natty stretched out his long neck, and straightened his body, as he opened his mouth, which exposed a single tusk of yellow bone, while his eyes, his face, even his whole frame seemed to laugh, although no sound was emitted, ex- cept a kind of thick hissing, as he inhaled his breath in quavers. “I had lost my bullet mould in crossing the Oneida outlet, and had to make shift with the buck- shot; but the rifle was true, and didn’t scatter like your two-legged thing there, Judge, which don’t do, I find, to hunt in company with.”

Natty’s apology to the delicacy of the young lady was unnecessary, for, while he was speaking, she was too much employed in helping her father to remove cer- tain articles of baggage to hear him. Unable to resist the kind urgency of the trav- ellers any longer, the youth, though still with an unaccountable reluctance, suffered himself to be persuaded to enter the sleigh. The black, with the aid of his master, threw the buck across the baggage, and entering the vehicle themselves, the Judge invited the hunter to do so likewise.

“No, no,” said the old man, shaking his head; “I have work to do at home this Christmas eve—drive on with the boy, and let your doctor look to the shoul- der; though if he will only cut out the shot, I have yarbs that will heal the wound quicker than all his foreign ’intments.”9 He turned, and was about to move off, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he again faced the party, and added—“If you see anything of Indian John, about the foot of the lake, you had better take him with you, and let him lend the doctor a hand; for old as he is, he is curious at cuts and bruises, and it’s likelier than not he’ll be in with brooms to sweep your Christ- mas ha’arths.”

“Stop, stop,” cried the youth, catching the arm of the black as he prepared to urge his horses forward; “Natty—you need say nothing of the shot, nor of where I am going—remember, Natty, as you love me.”

“Trust old Leather-stocking,” returned the hunter, significantly; “he hasn’t lived fifty years in the wilderness, and not larnt from the savages how to hold his tongue—trust to me, lad; and remember old Indian John.”

“And, Natty,” said the youth eagerly, still holding the black by the arm, “I will just get the shot extracted, and bring you up to-night, a quarter of the buck, for the Christmas dinner.”

He was interrupted by the hunter, who held up his finger with an expressive gesture for silence. He then moved softly along the margin of the road, keeping his eyes steadfastly fixed on the branches of a pine. When he had obtained such a po-

7. Schoharie Creek, west of Albany. 8. A Portuguese gold coin, worth about sixteen dollars. 9. Herbs and ointments.

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sition as he wished, he stopped, and cocking his rifle, threw one leg far behind him, and stretching his left arm to its utmost extent along the barrel of his piece, he began slowly to raise its muzzle in a line with the straight trunk of the tree. The eyes of the group in the sleigh naturally preceded the movement of the rifle, and they soon discovered the object of Natty’s aim. On a small dead branch of the pine, which, at the distance of seventy feet from the ground, shot out horizontally, immediately beneath the living members of the tree, sat a bird, that in the vulgar language of the country was indiscriminately called a pheasant or a partridge. In size, it was but little smaller than a common barn-yard fowl. The baying of the dogs, and the conversation that had passed near the root of the tree on which it was perched, had alarmed the bird, which was now drawn up near the body of the pine, with a head and neck so erect, as to form nearly a straight line with its legs. As soon as the rifle bore on the victim, Natty drew his trigger, and the par- tridge fell from its height with a force that buried it in the snow.

“Lie down, you old villain,” exclaimed Leather-stocking, shaking his ramrod at Hector as he bounded towards the foot of the tree, “lie down, I say.” The dog obeyed, and Natty proceeded with great rapidity, though with the nicest accuracy, to reload his piece. When this was ended, he took up his game, and showing it to the party without a head, he cried—“Here is a titbit for an old man’s Christmas—never mind the venison, boy, and remember Indian John; his yarbs are better than all the foreign ’intments. Here, Judge,” holding up the bird again, “do you think a smooth- bore would pick game off their roost, and not ruffle a feather?” The old man gave another of his remarkable laughs, which partook so largely of exultation, mirth, and irony, and shaking his head, he turned, with his rifle at a trail, and moved into the forest with steps that were between a walk and a trot. At each movement he made, his body lowered several inches, his knees yielding with an inclination inwards; but as the sleigh turned at a bend in the road, the youth cast his eyes in quest of his old companion, and he saw that he was already nearly concealed by the trunks of the trees, while his dogs were following quietly in his footsteps, occasionally scenting the deer track, that they seemed to know instinctively was now of no further use to them. Another jerk was given to the sleigh, and Leather-stocking was hid from view.

1823

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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

From The Pioneers,1

or The Sources of the Susquehanna

A DESCRIPTIVE TALE

Chapter III2

All that thou see’st, is nature’s handiwork; Those rocks that upward throw their mossy brows Like castled pinnacles of elder times! These venerable stems, that slowly rock Their towering branches in the wintry gale! That field of frost, which glitters in the sun, Mocking the whiteness of a marble breast!— Yet man can mar such works with his rude taste, Like some sad spoiler of a virgin’s fame.

—DUO

Some little while elapsed ere Marmaduke Temple was sufficiently recovered from his agitation to scan the person of his new companion. He now observed that he was a youth of some two or three and twenty years of age, and rather above the middle height. Further observation was prevented by the rough overcoat which was belted close to his form by a worsted sash, much like the one worn by the old hunter. The eyes of the Judge, after resting a moment on the figure of the stranger, were raised to a scrutiny of his countenance. There had been a look of care, visible in the features of the youth, when he first entered the sleigh, that had not only at- tracted the notice of Elizabeth, but which she had been much puzzled to interpret. His anxiety seemed the strongest when he was enjoining his old companion to se- crecy; and even when he had decided, and was rather passively suffering himself to be conveyed to the village, the expression of his eyes by no means indicated any great degree of self-satisfaction at the step. But the lines of an uncommonly pre-

In The Pioneers, his third novel, Cooper found his true life’s work and laid the foundation for his en- during fame. Here he introduced the characters of Natty Bumppo and Chingachgook. Here also he gave memorable expression to themes that were to acquire mythic dimension in his own later work and in American literature to this day, masterfully weaving together questions of dispossessed inheritance, of the ownership of the land, of the conservation of natural resources, of natural law versus human law, of individual freedoms versus the ideal of equal opportunities protected by the institutions of a justly or- dered society. 2. Chapter II contains an account of how Marmaduke Temple, a Pennsylvania Quaker, made his money by a joint venture with Colonel Effingham, a Loyalist. They were estranged by the Revolution, and the Effingham lands were confiscated along with those of other Loyalists. Temple bought the land surround- ing the town of Templeton, which had belonged to Effingham, at auction.

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possessing countenance were gradually becoming composed; and he now sat silent, and apparently musing. The Judge gazed at him for some time with earnestness, and then smiling, as if at his own forgetfulness, he said—

“I believe, my young friend, that terror has driven you from my recollection; your face is very familiar, and yet for the honor of a score of bucks’ tails in my cap, I could not tell your name.”

“I came into the country but three weeks since,” returned the youth coldly, “and I understand you have been absent twice that time.”

“It will be five to-morrow. Yet your face is one that I have seen; though it would not be strange, such has been my affright, should I see thee in thy winding- sheet walking by my bedside to night. What say’st thou, Bess? Am I compos men- tis or not?—Fit to charge a grand jury, or, what is just now of more pressing necessity, able to do the honors of a Christmas-eve in the hall of Templeton?”

“More able to do either, my dear Father,” said a playful voice from under the ample inclosures of the hood, “than to kill deer with a smooth-bore.” A short pause followed, and the same voice, but in a different accent, continued—“We shall have good reasons for our thanksgiving to night, on more accounts than one.”

The horses soon reached a point where they seemed to know by instinct that the journey was nearly ended, and bearing on the bits as they tossed their heads, they rapidly drew the sleigh over the level land which lay on the top of the moun- tain, and soon came to the point where the road descended suddenly, but cir- cuitously, into the valley.

The Judge was roused from his reflections, when he saw the four columns of smoke which floated above his own chimneys. As house, village, and valley burst on his sight, he exclaimed cheerfully to his daughter—

“See, Bess, there is thy resting-place for life!—And thine, too, young man, if thou wilt consent to dwell with us.”

The eyes of his auditors involuntarily met; and if the color that gathered over the face of Elizabeth was contradicted by the cold expression of her eye, the am- biguous smile that again played about the lips of the stranger, seemed equally to deny the probability of his consenting to form one of this family group. The scene was one, however, which might easily warm a heart less given to philanthropy than that of Marmaduke Temple.

The side of the mountain on which our travellers were journeying, though not absolutely perpendicular, was so steep as to render great care necessary in descend- ing the rude and narrow path, which, in that early day, wound along the precipices. The negro reined in his impatient steeds, and time was given Elizabeth to dwell on a scene which was so rapidly altering under the hands of man, that it only re- sembled, in its outlines, the picture she had so often studied with delight, in child- hood. Immediately beneath them lay a seeming plain, glittering without inequality, and buried in mountains. The latter were precipitous, especially on the side of the plain, and chiefly in forest. Here and there the hills fell away in long, low points, and broke the sameness of the outline; or setting to the long and wide field of snow, which, without house, tree, fence, or any other fixture, resembled so much spotless cloud settled to the earth. A few dark and moving spots were, however, visible on the even surface, which the eye of Elizabeth knew to be so many sleighs going their several ways, to or from the village. On the western border of the plain, the moun- tains, though equally high, were less precipitous, and as they receded, opened into

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irregular valleys and glens, or were formed into terraces and hollows that admitted of cultivation. Although the evergreens still held dominion over many of the hills that rose on this side of the valley, yet the undulating outlines of the distant moun- tains, covered with forests of beech and maple, gave a relief to the eye, and the promise of a kinder soil. Occasionally spots of white were discoverable amidst the forests of the opposite hills, which announced by the smoke that curled over the tops of the trees, the habitations of man, and the commencement of agriculture. These spots were sometimes, by the aid of united labor, enlarged into what were called settlements, but more frequently were small and insulated; though so rapid were the changes, and so persevering the labors of those who had cast their for- tunes on the success of the enterprise, that it was not difficult for the imagination of Elizabeth to conceive they were enlarging under her eye, while she was gazing, in mute wonder, at the alterations that a few short years had made in the aspect of the country. The points on the western side of this remarkable plain, on which no plant had taken root, were both larger and more numerous than those on its east- ern, and one in particular thrust itself forward in such a manner as to form beauti- fully curved bays of snow on either side. On its extreme end an oak stretched forward, as if to overshadow, with its branches, a spot which its roots were forbid- den to enter. It had released itself from the thraldom that a growth of centuries had imposed on the branches of the surrounding forest trees, and threw its gnarled and fantastic arms abroad, in the wildness of liberty. A dark spot of a few acres in ex- tent at the southern extremity of this beautiful flat, and immediately under the feet of our travellers, alone showed by its rippling surface, and the vapors which ex- haled from it, that what at first might seem a plain, was one of the mountain lakes, locked in the frosts of winter. A narrow current rushed impetuously from its bosom at the open place we have mentioned, and was to be traced, for miles, as it wound its way towards the south through the real valley, by its borders of hemlock and pine, and by the vapor which arose from its warmer surface into the chill atmo- sphere of the hills. The banks of this lovely basin, at its outlet, or southern end, were steep but not high; and in that direction the land continued, far as the eye could reach, a narrow but graceful valley, along which the settlers had scattered their humble habitations, with a profusion that bespoke the quality of the soil, and the comparative facilities of intercourse.

Immediately on the bank of the lake and at its foot, stood the village of Tem- pleton. It consisted of some fifty buildings, including those of every description, chiefly built of wood, and which, in their architecture, bore no great marks of taste, but which also, by the unfinished appearance of most of the dwellings, indi- cated the hasty manner of their construction. To the eye, they presented a variety of colors. A few were white in both front and rear, but more bore that expensive color on their fronts only, while their economical but ambitious owners had cov- ered the remaining sides of the edifices with a dingy red. One or two were slowly assuming the russet of age; while the uncovered beams that were to be seen through the broken windows of their second stories, showed that either the taste or the vanity of their proprietors had led them to undertake a task which they were unable to accomplish. The whole were grouped in a manner that aped the streets of a city, and were evidently so arranged by the directions of one who looked to the wants of posterity rather than to the convenience of the present in- cumbents. Some three or four of the better sort of buildings, in addition to the

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uniformity of their color, were fitted with green blinds, which, at that season at least, were rather strangely contrasted to the chill aspect of the lake, the moun- tains, the forests, and the wide fields of snow. Before the doors of these pretending dwellings were placed a few saplings, either without branches, or possessing only the feeble shoots of one or two summers’ growth, that looked not unlike tall grenadiers on post near the threshold of princes. In truth, the occupants of these favored habitations were the nobles of Templeton, as Marmaduke was its king. They were the dwellings of two young men who were cunning in the law; an equal number of that class who chaffered to the wants of the community under the title of storekeepers; and a disciple of Æsculapius,3 who, for a novelty, brought more subjects into the world than he sent out of it. In the midst of this incongruous group of dwellings, rose the mansion of the Judge, towering above all its neigh- bors. It stood in the centre of an inclosure of several acres, which were covered with fruit trees. Some of the latter had been left by the Indians, and began already to assume the moss and inclination of age, therein forming a very marked contrast to the infant plantations that peered over most of the picketed fences of the vil- lage. In addition to this show of cultivation, were two rows of young Lombardy poplars, a tree but lately introduced into America, formally lining either side of a pathway, which led from a gate that opened on the principal street to the front door of the building. The house itself had been built entirely under the superinten- dence of a certain Mr. Richard Jones, whom we have already mentioned, and who, from his cleverness in small matters, and an entire willingness to exert his talents, added to the circumstance of their being sisters’ children, ordinarily superintended all the minor concerns of Marmaduke Temple. Richard was fond of saying, that this child of his invention consisted of nothing more nor less than what should form the ground-work of every clergyman’s discourse; viz. a firstly, and a lastly. He had commenced his labors, in the first year of their residence, by erecting a tall, gaunt edifice of wood, with its gable towards the highway. In this shelter, for it was little more, the family resided three years. By the end of that period, Richard had completed his design. He had availed himself, in this heavy undertaking, of the experience of a certain wandering eastern mechanic, who, by exhibiting a few soiled plates of English architecture, and talking learnedly of friezes, entablatures, and particularly of the composite order, had obtained a very undue influence over Richard’s taste, in everything that pertained to that branch of the fine arts. Not that Mr. Jones did not affect to consider Hiram Doolittle a perfect empiric in his profession, being in the constant habit of listening to his treatises on architecture with a kind of indulgent smile; yet, either from an inability to oppose them by anything plausible from his own stores of learning, or from secret admiration, Richard generally submitted to the arguments of his coadjutor. Together, they had not only erected a dwelling for Marmaduke, but they had given a fashion to the architecture of the whole county. The composite order, Mr. Doolittle would con- tend, was an order composed of many others, and was intended to be the most useful of all, for it admitted into its construction such alterations as convenience or circumstances might require. To this proposition Richard usually assented; and

3. Roman god of medicine.

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when rival geniuses, who monopolize not only all the reputation, but most of the money of a neighborhood, are of a mind, it is not uncommon to see them lead the fashion, even in graver matters. In the present instance, as we have already hinted, the castle, as Judge Templeton’s dwelling was termed in common parlance, came to be the model, in some one or other of its numerous excellences, for every aspir- ing edifice within twenty miles of it.

The house itself, or the “lastly,” was of stone; large, square, and far from un- comfortable. These were four requisites, on which Marmaduke had insisted with a little more than his ordinary pertinacity. But everything else was peaceably as- signed to Richard and his associate. These worthies found the material a little too solid for the tools of their workmen, which, in general, were employed on a sub- stance no harder than the white pine of the adjacent mountains, a wood so prover- bially soft, that it is commonly chosen by the hunters for pillows. But for this awkward dilemma, it is probable that the ambitious tastes of our two architects would have left as much more to do in the way of description. Driven from the faces of the house by the obduracy of the material, they took refuge in the porch and on the roof. The former, it was decided, should be severely classical, and the latter a rare specimen of the merits of the composite order.

A roof, Richard contended, was a part of the edifice that the ancients always endeavored to conceal, it being an excrescence in architecture that was only to be tolerated on account of its usefulness. Besides, as he wittily added, a chief merit in a dwelling was to present a front, on whichever side it might happen to be seen; for as it was exposed to all eyes in all weathers, there should be no weak flank for envy or unneighborly criticism to assail. It was therefore decided that the roof should be flat, and with four faces. To this arrangement, Marmaduke objected the heavy snows that lay for months, frequently covering the earth to a depth of three or four feet. Happily, the facilities of the composite order presented themselves to effect a compromise, and the rafters were lengthened, so as to give a descent that should carry off the frozen element. But unluckily, some mistake was made in the admeasurement of these material parts of the fabric: and as one of the greatest recommendations of Hiram was his ability to work by the “square rule,” no op- portunity was found of discovering the effect until the massive timbers were raised, on the four walls of the building. Then, indeed, it was soon seen, that, in defiance of all rule, the roof was by far the most conspicuous part of the whole edifice. Richard and his associate consoled themselves with the belief, that the covering would aid in concealing this unnatural elevation; but every shingle that was laid only multiplied objects to look at. Richard essayed to remedy the evil with paint, and four different colors were laid on by his own hands. The first was a sky-blue, in the vain expectation that the eye might be cheated into the belief it was the heavens themselves that hung so imposingly over Marmaduke’s dwelling; the sec- ond was what he called a “cloud-color,” being nothing more nor less than an imi- tation of smoke; the third was what Richard termed an invisible green, an experiment that did not succeed against a back-ground of sky. Abandoning the at- tempt to conceal, our architects drew upon their invention for means to ornament the offensive shingles. After much deliberation and two or three essays by moon- light, Richard ended the affair by boldly covering the whole beneath a color that he christened “sunshine,” a cheap way, as he assured his cousin, the Judge, of al- ways keeping fair weather over his head. The platform, as well as the eaves of the

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house, were surmounted by gaudily painted railings, and the genius of Hiram was exerted in the fabrication of divers urns and mouldings, that were scattered pro- fusely around this part of their labors. Richard had originally a cunning expedi- ent, by which the chimneys were intended to be so low, and so situated, as to resemble ornaments on the balustrades: but comfort required that the chimneys should rise with the roof, in order that the smoke might be carried off, and they thus became four extremely conspicuous objects in the view.

As this roof was much the most important architectural undertaking in which Mr. Jones was ever engaged, his failure produced a correspondent degree of morti- fication. At first, he whispered among his acquaintances, that it proceeded from ig- norance of the square rule on the part of Hiram; but as his eye became gradually accustomed to the object, he grew better satisfied with his labors, and instead of apologizing for the defects, he commenced praising the beauties of the mansion- house. He soon found hearers; and, as wealth and comfort are at all times attrac- tive, it was, as has been said, made a model for imitation on a small scale. In less than two years from its erection, he had the pleasure of standing on the elevated platform, and of looking down on three humble imitators of its beauty. Thus it is ever with fashion, which even renders the faults of the great subjects of admiration.

Marmaduke bore this deformity in his dwelling with great good nature, and soon contrived, by his own improvements, to give an air of respectability and com- fort to his place of residence. Still there was much of incongruity, even immedi- ately about the mansion-house. Although poplars had been brought from Europe to ornament the grounds, and willows and other trees were gradually springing up nigh the dwelling, yet many a pile of snow betrayed the presence of the stump of a pine; and even in one or two instances, unsightly remnants of trees that had been partly destroyed by fire were seen rearing their black, glistening columns twenty or thirty feet above the pure white of the snow. These, which in the lan- guage of the country are termed stubs, abounded in the open fields adjacent to the village, and were accompanied, occasionally, by the ruin of a pine or a hemlock that had been stripped of its bark, and which waved in melancholy grandeur its naked limbs to the blast, a skeleton of its former glory. But these and many other unpleasant additions to the view were unseen by the delighted Elizabeth, who, as the horses moved down the side of the mountain, saw only in gross the cluster of houses that lay like a map at her feet; the fifty smokes that were curling from the valley to the clouds; the frozen lake as it lay imbedded in mountains of evergreen, with the long shadows of the pines on its white surface, lengthening in the setting sun; the dark riband of water, that gushed from the outlet, and was winding its way towards the distant Chesapeake—the altered, though still remembered, scenes of her childhood.

Five years had wrought greater changes than a century would produce in coun- tries where time and labor have given permanency to the works of man. To the young hunter and the Judge the scene had less novelty; though none ever emerge from the dark forests of that mountain, and witness the glorious scenery of that beauteous valley, as it bursts unexpectedly upon them, without a feeling of delight. The former cast one admiring glance from north to south, and sank his face again beneath the folds of his coat; while the latter contemplated, with philanthropic pleasure, the prospect of affluence and comfort that was expanding around him; the result of his own enterprise, and much of it the fruits of his own industry.

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The cheerful sound of sleigh-bells, however, attracted the attention of the whole party, as they came jingling up the sides of the mountain, at a rate that an- nounced a powerful team and a hard driver. The bushes which lined the highway interrupted the view, and the two sleighs were close upon each other before either was seen.

1823

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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

From The Pioneers,1

or The Sources of the Susquehanna

A DESCRIPTIVE TALE

Chapter IV

How now? whose mare’s dead? what’s the matter? —FALSTAFF2

A large lumber-sleigh, drawn by four horses, was soon seen dashing through the leafless bushes which fringed the road. The leaders were of grey, and the pole horses of a jet black. Bells innumerable were suspended from every part of the harness where one of the tinkling balls could be placed; while the rapid movement of the equipage, in defiance of the steep ascent, announced the desire of the driver to ring them to the utmost. The first glance at this singular arrangement acquainted the Judge with the character of those in the sleigh. It contained four male figures. On one of those stools that are used at writing-desks, lashed firmly to the sides of the vehicle, was seated a little man, enveloped in a greatcoat fringed with fur, in such a manner that no part of him was visible excepting a face of an unvarying red color. There was a habitual upward look about the head of this gentleman, as if dissatisfied with its natural proximity to the earth; and the expression of his countenance was that of busy care. He was the charioteer, and he guided the met- tled animals along the precipice with a fearless eye and a steady hand. Immedi- ately behind him, with his face towards the other two, was a tall figure, to whose appearance not even the duplicate overcoats which he wore, aided by the corner of a horse-blanket, could give the appearance of strength. His face was protruding from beneath a woollen night-cap; and when he turned to the vehicle of Mar- maduke as the sleighs approached each other, it seemed formed by nature to cut the atmosphere with the least possible resistance. The eyes alone appeared to cre- ate any obstacle, for from either side of his forehead their light, blue, glassy balls

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projected. The sallow of his countenance was too permanent to be affected even by the intense cold of the evening. Opposite to this personage sat a solid, short, and square figure. No part of his form was to be discovered through his over- dress, but a face that was illuminated by a pair of black eyes, that gave the lie to every demur feature in his countenance. A fair, jolly wig furnished a neat and rounded outline to his visage, and he, as well as the other two, wore marten-skin caps. The fourth was a meek-looking, long-visaged man, without any other pro- tection from the cold than that which was furnished by a black surtout, made with some little formality, but which was rather thread-bare and rusty. He wore a hat of extremely decent proportions, though frequent brushing had quite destroyed its nap. His face was pale, and withal a little melancholy, or what might be termed of a studious complexion. The air had given it, just now, a slight and somewhat fever- ish flush. The character of his whole appearance, especially contrasted to the air of humor in his next companion, was that of habitual mental care. No sooner had the two sleighs approached within speaking distance, than the driver of this fan- tastic equipage shouted aloud—

“Draw up in the quarry—draw up, thou king of the Greeks; draw into the quarry, Agamemnon, or I shall never be able to pass you. Welcome home, cousin ’duke—welcome, welcome, black-eyed Bess. Thou seest, Marmaduke, that I have taken the field with an assorted cargo, to do thee honor. Monsieur Le Quoi has come out with only one cap; Old Fritz would not stay to finish the bottle; and Mr. Grant has got to put the ‘lastly’ to his sermon, yet. Even all the horses would come—by the by, Judge, I must sell the blacks for you immediately; they interfere, and the nigh one is a bad goer in double harness. I can get rid of them to—”

“Sell what thou wilt, Dickon,” interrupted the cheerful voice of the Judge, “so that thou leavest me my daughter and my lands. Ah! Fritz, my old friend, this is a kind compliment, indeed, for seventy to pay to five-and-forty. Monsieur Le Quoi, I am your servant. Mr. Grant,” lifting his cap, “I feel indebted to your at- tention. Gentlemen, I make you acquainted with my child. Yours are names with which she is very familiar.”

“Velcome, velcome, Tchooge,” said the elder of the party, with a strong Ger- man accent. “Miss Petsy vill owe me a kiss.”

“And cheerfully will I pay it, my good sir,” cried the soft voice of Elizabeth; which sounded, in the clear air of the hills, like tones of silver, amid the loud cries of Richard. “I have always a kiss for my old friend, Major Hartmann.”

By this time the gentleman in the front seat, who had been addressed as Mon- sieur Le Quoi, had arisen with some difficulty, owing to the impediment of his overcoats, and steadying himself by placing one hand on the stool of the chario- teer, with the other he removed his cap, and bowing politely to the Judge, and profoundly to Elizabeth, he paid his compliments.

“Cover thy poll, Gaul, cover thy poll,” cried the driver, who was Mr. Richard Jones; “cover thy poll, or the frost will pluck out the remnant of thy locks. Had the hairs on the head of Absalom3 been as scarce as thine, he might have been liv-

3. Absalom’s head was caught in the “boughs of a great oak” and he was left hanging, as his mule went on without him, for his enemies to kill. II Samuel 18:9–14.

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ing to this day.” The jokes of Richard never failed of exciting risibility, for he uni- formly did honor to his own wit; and he enjoyed a hearty laugh on the present oc- casion, while Mr. Le Quoi resumed his seat with a polite reciprocation in his mirth. The clergyman, for such was the office of Mr. Grant, modestly, though quite affec- tionately, exchanged his greetings with the travellers also, when Richard prepared to turn the heads of his horses homeward.

It was in the quarry alone that he could effect this object, without ascending to the summit of the mountain. A very considerable excavation had been made in the side of the hill, at the point where Richard had succeeded in stopping the sleighs, from which the stones used for building in the village were ordinarily quar- ried, and in which he now attempted to turn his team. Passing itself was a task of difficulty, and frequently of danger, in that narrow road; but Richard had to meet the additional risk of turning his four-in-hand. The black civilly volunteered his services to take off the leaders, and the Judge very earnestly seconded the measure with his advice. Richard treated both proposals with great disdain:

“Why, and wherefore, cousin ’duke?” he exclaimed, a little angrily: “the horses are gentle as lambs. You know that I broke the leaders myself, and the pole- horses are too near my whip to be restive. Here is Mr. Le Quoi, now, who must know something about driving, because he has rode out so often with me; I will leave it to Mr. Le Quoi whether there is any danger.”

It was not in the nature of the Frenchman to disappoint expectations so confi- dently formed; although he sat looking down the precipice which fronted him, as Richard turned his leaders into the quarry, with a pair of eyes that stood out like those of lobsters. The German’s muscles were unmoved, but his quick sight scanned each movement. Mr. Grant placed his hands on the side of the sleigh, in preparation for a spring, but moral timidity deterred him from taking the leap that bodily apprehension strongly urged him to attempt.

Richard, by a sudden application of the whip, succeeded in forcing the leaders into the snow-bank that covered the quarry; but the instant that the impatient ani- mals suffered by the crust, through which they broke at each step, they positively refused to move an inch further in that direction. On the contrary, finding that the cries and blows of their driver were redoubled at this juncture, the leaders backed upon the pole-horses, who, in their turn, backed the sleigh. Only a single log lay above the pile which upheld the road, on the side towards the valley, and this was now buried in the snow. The sleigh was easily forced across so slight an impedi- ment; and before Richard became conscious of his danger, one half of the vehicle was projected over a precipice, which fell, perpendicularly, more than a hundred feet. The Frenchman, who, by his position, had a full view of their threatened flight, instinctively threw his body as far forward as possible, and cried, “Ah! Mon cher monsieur Deeck! mon Dieu! que faites vous!”

“Donner and blitzen, Richart,” exclaimed the veteran German, looking over the side of the sleigh with unusual emotion, “put you will preak ter sleigh and kilt ter horses.”

“Good Mr. Jones,” said the clergyman, “be prudent, good sir—be careful.” “Get up, obstinate devils!” cried Richard, catching a bird’s-eye view of his sit-

uation, and, in his eagerness to move forward, kicking the stool on which he sat,— “Get up, I say—Cousin ’duke, I shall have to sell the greys too; they are the worst broken horses—Mr. Le Quaw!” Richard was too much agitated to regard his pro-

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nunciation, of which he was commonly a little vain; “Monsieur Le Quaw, pray get off my leg; you hold my leg so tight, that it’s no wonder the horses back.”

“Merciful Providence!” exclaimed the Judge, “they will be all killed!” Elizabeth gave a piercing shriek, and the black of Agamemnon’s face changed

to a muddy white. At this critical moment, the young hunter, who, during the salutations of the

parties, had sat in rather sullen silence, sprang from the sleigh of Marmaduke to the heads of the refractory leaders. The horses, who were yet suffering under the injudicious and somewhat random blows of Richard, were dancing up and down with that ominous movement that threatens a sudden and uncontrollable start, still pressing backwards. The youth gave the leaders a powerful jerk, and they plunged aside, and re-entered the road in the position in which they were first halted. The sleigh was whirled from its dangerous position, and upset with the runners out- wards. The German and the divine were thrown, rather unceremoniously, into the highway, but without danger to their bones. Richard appeared in the air, describing the segment of a circle of which the reins were the radii, and landed at the distance of some fifteen feet, in that snow-bank which the horses had dreaded, right end up- permost. Here, as he instinctively grasped the reins, as drowning men seize at straws, he admirably served the purpose of an anchor. The Frenchman, who was on his legs in the act of springing from the sleigh, took an aerial flight also, much in the attitude which boys assume when they play leap-frog, and flying off in a tan- gent to the curvature of his course, came into the snow-bank head foremost, where he remained, exhibiting two lathy legs on high, like scarecrows waving in a corn field. Major Hartmann, whose self-possession had been admirably preserved dur- ing the whole evolution, was the first of the party that gained his feet and his voice.

“Ter deyvel, Richart!” he exclaimed, in a voice half serious, half comical, “put you unloat your sleigh very hantily.”

It may be doubtful whether the attitude in which Mr. Grant continued for an instant after his overthrow was the one into which he had been thrown, or was assumed, in humbling himself before the power that he reverenced, in thanksgiv- ing at his escape. When he rose from his knees, he began to gaze about him, with anxious looks, after the welfare of his companions, while every joint in his body trembled with nervous agitation. There was some confusion in the faculties of Mr. Jones also; but as the mist gradually cleared from before his eyes, he saw that all was safe, and, with an air of great self-satisfaction, he cried, “Well—that was neatly saved, any how!—it was a lucky thought in me to hold on the reins, or the fiery devils would have been over the mountain by this time. How well I recovered myself, ’duke! Another moment would have been too late; but I knew just the spot where to touch the off-leader; that blow under his right flank, and the sudden jerk I gave the rein, brought them round quite in rule, I must own myself.”4

“Thou jerk! thou recover thyself, Dickon!” he said, “but for that brave lad yonder, thou and thy horses, or rather mine, would have been dashed to pieces;— but where is Monsieur Le Quoi?”

4. “The spectators, from immemorial usage, have a right to laugh at the casualties of a sleigh-ride; and the Judge was no sooner certain that no harm was done, than he made full use of the privilege” [Cooper’s note].

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“Oh! mon cher Juge! Mon ami!” cried a smothered voice, “praise be God, I live; vill you, Mister Agamemnon, be pleas come down ici, and help me on my leg?”

The divine and the negro seized the incarcerated Gaul by his legs, and extri- cated him from a snow-bank of three feet in depth, whence his voice had sounded as from the tombs. The thoughts of Mr. Le Quoi, immediately on his liberation, were not extremely collected; and when he reached the light, he threw his eyes up- wards, in order to examine the distance he had fallen. His good humor returned, however, with a knowledge of his safety, though it was some little time before he clearly comprehended the case.

“What, monsieur,” said Richard, who was busily assisting the black in taking off the leaders; “are you there? I thought I saw you flying towards the top of the mountain just now.”

“Praise be God, I no fly down into the lake,” returned the Frenchman, with a visage that was divided between pain, occasioned by a few large scratches that he had received in forcing his head through the crust, and the look of complaisance that seemed natural to his pliable features: “ah! mon cher Mister Deeck, vat you do next?—dere be noting you no try.”

“The next thing, I trust, will be to learn to drive,” said the Judge, who had busied himself in throwing the buck, together with several other articles of bag- gage, from his own sleigh into the snow; “here are seats for you all, gentlemen; the evening grows piercingly cold, and the hour approaches for the service of Mr. Grant: we will leave friend Jones to repair the damages, with the assistance of Agamemnon, and hasten to a warm fire. Here, Dickon, are a few articles of Bess’s trumpery, that you can throw into your sleigh when ready; and there is also a deer of my taking, that I will thank you to bring. Aggy! remember that there will be a visit from Santaclaus5 to-night.”

The black grinned, conscious of the bribe that was offered him for silence on the subject of the deer, while Richard, without in the least waiting for the termina- tion of his cousin’s speech, began his reply—

“Learn to drive, sayest thou, cousin ’duke? Is there a man in the county who knows more of horse-flesh than myself? Who broke in the filly, that no one else dare mount; though your coachman did pretend that he had tamed her before I took her in hand; but anybody could see that he lied—he was a great liar, that John—what’s that, a buck?”—Richard abandoned the horses, and ran to the spot where Mar- maduke had thrown the deer: “It is a buck! I am amazed! Yes, here are two holes in him, he has fired both barrels, and hit him each time. Ecod! how Marmaduke will brag! he is a prodigious bragger about any small matter like this now; well, to think that ’duke has killed a buck before Christmas! There will be no such thing as living with him—they are both bad shots though, mere chance—mere chance;—now, I never fired twice at a cloven foot in my life;—it is hit or miss with me—dead or run away:—had it been a bear, or a wild cat, a man might have wanted both barrels. Here! you Aggy! how far off was the Judge when this buck was shot?”

5. “The periodical visits of St. Nicholas, or Santaclaus as he is termed, were never forgotten among the inhabitants of New York, until the emigration from New England brought in the opinions and usages of the puritans. Like the ‘bon homme de Noël,’ he arrives at each Christmas” [Cooper’s note].

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“Eh! Massa Richard, may be a ten rod,”6 cried the black, bending under one of the horses, with the pretence of fastening a buckle, but in reality to conceal the grin that opened a mouth from ear to ear.

“Ten rod!” echoed the other; “why, Aggy, the deer I killed last winter was at twenty—yes! if anything it was nearer thirty than twenty. I wouldn’t shoot at a deer at ten rod: besides, you may remember, Aggy, I only fired once.”

“Yes, Massa Richard, I ’member ’em! Natty Bumppo fire t’oder gun. You know, sir, all ’e folk say Natty kill him.”

“The folks lie, you black devil!” exclaimed Richard in great heat. “I have not shot even a grey squirrel these four years, to which that old rascal has not laid claim, or some one else for him. This is a damned envious world that we live in— people are always for dividing the credit of a thing, in order to bring down merit to their own level. Now they have a story about the Patent,7 that Hiram Doolittle helped to plan the steeple to St. Paul’s; when Hiram knows that it is entirely mine; a little taken from a print of its namesake in London, I own; but essentially, as to all points of genius, my own.”

“I don’t know where he come from,” said the black, losing every mark of humor in an expression of admiration, “but eb’ry body say, he wonnerful hansome.”

“And well they may say so, Aggy,” cried Richard, leaving the buck and walk- ing up to the negro with the air of a man who has new interest awakened within him. “I think I may say, without bragging, that it is the handsomest and the most scientific country church in America. I know that the Connecticut settlers talk about their Westherfield meeting-house; but I never believe more than half what they say, they are such unconscionable braggers. Just as you have got a thing done, if they see it likely to be successful, they are always for interfering; and then it’s ten to one but they lay claim to half, or even all of the credit. You may remember, Aggy, when I painted the sign of the bold dragoon for Captain Hollister, there was that fellow, who was about town laying brick dust on the houses, came one day and offered to mix what I call the streaky black, for the tail and mane, and then, because it looks like horse hair, he tells everybody that the sign was painted by himself and Squire Jones. If Marmaduke don’t send that fellow off the Patent, he may ornament his village with his own hands for me.” Here Richard paused a moment, and cleared his throat by a loud hem, while the negro, who was all this time busily engaged in preparing the sleigh, proceeded with his work in respectful silence. Owing to the religious scruples of the Judge, Aggy was the servant of Richard, who had his services for a time,8 and who, of course, commanded a legal

6. One rod equals 16.5 feet, or 5.5 yards. 7. “The grants of land, made either by the crown or the state, were by letters patent under the great seal, and the term ‘patent’ is usually applied to any district of extent, thus conceded; though under the crown, manorial rights being often granted with the soil, in the older counties, the word ‘manor’ is fre- quently used. There are many ‘manors’ in New York, though all political and judicial rights have ceased” [Cooper’s note]. 8. “The manumission of the slaves in New York has been gradual. When public opinion became strong in their favor, then grew up a custom of buying the services of a slave, for six or eight years, with a con- dition to liberate him at the end of the period. Then the law provided that all born after a certain day should be free, the males at twenty-eight, and the females at twenty-five. After this the owner was obliged to cause his servants to be taught to read and write before they reached the age of eighteen, and, finally, the few that remained were all unconditionally liberated in 1826, or after the publication of this tale. It was quite usual for men more or less connected with the quakers, who never held slaves, to adopt the first expedient” [Cooper’s note].

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claim to the respect of the young negro. But when any dispute between his lawful and his real master occurred, the black felt too much deference for both to express any opinion. In the meanwhile, Richard continued watching the negro as he fas- tened buckle after buckle, until, stealing a look of consciousness towards the other, he continued, “Now, if that young man who was in your sleigh, is a real Connecti- cut settler, he will be telling everybody how he saved my horses, when, if he had let them alone for half a minute longer, I would have brought them in much better, without upsetting, with the whip and rein—it spoils a horse to give him his head. I should not wonder if I had to sell the whole team, just for that one jerk he gave them.” Richard paused, and hemmed; for his conscience smote him a little, for censuring a man who had just saved his life:—“Who is the lad, Aggy—I don’t re- member to have seen him before?”

The black recollected the hint about Santaclaus; and while he briefly explained how they had taken up the person in question on the top of the mountain, he for- bore to add anything concerning the accident of the wound, only saying that he be- lieved the youth was a stranger. It was so usual for men of the first rank to take into their sleighs any one they found toiling through the snow, that Richard was per- fectly satisfied with this explanation. He heard Aggy with great attention, and then remarked, “Well, if the lad has not been spoiled by the people in Templeton, he may be a modest young man, and as he certainly meant well, I shall take some notice of him—perhaps he is land-hunting—I say, Aggy, may be he is out hunting?”

“Eh! yes, massa Richard,” said the black, a little confused; for as Richard did all the flogging, he stood in great terror of his master, in the main:—“Yes, sir, I b’lieve he be.”

“Had he a pack and an axe?” “No, sir, only he rifle.” “Rifle!” exclaimed Richard, observing the confusion of the negro, which now

amounted to terror. “By Jove, he killed the deer! I knew that Marmaduke couldn’t kill a buck on the jump—how was it, Aggy? tell me all about it, and I’ll roast ’duke quicker than he can roast his saddle—How was it, Aggy? the lad shot the buck, and the Judge bought it, ha! and he is taking the youth down to get the pay?”

The pleasure of this discovery had put Richard in such a good humor, that the negro’s fears in some measure vanished, and he remembered the stocking of Santa- claus. After a gulp or two, he made out to reply—

“You forgit a two shot, sir?” “Don’t lie, you black rascal!” cried Richard, stepping on the snow-bank to

measure the distance from his lash to the negro’s back; “speak truth, or I trounce you.” While speaking, the stock was slowly rising in Richard’s right hand, and the lash drawing through his left, in the scientific manner with which drummers apply the cat; and Agamemnon, after turning each side of himself towards his master, and finding both equally unwilling to remain there, fairly gave in. In a very few words he made his master acquainted with the truth, at the same time earnestly conjuring Richard to protect him from the displeasure of the Judge.

“I’ll do it, boy, I’ll do it,” cried the other, rubbing his hands with delight; “say nothing, but leave me to manage ’duke:—I have a great mind to leave the deer on the hill, and to make the fellow send for his own carcase: but no, I will let Mar-

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maduke tell a few bounces about it before I come out upon him. Come, hurry in, Aggy, I must help to dress the lad’s wound: this Yankee9 doctor knows nothing of surgery—I had to hold old Milligan’s leg for him, while he cut it off.”—Richard was now seated on the stool again, and the black taking the hind seat, the steeds were put in motion towards home. As they dashed down the hill, on a fast trot, the driver occasionally turned his face to Aggy, and continued speaking; for notwithstanding their recent rupture, the most perfect cordiality was again exist- ing between them. “This goes to prove that I turned the horses with the reins, for no man who is shot in the right shoulder can have strength enough to bring round such obstinate devils. I knew I did it from the first; but I did not want to multiply words with Marmaduke about it.—Will you bite, you villain?—hip, boys, hip! Old Natty too, that is the best of it!—Well, well—’duke will say no more about my deer—and the Judge fired both barrels, and hit nothing but a poor lad, who was behind a pine tree. I must help that quack to take out the buck shot for the poor fellow.” In this manner Richard descended the mountain; the bells ringing, and his tongue going, until they entered the village, when the whole attention of the driver was devoted to a display of his horsemanship, to the admiration of all the gaping women and children who thronged the windows to witness the arrival of their landlord and his daughter.

1823

9. “In America the term Yankee is of local meaning. It is thought to be derived from the manner in which the Indians of New England pronounced the word ‘English’ or ‘Yengeese.’ New York being origi- nally a Dutch province, the term of course was not known there, and further south different dialects among the natives themselves, probably produced a different pronunciation. Marmaduke and his cousin being Pennsylvanians by birth, were not Yankees in the American sense of the word” [Cooper’s note]. More recent authorities have suggested that “Yankee” derives from the Dutch “Jan Kees” (“John Cheese”), a nickname given by Dutch settlers in New York to the English in Connecticut.

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Week Four: Puritanism, Indians and Witchcraft

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MARY ROWLANDSON (1636?–1711?)

In 1675–1676, the New England settlements came under siege by the Indians in the confrontation that became known as King Philip’s War. Metacomet, or King Philip, was chief of the Wampanoags and son of Massasoit, who had signed a treaty with the Pilgrims at Plymouth in 1621. Although Indians and European settlers had mingled easily and peacefully in the early years of New England, a number of difficulties consequent upon heavy immigration and acquisition of In- dian lands increased mutual distrust to a point where open hostilities broke out in a series of Indian raids on scattered settlements, with the colonists retaliating as best they could. By August 1676, the war was over; King Philip was dead, his body drawn and quartered, and his head displayed upon a pole in Plymouth. Indian power within New England was virtually at an end.

Mary White Rowlandson became one of the most celebrated victims of the war. She was a minister’s wife, living in the small garrisoned frontier town of Lan- caster, when the Indians attacked and carried her into the captivity that became the subject of her narrative. Not much beyond her own account is known of her. She was probably born in England. Her parents were among the early settlers of Salem, arriving in 1638. By 1653, at about seventeen, she was living with her people in Lancaster. In 1656 she married the Reverend Joseph Rowlandson. By the time of the attack shehad given birth to four children, one of whom died as an infant, and Lancaster had grown to a village of perhaps fifty families, organized into five or six garrisons. After her return—her captivity had lasted eleven weeks and five days—she and her family lived briefly in Boston before settling in Wethersfield, Connecticut, in 1677.

No copies of the first edition, printed in Cambridge, are known to exist. The second, issued later the same year by the same printer, begins its title page with a significant emphasis upon God’s providence: The Soveraignty and Goodness of GOD, Together With the Faithfulness of His Promises Displayed; Being a Narra- tive Of the Captivity and Restauration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson. This emphasis exists also within the narrative, where the author’s attention to detail and frequent biblical reference stand in close relation to one another as she presents her experi- ence for its value in assisting the reader toward an understanding of the workings of God’s plan. Writing clearly and thoughtfully, she created a remarkably readable account of survival under harrowing conditions. Especially in the seventeenth cen- tury an extremely popular work on both sides of the Atlantic, the Narrative has passed through approximately thirty editions and reprintings.

Mrs. Rowlandson’s account, from the second edition, is included in Narratives of the Indian Wars, 1675–1699, ed. Charles H. Lincoln, 1913, the source of the present selections. For criticism and discus- sion, see Richard Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1973; Richard Van Der Beets, The Indian Captivity Narrative: An American Genre, 1983; and Mitchell R. Breitweiser, American Puritanism and the Defense of Mourning: Religion, Grief and Ethnology in Mary White Rowlandson’s Captivity Narrative, 1990.

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Mary Rowlandson from A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson

MARY ROWLANDSON

From A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson

On the tenth of February 1675,1 Came the Indians with great numbers upon Lan- caster: Their first coming was about Sun-rising; hearing the noise of some Guns, we looked out; several Houses were burning, and the Smoke ascending to Heaven. There were five persons taken in one house, the Father, and the Mother and a suck- ing Child, they knockt on the head; the other two they took and carried away alive. Their were two others, who being out of their Garison upon some occasion were set upon; one was knockt on the head, the other escaped: Another their was who running along was shot and wounded, and fell down; he begged of them his life, promising them Money (as they told me) but they would not hearken to him but knockt him in head, and stript him naked, and split open his Bowels. Another seeing many of the Indians about his Barn, ventured and went out, but was quickly shot down. There were three others belonging to the same Garison who were killed; the Indians getting up upon the roof of the Barn, had advantage to shoot down upon them over their Fortification. Thus these murtherous wretches went on, burning, and destroying before them.

At length they came and beset our own house, and quickly it was the dole- fullest day that ever mine eyes saw. The House stood upon the edg of a hill; some of the Indians got behind the hill, others into the Barn, and others behind any thing that could shelter them; from all which places they shot against the House, so that the Bullets seemed to fly like hail; and quickly they wounded one man among us, then another, and then a third. About two hours (according to my ob- servation, in that amazing time) they had been about the house before they pre- vailed to fire it (which they did with Flax and Hemp, which they brought out of the Barn, and there being no defence about the House, only two Flankers2 at two opposite corners and one of them not finished) they fired it once and one ventured out and quenched it, but they quickly fired it again, and that took. Now is the dreadfull hour come, that I have often heard of (in time of War, as it was the case of others) but now mine eyes see it. Some in our house were fighting for their lives, others wallowing in their blood, the House on fire over our heads, and the bloody Heathen ready to knock us on the head, if we stirred out. Now might we hear Mothers and Children crying out for themselves, and one another, Lord, What shall we do? Then I took my Children (and one of my sisters, hers) to go forth and leave the house: but as soon as we came to the dore and appeared, the Indians shot so thick that the bulletts rattled against the House, as if one had taken an handfull of stones and threw them, so that we were fain to give back. We had six stout Dogs belonging to our Garrison, but none of them would stir, though an-

1. By the Old Style calendar then in use; by the present Gregorian calendar, the date was February 20, 1676. Rowlandson’s Old Style chrononology is followed in subsequent footnotes. 2. Fortified projections.

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other time, if any Indian had come to the door, they were ready to fly upon him and tear him down. The Lord hereby would make us the more to acknowledge his hand, and to see that our help is always in him. But out we must go, the fire in- creasing, and coming along behind us, roaring, and the Indians gaping before us with their Guns, Spears and Hatchets to devour us. No sooner were we out of the House, but my Brother in Law (being before wounded, in defending the house, in or near the throat) fell down dead, wherat the Indians scornfully shouted, and hallowed, and were presently upon him, stripping off his cloaths, the bulletts fly- ing thick, one went through my side, and the same (as would seem) through the bowels and hand of my dear Child in my arms. One of my elder Sisters Children, named William, had then his Leg broken, which the Indians perceiving, they knockt him on head. Thus were we butchered by those merciless Heathen, stand- ing amazed, with the blood running down to our heels. My eldest Sister being yet in the House, and seeing those wofull sights, the Infidels haling Mothers one way, and Children another, and some wallowing in their blood: and her elder Son telling her that her Son William was dead, and my self was wounded, she said, And, Lord, let me dy with them; which was no sooner said, but she was struck with a Bullet, and fell down dead over the threshold. I hope she is reaping the fruit of her good labours, being faithfull to the service of God in her place. In her younger years she lay under much trouble upon spiritual accounts, till it pleased God to make that precious Scripture take hold of her heart, 2 Cor. 12. 9. And he said unto me, my Grace is sufficient for thee. More then twenty years after I have heard her tell how sweet and comfortable that place was to her. But to return: The Indians laid hold of us, pulling me one way, and the Children another, and said, Come go along with us; I told them they would kill me: they answered, If I were willing to go along with them, they would not hurt me.

Oh the dolefull sight that now was to behold at this House! Come, behold the works of the Lord, what dissolations he has made in the Earth.3 Of thirty seven persons who were in this one House, none escaped either present death, or a bitter captivity, save only one, who might say as he, Job 1. 15, And I only am escaped alone to tell the News. There were twelve killed, some shot, some stab’d with their Spears, some knock’d down with their Hatchets. When we are in prosperity, Oh the little that we think of such dreadfull sights, and to see our dear Friends, and Relations ly bleeding out their heart-blood upon the ground. There was one who was chopt into the head with a Hatchet, and stript naked, and yet was crawling up and down. It is a solemn sight to see so many Christians lying in their blood, some here, and some there, like a company of Sheep torn by Wolves, All of them stript naked by a company of hell-hounds, roaring, singing, ranting and insulting, as if they would have torn our very hearts out; yet the Lord by his Almighty power preserved a number of us from death, for there were twenty-four of us taken alive and carried Captive.

I had often before this said, that if the Indians should come, I should chuse rather to be killed by them then taken alive but when it came to the tryal my mind changed; their glittering weapons so daunted my spirit, that I chose rather to go

3. Psalm 46:8.

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along with those (as I may say) ravenous Beasts, then that moment to end my dayes; and that I may the better declare what happened to me during that grievous Captivity, I shall particularly speak of the severall Removes we had up and down the Wilderness.

The First Remove

Now away we must go with those Barbarous Creatures, with our bodies wounded and bleeding, and our hearts no less than our bodies. About a mile we went that night, up upon a hill within sight of the Town, where they intended to lodge. There was hard by a vacant house (deserted by the English before, for fear of the Indi- ans). I asked them whither I might not lodge in the house that night to which they answered, what will you love English men still? this was the dolefullest night that ever my eyes saw. Oh the roaring, and singing and danceing, and yelling of those black creatures in the night, which made the place a lively resemblance of hell. And as miserable was the wast that was there made, of Horses, Cattle, Sheep, Swine, Calves, Lambs, Roasting Pigs, and Fowl (which they had plundered in the Town) some roasting, some lying and burning, and some boyling to feed our mer- ciless Enemies; who were joyful enough though we were disconsolate. To add to the dolefulness of the former day, and the dismalness of the present night: my thoughts ran upon my losses and sad bereaved condition. All was gone, my Hus- band gone (at least separated from me, he being in the Bay;4 and to add to my grief, the Indians told me they would kill him as he came homeward) my Children gone, my Relations and Friends gone, our House and home and all our comforts within door, and without, all was gone, (except my life) and I knew not but the next moment that might go too. There remained nothing to me but one poor wounded Babe, and it seemed at present worse than death that it was in such a pitiful condition, bespeaking Compassion, and I had no refreshing for it, nor suit- able things to revive it. Little do many think what is the savageness and bruitish- ness of this barbarous Enemy, aye, even those that seem to profess more than others among them, when the English have fallen into their hands.

Those seven that were killed at Lancaster the summer before upon a Sabbath day, and the one that was afterward killed upon a week day, were slain and man- gled in a barbarous manner, by one-ey’d John, and Marlborough’s Praying Indi- ans, which Capt. Mosely brought to Boston,5 as the Indians told me.

The Second Remove6

But now, the next morning, I must turn my back upon the Town, and travel with them into the vast and desolate Wilderness, I knew not whither. It is not my tongue, or pen can express the sorrows of my heart, and bitterness of my spirit, that I had at this departure: but God was with me, in a wonderfull manner, carry- ing me along, and bearing up my spirit, that it did not quite fail. One of the Indi- ans carried my poor wounded Babe upon a horse, it went moaning along, I shall

4. In Boston, about thirty-five miles away. 5. Seven people were killed in a raid on Lancaster on August 22, 1675. Fifteen Christianized Indians from Marlborough, Massachusetts, were brought to Boston by Captain Samuel Mosely on August 30, 1675, and accused of the attack. 6. To Princeton, Massachusetts, about ten miles west of Lancaster.

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dy, I shall dy. I went on foot after it, with sorrow that cannot be exprest. At length I took it off the horse, and carried it in my armes till my strength failed, and I fell down with it: Then they set me upon a horse with my wounded Child in my lap, and there being no furniture upon the horse back, as we were going down a steep hill, we both fell over the horses head, at which they like inhumane creatures laught, and rejoyced to see it, though I thought we should there have ended our dayes, as overcome with so many difficulties. But the Lord renewed my strength still, and carried me along, that I might see more of his Power; yea, so much that I could never have thought of, had I not experienced it.

After this it quickly began to snow, and when night came on, they stopt: and now down I must sit in the snow, by a little fire, and a few boughs behind me, with my sick Child in my lap; and calling much for water, being now (through the wound) fallen into a violent Fever. My own wound also growing so stiff, that I could scarce sit down or rise up; yet so it must be, that I must sit all this cold win- ter night upon the cold snowy ground, with my sick Child in my armes, looking that every hour would be the last of its life; and having no Christian friend near me, either to comfort or help me. Oh, I may see the wonderfull power of God, that my Spirit did not utterly sink under my affliction: still the Lord upheld me with his gracious and mercifull Spirit, and we were both alive to see the light of the next morning.

The Third Remove7

The morning being come, they prepared to go on their way. One of the Indians got up upon a horse, and they set me up behind him, with my poor sick Babe in my lap. A very wearisome and tedious day I had of it; what with my own wound, and my Childs being so exceeding sick, and in a lamentable condition with her wound. It may be easily judged what a poor feeble condition we were in, there being not the least crumb of refreshing that came within either of our mouths, from Wednesday night to Saturday night, except only a little cold water. This day in the afternoon, about an hour by Sun, we came to the place where they intended, viz. an Indian Town, called Wenimesset, Norward of Quabaug.8 When we were come, Oh the number of Pagans (now merciless enemies) that there came about me, that I may say as David, Psal. 27. 13, I had fainted, unless I had believed, etc. The next day was the Sabbath: I then remembered how careless I had been of Gods holy time, how many Sabbaths I had lost and mispent, and how evily I had walked in God’s sight; which lay so close unto my spirit, that it was easie for me to see how righteous it was with God to cut off the thread of my life, and cast me out of his presence for ever. Yet the Lord still shewed mercy to me, and upheld me; and as he wounded me with one hand, so he healed me with the other. This day there came to me one Robbert Pepper (a man belonging to Roxbury) who was taken in Captain Beers his Fight,9 and had been now a considerable time with the Indians; and up with them almost as far as Albany, to see king Philip, as he told me, and

7. February 12–27, ending on the Ware River, fifteen miles southwest of Princeton, near New Braintree. 8. Near Brookfield. 9. Captain Beers and most of his men had been killed at Northfield, September 4, 1675.

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was now very lately come into these parts.1 Hearing, I say, that I was in this In- dian Town, he obtained leave to come and see me. He told me, he himself was wounded in the leg at Captain Beers his Fight; and was not able some time to go, but as they carried him, and as he took Oaken leaves and laid to his wound, and through the blessing of God he was able to travel again. Then I took Oaken leaves and laid to my side, and with the blessing of God it cured me also; yet before the cure was wrought, I may say, as it is in Psal. 38. 5, 6. My wounds stink and are corrupt, I am troubled, I am bowed down greatly, I go mourning all the day long. I sat much alone with a poor wounded Child in my lap, which moaned night and day, having nothing to revive the body, or cheer the spirits of her, but in stead of that, sometimes one Indian would come and tell me one hour, that your Master will knock your Child in the head, and then a second, and then a third, your Mas- ter will quickly knock your Child in the head.

This was the comfort I had from them, miserable comforters are ye all, as he said.2 Thus nine dayes I sat upon my knees, with my Babe in my lap, till my flesh was raw again; my Child being even ready to depart this sorrowfull world, they bade me carry it out to another Wigwam (I suppose because they would not be troubled with such spectacles) Whither I went with a very heavy heart, and down I sat with the picture of death in my lap. About two houres in the night, my sweet Babe like a Lambe departed this life, on Feb. 18, 1675. It being about six yeares, and five months old. It was nine dayes from the first wounding, in this miserable condition, without any refreshing of one nature or other, except a little cold water. I cannot, but take notice, how at another time I could not bear to be in the room where any dead person was, but now the case is changed; I must and could ly down by my dead Babe, side by side all the night after. I have thought since of the wonderfull goodness of God to me, in preserving me in the use of my reason and senses, in that distressed time, that I did not use wicked and violent means to end my own miserable life. In the morning, when they understood that my child was dead they sent for me home to my Masters Wigwam: (by my Master in this writ- ing, must be understood Quanopin, who was a Saggamore, and married King Phillips wives Sister; not that he first took me, but I was sold to him by another Narrhaganset Indian, who took me when first I came out of the Garison). I went to take up my dead child in my arms to carry it with me, but they bid me let it alone: there was no resisting, but goe I must and leave it. When I had been at my masters wigwam, I took the first opportunity I could get, to go look after my dead child; when I came I askt them what they had done with it? then they told me it was upon the hill: then they went and shewed me where it was, where I saw the ground was newly digged, and there they told me they had buried it: There I left that Child in the Wilderness, and must commit it, and my self also in this Wilderness- condition, to him who is above all. God having taken away this dear Child, I went to see my daughter Mary, who was at this same Indian Town, at a Wigwam not very far off, though we had little liberty or opportunity to see one another. She was about ten years old, and taken from the door at first by a Praying Ind and af-

1. King Philip had established his headquarters for the winter of 1675–1676 east of Albany, New York. 2. As Job said, “Miserable comforters are ye all” (Job 16:2).

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terward sold for a gun. When I came in sight, she would fall a weeping; at which they were provoked, and would not let me come near her, but bade me be gone; which was a heart-cutting word to me. I had one Child dead, another in the Wilderness, I knew not where, the third they would not let me come near to: Me (as he said) have ye bereaved of my Children, Joseph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin also, all these things are against me.3 I could not sit still in this condition, but kept walking from one place to another. And as I was going along, my heart was even overwhelm’d with the thoughts of my condition, and that I should have Children, and a Nation which I knew not ruled over them. Whereupon I earnestly entreated the Lord, that he would consider my low estate, and shew me a token for good, and if it were his blessed will, some sign and hope of some relief. And indeed quickly the Lord answered, in some measure, my poor prayers: for as I was going up and down mourning and lamenting my condition, my Son came to me, and asked me how I did; I had not seen him before, since the destruction of the Town, and I knew not where he was, till I was informed by him- self, that he was amongst a smaller percel of Indians, whose place was about six miles off; with tears in his eyes, he asked me whether his Sister Sarah was dead; and told me he had seen his Sister Mary; and prayed me, that I would not be trou- bled in reference to himself. * * *

The Fifth Remove4

The occasion (as I thought) of their moving at this time, was, the English Army, it being near and following them: For they went, as if they had gone for their lives, for some considerable way, and then they made a stop, and chose some of their stoutest men, and sent them back to hold the English Army in play whilst the rest escaped: And then, like Jehu, they marched on furiously, with their old, and with their young: some carried their old decrepit mothers, some carried one, and some another. Four of them carried a great Indian upon a Bier; but going through a thick Wood with him, they were hindered, and could make no hast; whereupon they took him upon their backs, and carried him, one at a time, till they came to Bacquaug River. Upon a Friday, a little after noon we came to this River. When all the company was come up, and were gathered together, I thought to count the number of them, but they were so many, and being somewhat in motion, it was beyond my skil. In this travel, because of my wound, I was somewhat favoured in my load; I carried only my knitting work and two quarts of parched meal: Being very faint I asked my mistriss5 to give me one spoonfull of the meal, but she would not give me a taste. They quickly fell to cutting dry trees, to make Rafts to carry them over the river: and soon my turn came to go over: By the advantage of some brush which they had laid upon the Raft to sit upon, I did not wet my foot (which many of themselves at the other end were mid-leg deep) which cannot but be ac- knowledged as a favour of God to my weakened body, it being a very cold time. I was not before acquainted with such kind of doings or dangers. When thou pass-

3. Jacob’s lament (Genesis 42:36). 4. The fourth remove took them a dozen miles northwest to modern Petersham. The fifth remove was another dozen miles in the same direction to the Bacquaug River (Miller’s River) at Orange. 5. Weetamo, one of Quanopin’s wives.

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eth through the waters I will be with thee, and through the Rivers they shall not overflow thee, Isai. 43. 2. A certain number of us got over the River that night, but it was the night after the Sabbath before all the company was got over. On the Saturday they boyled an old Horses leg which they had got, and so we drank of the broth, as soon as they thought it was ready, and when it was almost all gone, they filled it up again.

The first week of my being among them, I hardly ate any thing; the second week, I found my stomach grow very faint for want of something; and yet it was very hard to get down their filthy trash: but the third week, though I could think how formerly my stomach would turn against this or that, and I could starve and dy before I could eat such things, yet they were sweet and savoury to my taste. I was at this time knitting a pair of white cotton stockins for my mistriss; and had not yet wrought upon a Sabbath day; when the Sabbath came they bade me go to work; I told them it was the Sabbathday, and desired them to let me rest, and told them I would do as much more to morrow; to which they answered me, they would break my face. And here I cannot but take notice of the strange providence of God in preserving the heathen: They were many hundreds, old and young, some sick, and some lame, many had Papooses at their backs, the greatest number at this time with us, were Squaws, and they travelled with all they had, bag and baggage, and yet they got over this River aforesaid; and on Munday they set their Wigwams on fire, and away they went: On that very day came the English Army after them to this River, and saw the smoak of their Wigwams, and yet this River put a stop to them. God did not give them courage or activity to go over after us; we were not ready for so great a mercy as victory and deliverance; if we had been, God would have found out a way for the English to have passed this River, as well as for the In- dians with their Squaws and Children, and all their Luggage. Oh that my People had hearkened to me, and Israel had walked in my ways, I should soon have sub- dued their Enemies, and turned my hand against their Adversaries, Psal. 81: 13, 14.

The Sixth Remove6

On Munday (as I said) they set their Wigwams on fire, and went away. It was a cold morning, and before us there was a great Brook with ice on it; some waded through it, up to the knees and higher, but others went till they came to a Beaver- dam, and I amongst them, where through the good providence of God, I did not wet my foot. I went along that day mourning and lamenting, leaving farther my own Country, and travelling into the vast and howling Wilderness, and I under- stood something of Lot’s Wife’s Temptation,7 when she looked back: we came that day to a great Swamp, by the side of which we took up our lodging that night. When I came to the brow of the hil, that looked toward the Swamp, I thought we had been come to a great Indian Town (though there were none but our own Com- pany). The Indians were as thick as the trees: it seemed as if there had been a thou- sand Hatchets going at once: if one looked before one, there was nothing but Indians, and behind one, nothing but Indians, and so on either hand, I myself in

6. Monday, March 6, to the modern Northfield, Massachusetts, near the Connecticut River, at the bor- der of New Hampshire and Vermont. 7. Lot’s wife looked back upon Sodom and Gomorrah and “became a pillar of salt” (Genesis 19:26).

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the midst, and no Christian soul near me, and yet how hath the Lord preserved me in safety? Oh the experience that I have had of the goodness of God, to me and mine!

The Seventh Remove8

After a restless and hungry night there, we had a wearisome time of it the next day. The Swamp by which we lay, was, as it were, a deep Dungeon, and an ex- ceeding high and steep hill before it. Before I got to the top of the hill, I thought my heart and legs, and all would have broken, and failed me. What through faint- ness, and soreness of body, it was a grievous day of travel to me. As we went along, I saw a place where English Cattle had been: that was comfort to me, such as it was: quickly after that we came to an English Path, which so took with me, that I thought I could have freely lyen down and dyed. That day, a little after noon, we came to Squaukheag, where the Indians quickly spread themselves over the de- serted English Fields, gleaning what they could find; some pickt up ears of Wheat that were crickled down, some found ears of Indian Corn, some found Ground- nuts, and others sheaves of Wheat that were frozen together in the shock, and went to threshing of them out. My self got two ears of Indian Corn, and whilst I did but turn my back, one of them was stolen from me, which much troubled me. There came an Indian to them at that time, with a basket of Horse-liver. I asked him to give me a piece: What, sayes he, can you eat Horse-liver? I told him, I would try, if he would give a piece, which he did, and I laid it on the coals to rost; but before it was half ready they got half of it away from me, so that I was fain to take the rest and eat it as it was, with the blood about my mouth, and yet a savoury bit it was to me: For to the hungry Soul every bitter thing is sweet.9 A solemn sight methought it was, to see Fields of wheat and Indian Corn forsaken and spoiled: and the remainders of them to be food for our merciless Enemies. That night we had a mess of wheat for our Supper.

The Eighth Remove1

* * * But to Return, We travelled on till night; and in the morning, we must go over the River to Philip’s Crew.2 When I was in the Cannoo, I could not but be amazed at the numerous crew of Pagans that were on the Bank on the other side. When I came ashore, they gathered all about me, I sitting alone in the midst: I ob- served they asked one another questions, and laughed, and rejoyced over their Gains and Victories. Then my heart began to fail: and I fell a weeping which was the first time to my remembrance, that I wept before them. Although I had met with so much Affliction, and my heart was many times ready to break, yet could I not shed one tear in their sight: but rather had been all this while in a maze, and like one astonished: but now I may say as, Psal. 137. 1. By the Rivers of Babylon, there we sate down: yea, we wept when we remembered Zion. There one of them asked me, why I wept, I could hardly tell what to say: yet I answered, they would kill me: No, said he, none will hurt you. Then came one of them and gave me two

8. To another location in Northfield. 9. Proverbs 27:7. 1. To modern South Vernon, Vermont, across the Connecticut River. 2. King Philip was apparently returning from New York to continue his campaign.

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spoon-fulls of Meal to comfort me, and another gave me half a pint of Pease; which was more worth than many Bushels at another time. Then I went to see King Philip, he bade me come in and sit down, and asked me whether I woold smoke it (a usual Complement nowadayes amongst Saints and Sinners) but this no way suited me. For though I had formerly used Tobacco, yet I had left it ever since I was first taken. It seems to be a Bait, the Devil layes to make men loose their pre- cious time: I remember with shame, how formerly, when I had taken two or three pipes, I was presently ready for another, such a bewitching thing it is: But I thank God, he has now given me power over it; surely there are many who may be bet- ter imployed than to ly sucking a stinking Tobacco-pipe.

Now the Indians gather their Forces to go against North-Hampton:3 over- night one went about yelling and hooting to give notice of the design. Whereupon they fell to boyling of Ground-nuts, and parching of Corn (as many as had it) for their Provision: and in the morning away they went. During my abode in this place, Philip spake to me to make a shirt for his boy, which I did, for which he gave me a shilling: I offered the mony to my master, but he bade me keep it: and with it I bought a piece of Horse flesh. Afterwards he asked me to make a Cap for his boy, for which he invited me to Dinner. I went, and he gave me a Pancake, about as big as two fingers; it was made of parched wheat, beaten, and fryed in Bears grease, but I thought I never tasted pleasanter meat in my life. There was a Squaw who spake to me to make a shirt for her Sannup,4 for which she gave me a piece of Bear. Another asked me to knit a pair of Stockins, for which she gave me a quart of Pease: I boyled my Pease and Bear together, and invited my master and mistriss to dinner, but the proud Gossip,5 because I served them both in one Dish, would eat nothing, except one bit that he gave her upon the point of his knife. Hearing that my son was come to this place, I went to see him, and found him lying flat upon the ground: I asked him how he could sleep so? he answered me, That he was not asleep, but at Prayer; and lay so, that they might not observe what he was doing. I pray God he may remember these things now he is returned in safety. At this Place (the Sun now getting higher) what with the beams and heat of the Sun, and the smoak of the Wigwams, I thought I should have been blind. I could scarce discern one Wigwam from another. There was here one Mary Thurston of Medfield, who seeing how it was with me, lent me a Hat to wear: but as soon as I was gone, the Squaw (who owned that Mary Thurston) came running after me, and got it away again. Here was the Squaw that gave me one spoonfull of Meal. I put it in my Pocket to keep it safe: yet notwithstanding some body stole it, but put five Indian Corns in the room of it: which Corns were the greatest Pro- visions I had in my travel for one day.

The Indians returning from North-Hampton, brought with them some Horses, and Sheep, and other things which they had taken: I desired them, that they would carry me to Albany, upon one of those Horses, and sell me for Pow- der: for so they had sometimes discoursed. I was utterly hopeless of getting home

3. They attacked on March 14, killing six inhabitants. 4. Husband. 5. Friend, or wife.

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on foot, the way that I came. I could hardly bear to think of the many weary steps I had taken, to come to this place.* * *

The Twelfth Remove6

It was upon a Sabbath-day-morning, that they prepared for their Travel. This morning I asked my master whither he would sell me to my Husband; he answered me Nux,7 which did much rejoyce my spirit. My mistriss, before we went, was gone to the burial of a Papoos, and returning, she found me sitting and reading in my Bible; she snatched it hastily out of my hand, and threw it out of doors; I ran out and catcht it up, and put it into my pocket, and never let her see it afterward. Then they packed up their things to be gone, and gave me my load: I complained it was too heavy, whereupon she gave me a slap in the face, and bade me go; I lifted up my heart to God, hoping the Redemption was not far off: and the rather because their insolency grew worse and worse.

But the thoughts of my going homeward (for so we bent our course) much cheared my Spirit, and made my burden seem light, and almost nothing at all. But (to my amazment and great perplexity) the scale was soon turned: for when we had gone a little way, on a sudden my mistriss gives out, she would go no further, but turn back again, and said, I must go back again with her, and she called her Sannup, and would have had him gone back also, but he would not, but said, He would go on, and come to us again in three dayes. My Spirit was upon this, I con- fess, very impatient, and almost outragious. I thought I could as well have dyed as went back: I cannot declare the trouble that I was in about it; but yet back again I must go. As soon as I had an opportunity, I took my Bible to read, and that quiet- ing Scripture came to my hand, Psal. 46. 10. Be still, and know that I am God. Which stilled my spirit for the present: But a sore time of tryal, I concluded, I had to go through, My master being gone, who seemed to me the best friend that I had of an Indian, both in cold and hunger, and quickly so it proved. Down I sat, with my heart as full as it could hold, and yet so hungry that I could not sit nei- ther: but going out to see what I could find, and walking among the Trees, I found six Acorns, and two Ches-nuts, which were some refreshment to me. Towards Night I gathered me some sticks for my own comfort, that I might not ly a-cold: but when we came to ly down they bade me go out, and ly some-where-else, for they had company (they said) come in more than their own: I told them, I could not tell where to go, they bade me go look; I told them, if I went to another Wig- wam they would be angry, and send me home again. Then one of the Company drew his sword, and told me he would run me thorough if I did not go presently. Then was I fain to stoop to this rude fellow, and to go out in the night, I knew not whither. Mine eyes have seen that fellow afterwards walking up and down Boston, under the appearance of a Friend-Indian, and severall others of the like Cut. I went to one Wigwam, and they told me they had no room. Then I went to an- other, and they said the same; at last an old Indian bade me come to him, and his

6. The ninth and tenth removes were to different locations in the Ashuelot Valley in New Hampshire. The eleventh was to modern Chesterfield, New Hampshire, slightly north. The twelfth, Sunday, April 9, appears to have been a few miles south and west, in the same general area. 7. Yes.

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Squaw gave me some Ground-nuts; she gave me also something to lay under my head, and a good fire we had: and through the good providence of God, I had a comfortable lodging that night. In the morning, another Indian bade me come at night, and he would give me six Ground-nuts, which I did. We were at this place and time about two miles from Connecticut River. We went in the morning to gather Ground-nuts, to the River, and went back again that night. I went with a good load at my back (for they when they went, though but a little way, would carry all their trumpery with them) I told them the skin was off my back, but I had no other comforting answer from them than this, That it would be no matter if my head were off too.

The Thirteenth Remove8

Instead of going toward the Bay, which was that I desired, I must go with them five or six miles down the River into a mighty Thicket of Brush: where we abode almost a fortnight. Here one asked me to make a shirt for her Papoos, for which she gave me a mess of Broth, which was thickened with meal made of the Bark of a Tree, and to make it the better, she had put into it about a handfull of Pease, and a few roasted Ground-nuts. I had not seen my son a pritty while, and here was an Indian of whom I made inquiry after him, and asked him when he saw him: he an- swered me, that such a time his master roasted him, and that himself did eat a piece of him, as big as his two fingers, and that he was very good meat: But the Lord upheld my Spirit, under this discouragement; and I considered their horrible addictedness to lying, and that there is not one of them that makes the least con- science of speaking of truth. In this place, on a cold night, as I lay by the fire, I re- moved a stick that kept the heat from me, a Squaw moved it down again, at which I lookt up, and she threw a handfull of ashes in mine eyes; I thought I should have been quite blinded, and have never seen more: but lying down, the water run out of my eyes, and carried the dirt with it, that by the morning, I recovered my sight again. Yet upon this, and the like occasions, I hope it is not too much to say with Job, Have pitty upon me, have pitty upon me, O ye my Friends, for the Hand of the Lord has touched me.9 And here I cannot but remember how many times sit- ting in their Wigwams, and musing on things past, I should suddenly leap up and run out, as if I had been at home, forgetting where I was, and what my condition was: But when I was without, and saw nothing but Wilderness, and Woods, and a company of barbarous heathens, my mind quickly returned to me, which made me think of that, spoken concerning Sampson, who said, I will go out and shake my self as at other times, but he wist not that the Lord was departed from him.1

About this time I began to think that all my hopes of Restoration would come to nothing. I thought of the English Army, and hoped for their coming, and being taken by them, but that failed. I hoped to be carried to Albany, as the Indians had discoursed before, but that failed also. I thought of being sold to my Husband, as my master spake, but in stead of that, my master himself was gone, and I left be-

8. To a location in or near Hinsdale, New Hampshire. 9. Job 19:21. 1. Judges 16:20.

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hind, so that my Spirit was now quite ready to sink. I asked them to let me go out and pick up some sticks, that I might get alone, And poure out my heart unto the Lord. Then also I took my Bible to read, but I found no comfort here neither, which many times I was wont to find: So easie a thing it is with God to dry up the Streames of Scripture-comfort from us. Yet I can say, that in all my sorrows and afflictions, God did not leave me to have my impatience work towards himself, as if his wayes were unrighteous. But I knew that he laid upon me less then I de- served. Afterward, before this dolefull time ended with me, I was turning the leaves of my Bible, and the Lord brought to me some Scriptures, which did a little revive me, as that Isai. 55. 8, For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your wayes my ways, saith the Lord. And also that, Psal. 37. 5, Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in him, and he shal bring it to pass. About this time they came yelping from Hadly, where they had killed three English men, and brought one Captive with them, viz. Thomas Read.2 They all gathered about the poor Man, asking him many Questions. I desired also to go and see him; and when I came, he was crying bitterly, supposing they would quickly kill him. Whereupon I asked one of them, whether they intended to kill him; he answered me, they would not: He being a little cheared with that, I asked him about the wel-fare of my Hus- band, he told me he saw him such a time in the Bay, and he was well, but very melancholly. By which I certainly understood (though I suspected it before) that whatsoever the Indians told me respecting him was vanity and lies. Some of them told me, he was dead, and they had killed him: some said he was Married again, and that the Governour wished him to Marry; and told him he should have his choice, and that all perswaded I was dead. So like were these barbarous creatures to him who was a lyer from the beginning.

As I was sitting once in the Wigwam here, Phillips Maid came in with the Child in her arms, and asked me to give her a piece of my Apron, to make a flap for it, I told her I would not: then my Mistriss bad me give it, but still I said no: the maid told me if I would not give her a piece, she would tear a piece off it: I told her I would tear her Coat then, with that my Mistriss rises up, and takes up a stick big enough to have killed me, and struck at me with it, but I stept out, and she struck the stick into the Mat of the Wigwam. But while she was pulling of it out, I ran to the Maid and gave her all my Apron, and so that storm went over.

Hearing that my Son was come to this place, I went to see him, and told him his Father was well, but very melancholly: he told me he was as much grieved for his Father as for himself; I wondered at his speech, for I thought I had enough upon my spirit in reference to my self, to make me mindless of my Husband and every one else: they being safe among their Friends. He told me also, that a while before, his Master (together with other Indians) were going to the French for Pow- der; but by the way the Mohawks met with them, and killed four of their Com- pany which made the rest turn back again, for which I desire that my self and he may bless the Lord; for it might have been worse with him, had he been sold to the French, than it proved to be in his remaining with the Indians. * * *

2. Read escaped about May 15.

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The Fourteenth Remove3

Now must we pack up and be gone from this Thicket, bending our course toward the Bay-towns, I haveing nothing to eat by the way this day, but a few crumbs of Cake, that an Indian gave my girle the same day we were taken. She gave it me, and I put it in my pocket: there it lay, till it was so mouldy (for want of good bak- ing) that one could not tell what it was made of; it fell all to crumbs, and grew so dry and hard, that it was like little flints; and this refreshed me many times, when I was ready to faint. It was in my thoughts when I put it into my mouth, that if ever I returned, I would tell the World what a blessing the Lord gave to such mean food. As we went along, they killed a Deer, with a young one in her, they gave me a piece of the Fawn, and it was so young and tender, that one might eat the bones as well as the flesh, and yet I thought it very good. When night came on we sate down; it rained, but they quickly got up a Bark Wigwam, where I lay dry that night. I looked out in the morning, and many of them had line in the rain all night, I saw by their Reaking. Thus the Lord dealt mercifully with me many times, and I fared better than many of them. In the morning they took the blood of the Deer, and put it into the Paunch, and so boyled it; I could eat nothing of that, though they ate it sweetly. And yet they were so nice in other things, that when I had fetcht water, and had put the Dish I dipt the water with, into the Kettle of water which I brought, they would say, they would knock me down; for they said, it was a slut- tish trick. * * *

The Sixteenth Remove4

We began this Remove with wading over Baquag River: the water was up to the knees, and the stream very swift, and so cold that I thought it would have cut me in sunder. I was so weak and feeble, that I reeled as I went along, and thought there I must end my dayes at last, after my bearing and getting thorough so many difficulties; the Indians stood laughing to see me staggering along: but in my dis- tress the Lord gave me experience of the truth, and goodness of that promise, Isai. 43. 2. When thou passest thorough the Waters, I will be with thee, and through the Rivers, they shall not overflow thee. Then I sat down to put on my stockins and shoos, with the teares running down mine eyes, and many sorrowfull thoughts in my heart, but I gat up to go along with them. Quickly there came up to us an Indian, who informed them, that I must go to Wachusit5 to my master, for there was a Letter come from the Council to the Saggamores, about redeeming the Cap- tives, and that there would be another in fourteen dayes, and that I must be there ready. My heart was so heavy before that I could scarce speak or go in the path; and yet now so light, that I could run. My strength seemed to come again, and re- cruit my feeble knees, and aking heart: yet it pleased them to go but one mile that night, and there we stayed two dayes. In that time came a company of Indians to us, near thirty, all on horseback. My heart skipt within me, thinking they had been English-men at the first sight of them, for they were dressed in English Apparel,

3. A few miles south, in the direction of Orange, Massachusetts. The fifteenth remove carried them in the same general direction. 4. Over the Bacquaug (Bacquaug, or Miller’s) River at Orange, returning the way they had come. 5. Mount Wachusett, in Princeton, Massachusetts.

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with Hats, white Neckcloths, and Sashes about their wasts, and Ribbonds upon their shoulders: but when they came near, their was a vast difference between the lovely faces of Christians, and the foul looks of those Heathens, which much damped my spirit again.

The Seventeenth Remove6

A comfortable Remove it was to me, because of my hopes. They gave me a pack, and along we went chearfully; but quickly my will proved more than my strength; having little or no refreshing my strength failed me, and my spirit were almost quite gone. Now may I say with David, Psal. 119. 22, 23, 24. I am poor and needy, and my heart is wounded within me. I am gone like the shadow when it declineth: I am tossed up and down like the locust; my knees are weak through fasting, and my flesh faileth of fatness. At night we came to an Indian Town, and the Indians sate down by a Wigwam discoursing, but I was almost spent, and could scarce speak. I laid down my load, and went into the Wigwam, and there sat an Indian boyling of Horses feet (they being wont to eat the flesh first, and when the feet were old and dried, and they had nothing else, they would cut off the feet and use them). I asked him to give me a little of his Broth, or Water they were boiling in; he took a dish, and gave me one spoonfull of Samp,7 and bid me take as much of the Broth as I would. Then I put some of the hot water to the Samp, and drank it up, and my spirit came again. He gave me also a piece of the Ruff or Ridding8 of the small Guts, and I broiled it on the coals; and now may I say with Jonathan, See, I pray you, how mine eyes have been enlightened, because I tasted a little of this honey, 1 Sam. 14. 29. Now is my Spirit revived again; though means be never so inconsiderable, yet if the Lord bestow his blessing upon them, they shall refresh both Soul and Body.

The Eighteenth Remove

We took up our packs and along we went, but a wearisome day I had of it. As we went along I saw an English-man stript naked, and lying dead upon the ground, but knew not who it was. Then we came to another Indian Town, where we stayed all night. In this Town there were four English Children, Captives; and one of them my own Sisters. I went to see how she did, and she was well, considering her Captive-condition. I would have tarried that night with her, but they that owned her would not suffer it. Then I went into another Wigwam, where they were boyling Corn and Beans, which was a lovely sight to see, but I could not get a taste thereof. Then I went to another Wigwam, where there were two of the En- glish Children; the Squaw was boyling Horses feet, then she cut me off a little piece, and gave one of the English Children a piece also. Being very hungry I had quickly eat up mine, but the Child could not bite it, it was so tough and sinewy, but lay sucking, gnawing, chewing and slabbering of it in the mouth and hand, then I took it of the Child, and eat it my self, and savoury it was to my taste. Then

6. The seventeenth and eighteenth removes continued the journey in the direction of Mount Wachusett, by way of Petersham and Barre, Massachusetts. 7. An Indian corn porridge. 8. The remains, normally thrown out.

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I may say as Job, Chap. 6. 7. The things that my soul refused to touch, are as my sorrowfull meat. Thus the Lord made that pleasant refreshing, which another time would have been an abomination. Then I went home to my mistresses Wigwam; and they told me I disgraced my master with begging, and if I did so any more, they would knock me in head: I told them, they had as good knock me in head as starve me to death.

The Nineteenth Remove9

They said, when we went out, that we must travel to Wachuset this day. But a bit- ter weary day I had of it, travelling now three dayes together, without resting any day between. At last, after many weary steps, I saw Wachuset hills, but many miles off. Then we came to a great Swamp, through which we travelled, up to the knees in mud and water, which was heavy going to one tyred before. Being almost spent, I thought I should have sunk down at last, and never gat out; but I may say, as in Psal. 94. 18, When my foot slipped, thy mercy, O Lord, held me up. Going along, having indeed my life, but little spirit, Philip, who was in the Company, came up and took me by the hand, and said, Two weeks more and you shal be Mistress again. I asked him, if he spake true? he answered, Yes, and quickly you shal come to your master again; who had been gone from us three weeks. After many weary steps we came to Wachuset, where he was: and glad I was to see him. He asked me, When I washt me? I told him not this month, then he fetcht me some water him- self, and bid me wash, and gave me the Glass to see how I lookt; and bid his Squaw give me something to eat: so she gave me a mess of Beans and meat, and a little Ground-nut Cake. I was wonderfully revived with this favour shewed me, Psal. 106. 46, He made them also to be pittied, of all those that carried them Captives.

My master had three Squaws, living sometimes with one, and sometimes with another one, this old Squaw, at whose Wigwam I was, and with whom my Master had been those three weeks. Another was Wattimore,1 with whom I had lived and served all this while: A severe and proud Dame she was, bestowing every day in dressing her self neat as much time as any of the Gentry of the land: powdering her hair, and painting her face, going with Neck-laces, with Jewels in her ears, and Bracelets upon her hands: When she had dressed her self, her work was to make Girdles of Wampom and Beads. The third Squaw was a younger one, by whom he had two Papooses. By that time I was refresht by the old Squaw, with whom my master was, Wettimores Maid came to call me home, at which I fell a weeping. Then the old Squaw told me, to encourage me, that if I wanted victuals, I should come to her, and that I should ly there in her Wigwam. Then I went with the maid, and quickly came again and lodged there. The Squaw laid a Mat under me, and a good Rugg over me; the first time I had any such kindness shewed me. I understood that Wettimore thought, that if she should let me go and serve with the old Squaw, she would be in danger to loose, not only my service, but the redemption-pay also. And I was not a little glad to hear this; being by it raised in my hopes, that in Gods due time there would be an end of this sorrowfull hour. Then came an Indian, and asked

9. To Mount Wachusett. 1. Or Weetamo.

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me to knit him three pair of Stockins, for which I had a Hat, and a silk Handker- chief. Then another asked me to make her a shift, for which she gave me an Apron.

Then came Tom and Peter,2 with the second Letter from the Council, about the Captives. Though they were Indians, I gat them by the hand, and burst out into tears; my heart was so full that I could not speak to them; but recovering my self, I asked them how my husband did, and all my friends and acquaintance? they said, They are all very well but melancholy. They brought me two Biskets, and a pound of Tobacco. The Tobacco I quickly gave away; when it was all gone, one asked me to give him a pipe of Tobacco, I told him it was all gone; then began he to rant and threaten. I told him when my Husband came I would give him some: Hang him Rogue (sayes he) I will knock out his brains, if he comes here. And then again, in the same breath they would say, That if there should come an hundred without Guns, they would do them no hurt. So unstable and like mad men they were. So that fearing the worst, I durst not send to my Husband, though there were some thoughts of his coming to Redeem and fetch me, not knowing what might follow. For there was little more trust to them then to the master they served. When the Letter was come, the Saggamores met to consult about the Cap- tives, and called me to them to enquire how much my husband would give to re- deem me, when I came I sate down among them, as I was wont to do, as their manner is: Then they bade me stand up, and said, they were the General Court.3

They bid me speak what I thought he would give. Now knowing that all we had was destroyed by the Indians, I was in a great strait: I thought if I should speak of but a little, it would be slighted, and hinder the matter; if of a great sum, I knew not where it would be procured: yet at a venture, I said Twenty pounds, yet de- sired them to take less; but they would not hear of that, but sent that message to Boston, that for Twenty pounds I should be redeemed. It was a Praying Indian that wrote their Letter for them.4 There was another Praying Indian, who told me, that he had a brother, that would not eat Horse; his conscience was so tender and scrupulous (though as large as hell, for the destruction of poor Christians). Then he said, he read that Scripture to him, 2 Kings, 6. 25. There was a famine in Samaria, and behold they besieged it, untill an Asses head was sold for fourscore pieces of silver, and the fourth part of a Kab of Doves dung, for five pieces of sil- ver. He expounded this place to his brother, and shewed him that it was lawfull to eat that in a Famine which is not at another time. And now, sayes he, he will eat Horse with any Indian of them all. There was another Praying Indian, who when he had done all the mischief that he could, betrayed his own Father into the En- glish hands, thereby to purchase his own life. Another Praying Indian was at Sudbury-fight,5 though, as he deserved, he was afterward hanged for it. There was another Praying Indian, so wicked and cruel, as to wear a string about his neck, strung with Christians fingers. Another Praying Indian, when they went to Sudbury-fight, went with them, and his Squaw also with him, with her Papoos at her back: Before they went to that fight, they got a company together to Powaw; the manner was as followeth. There was one that kneeled upon a Deerskin, with

2. Christian Indians, Tom Dublet and Peter Conway. 3. The name for the Massachusetts colonial assembly. 4. Peter Jethro, who apparently wrote from the dictation of King Philip. 5. April 18. About thirty Englishmen were killed.

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the company round him in a ring who kneeled, and striking upon the ground with their hands, and with sticks, and muttering or humming with their mouths; be- sides him who kneeled in the ring, there also stood one with a Gun in his hand: Then he on the Deer-skin made a speech, and all manifested assent to it: and so they did many times together. Then they bade him with the Gun go out of the ring, which he did, but when he was out, they called him in again; but he seemed to make a stand, then they called the more earnestly, till he returned again: Then they all sang. Then they gave him two Guns, in either hand one: And so he on the Deer- skin began again; and at the end of every sentence in his speaking, they all as- sented, humming or muttering with their mouthes, and striking upon the ground with their hands. Then they bade him with the two Guns go out of the ring again; which he did, a little way. Then they called him in again, but he made a stand; so they called him with greater earnestness; but he stood reeling and wavering as if he knew not whither he should stand or fall, or which way to go. Then they called him with exceeding great vehemency, all of them, one and another: after a little while he turned in, staggering as he went, with his Armes stretched out, in either hand a Gun. As soon as he came in, they all sang and rejoyced exceedingly a while. And then he upon the Deer-skin, made another speech unto which they all as- sented in a rejoicing manner: and so they ended their business, and forthwith went to Sudbury-fight. To my thinking they went without any scruple, but that they should prosper, and gain the victory. And they went out not so rejoycing, but they came home with as great a Victory. For they said they had killed two Captains, and almost an hundred men. One English-man they brought along with them: and he said, it was too true, for they had made sad work at Sudbury, as indeed it proved. Yet they came home without that rejoycing and triumphing over their vic- tory, which they were wont to shew at other times, but rather like Dogs (as they say) which have lost their ears. Yet I could not perceive that it was for their own loss of men: They said, they had not lost above five or six: and I missed none, ex- cept in one Wigwam. When they went, they acted as if the Devil had told them that they should gain the victory: and now they acted, as if the Devil had told them they should have a fall. Whither it were so or no, I cannot tell, but so it proved, for quickly they began to fall, and so held on that Summer, till they came to utter ruine. They came home on a Sabbath day, and the Powaw that kneeled upon the Deer-skin came home (I may say, without abuse) as black as the Devil. When my master came home, he came to me and bid me make a shirt for his Papoos, of a holland-laced Pillowbeer.6 About that time there came an Indian to me and bid me come to his Wigwam, at night, and he would give me some Pork and Ground- nuts. Which I did, and as I was eating, another Indian said to me, he seems to be your good Friend, but he killed two Englishmen at Sudbury, and there ly their Cloaths behind you: I looked behind me, and there I saw bloody Cloaths, with Bullet-holes in them; yet the Lord suffered not this wretch to do me any hurt; Yea, instead of that, he many times refresht me: five or six times did he and his Squaw refresh my feeble carcass. If I went to their Wigwam at any time, they would al- wayes give me something, and yet they were strangers that I never saw before. An-

6. Pillowcase.

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Mary Rowlandson from A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson

other Squaw gave me a piece of fresh Pork, and a little Salt with it, and lent me her Pan to Fry it in; and I cannot but remember what a sweet, pleasant and de- lightfull relish that bit had to me, to this day. So little do we prize common mer- cies when we have them to the full.

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It was their usual manner to remove, when they had done any mischief, lest they should be found out: and so they did at this time. We went about three or four miles, and there they built a great Wigwam, big enough to hold an hundred Indi- ans, which they did in preparation to a great day of Dancing. They would say now amongst themselves, that the Governour would be so angry for his loss at Sud- bury, that he would send no more about the Captives, which made me grieve and tremble. My Sister being not far from the place where we now were, and hearing that I was here, desired her master to let her come and see me, and he was willing to it, and would go with her: but she being ready before him, told him she would go before, and was come within a Mile or two of the place; Then he overtook her, and began to rant as if he had been mad; and made her go back again in the Rain; so that I never saw her till I saw her in Charlestown. But the Lord requited many of their ill doings, for this Indian her Master, was hanged afterward at Boston. The Indians now began to come from all quarters, against their merry dancing day. Among some of them came one Goodwife Kettle: I told her my heart was so heavy that it was ready to break: so is mine too said she, but yet said, I hope we shall hear some good news shortly. I could hear how earnestly my Sister desired to see me, and I as earnestly desired to see her: and yet neither of us could get an op- portunity. My Daughter was also now about a mile off, and I had not seen her in nine or ten weeks, as I had not seen my Sister since our first taking. I earnestly de- sired them to let me go and see them: yea, I intreated, begged, and perswaded them, but to let me see my Daughter; and yet so hard hearted were they, that they would not suffer it. They made use of their tyrannical power whilst they had it: but through the Lords wonderfull mercy, their time was now but short.

On a Sabbath day, the Sun being about an hour high in the afternoon, came Mr. John Hoar8 (the Council permitting him, and his own foreward spirit inclin- ing him) together with the two forementioned Indians, Tom and Peter, with their third Letter from the Council. When they came near, I was abroad: though I saw them not, they presently called me in, and bade me sit down and not stir. Then they catched up their Guns, and away they ran, as if an Enemy had been at hand; and the Guns went off apace. I manifested some great trouble, and they asked me what was the matter? I told them, I thought they had killed the English-man (for they had in the mean time informed me that an English-man was come) they said, No; They shot over his Horse and under, and before his Horse; and they pusht him this way and that way, at their pleasure: shewing what they could do: Then they let them come to their Wigwams. I begged of them to let me see the English- man, but they would not. But there was I fain to sit their pleasure. When they had

7. April 28–May 2, to Wachusett Lake, Princeton. 8. Of Concord, who was appointed to negotiate for Rowlandson’s ransom.

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talked their fill with him, they suffered me to go to him. We asked each other of our welfare, and how my Husband did, and all my Friends? He told me they were all well, and would be glad to see me. Amongst other things which my Husband sent me, there came a pound of Tobacco: which I sold for nine shillings in Money: for many of the Indians for want of Tobacco, smoaked Hemlock, and Ground-Ivy. It was a great mistake in any, who thought I sent for Tobacco: for through the favour of God, that desire was overcome. I now asked them, whither I should go home with Mr. Hoar? They answered No, one and another of them: and it being night, we lay down with that answer; in the morning, Mr. Hoar invited the Sag- gamores to Dinner; but when we went to get it ready, we found that they had stollen the greatest part of the Provision Mr. Hoar had brought, out of his Bags, in the night. And we may see the wonderfull power of God, in that one passage, in that when there was such a great number of the Indians together, and so greedy of a little good food; and no English there, but Mr. Hoar and my self: that there they did not knock us in the head, and take what we had: there being not only some Provision, but also Tradingcloth, a part of the twenty pounds agreed upon: But in- stead of doing us any mischief, they seemed to be ashamed of the fact, and said, it were some Matchit Indian9 that did it. Oh, that we could believe that there is no thing too hard for God! God shewed his Power over the Heathen in this, as he did over the hungry Lyons when Daniel was cast into the Den.1 Mr. Hoar called them betime to Dinner, but they ate very little, they being so busie in dressing them- selves, and getting ready for their Dance: which was carried on by eight of them, four Men and four Squaws: My master and mistress being two. He was dressed in his Holland shirt, with great Laces sewed at the tail of it, he had his silver Buttons, his white Stockins, his Garters were hung round with Shillings, and he had Girdles of Wampom upon his head and shoulders. She had a Kersey Coat, and covered with Girdles of Wampom from the Loins upward: her armes from her elbows to her hands were covered with Bracelets; there were handfulls of Necklaces about her neck, and severall sorts of Jewels in her ears. She had fine red Stokins, and white Shoos, her hair powdered and face painted Red, that was alwayes before Black. And all the Dancers were after the same manner. There were two other singing and knocking on a Kettle for their musick. They keept hopping up and down one after another, with a Kettle of water in the midst, standing warm upon some Embers, to drink of when they were dry. They held on till it was almost night, throwing out Wampom to the standers by. At night I asked them again, if I should go home? They all as one said No, except my Husband would come for me. When we were lain down, my Master went out of the Wigwam, and by and by sent in an Indian called James the Printer,2 who told Mr. Hoar, that my Master would let me go home to morrow, if he would let him have one pint of Liquors. Then Mr. Hoar called his own Indians, Tom and Peter, and bid them go and see whither he would promise it before them three: and if he would, he should have it; which he did, and he had it. Then Philip smeling the business cal’d me to him, and asked me what I would give him, to tell me some good news, and speak a good word for me. I told him, I could not tell what to give him, I would any thing I had, and

9. Bad Indian. 1. The story of Daniel in the lions’ den is told in Daniel 6:1–28. 2. A Praying Indian who assisted John Eliot in printing his Indian Bible.

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asked him what he would have? He said, two Coats and twenty shillings in Mony, and half a bushel of seed Corn, and some Tobacco. I thanked him for his love: but I knew the good news as well as the crafty Fox. My Master after he had had his drink, quickly came ranting into the Wigwam again, and called for Mr. Hoar, drinking to him, and saying, He was a good man: and then again he would say, Hang him Rogue: Being almost drunk, he would drink to him, and yet presently say he should be hanged. Then he called for me. I trembled to hear him, yet I was fain to go to him, and he drank to me, shewing no incivility. He was the first In- dian I saw drunk all the while that I was amongst them. At last his Squaw ran out, and he after her, round the Wigwam, with his mony jingling at his knees: But she escaped him: But having an old Squaw he ran to her: and so through the Lords mercy, we were no more troubled that night. Yet I had not a comfortable nights rest: for I think I can say, I did not sleep for three nights together. The night before the Letter came from the Council, I could not rest, I was so full of feares and trou- bles, God many times leaving us most in the dark, when deliverance is nearest: yea, at this time I could not rest night nor day. The next night I was overjoyed, Mr. Hoar being come, and that with such good tidings. The third night I was even swallowed up with the thoughts of things, viz. that ever I should go home again; and that I must go, leaving my Children behind me in the Wilderness; so that sleep was now almost departed from mine eyes.

On Tuesday morning they called their General Court (as they call it) to con- sult and determine, whether I should go home or no: And they all as one man did seemingly consent to it, that I should go home; except Philip, who would not come among them.

But before I go any further, I would take leave to mention a few remarkable passages of providence, which I took special notice of in my afflicted time.

1. Of the fair opportunity lost in the long March, a little after the Fort-fight, when our English Army was so numerous, and in pursuit of the Enemy, and so near as to take several and destroy them: and the Enemy in such distress for food, that our men might track them by their rooting in the earth for Ground-nuts, whilest they were flying for their lives. I say, that then our Army should want Provision, and be forced to leave their pursuit and return homeward: and the very next week the Enemy came upon our Town, like Bears bereft of their whelps, or so many rav- enous Wolves, rending us and our Lambs to death. But what shall I say? God seemed to leave his People to themselves, and order all things for his own holy ends. Shal there be evil in the City and the Lord hath not done it?3 They are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph, therefore shal they go Captive, with the first that go Captive.4 It is the Lords doing, and it should be marvelous in our eyes.

2. I cannot but remember how the Indians derided the slowness, and dulness of the English Army, in its setting out. For after the desolations at Lancaster and Medfield, as I went along with them, they asked me when I thought the English Army would come after them? I told them I could not tell: It may be they will come in May, said they. Thus did they scoffe at us, as if the English would be a quarter of a year getting ready.

3. Amos 3:6. 4. Amos 6:6–7.

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3. Which also I have hinted before, when the English Army with new supplies were sent forth to pursue after the enemy, and they understanding it, fled before them till they came to Baquaug River, where they forthwith went over safely: that that River should be impassable to the English. I can but admire to see the won- derfull providence of God in preserving the heathen for farther affliction to our poor Countrey. They could go in great numbers over, but the English must stop: God had an over-ruling hand in all those things.

4. It was thought, if their Corn were cut down, they would starve and dy with hunger: and all their Corn that could be found, was destroyed, and they driven from that little they had in store, into the Woods in the midst of Winter; and yet how to admiration did the Lord preserve them for his holy ends, and the destruction of many still amongst the English! strangely did the Lord provide for them; that I did not see (all the time I was among them) one Man, Woman, or Child, die with hunger.

Though many times they would eat that, that a Hog or a Dog would hardly touch; yet by that God strengthened them to be a scourge to his People.

The chief and commonest food was Ground-nuts: They eat also Nuts and Acorns, Harty-choaks, Lilly roots, Ground-beans, and several other weeds and roots, that I know not.

They would pick up old bones, and cut them to pieces at the joynts, and if they were full of wormes and magots, they would scald them over the fire to make the vermine come out, and then boile them, and drink up the Liquor, and then beat the great ends of them in a Morter, and so eat them. They would eat Horses guts, and ears, and all sorts of wild Birds which they could catch: also Bear, Venni- son, Beaver, Tortois, Frogs, Squirrels, Dogs, Skunks, Rattle-snakes; yea, the very Bark of Trees; besides all sorts of creatures, and provision which they plundered from the English. I can but stand in admiration to see the wonderful power of God, in providing for such a vast number of our Enemies in the Wilderness, where there was nothing to be seen, but from hand to mouth. Many times in a morning, the generality of them would eat up all they had, and yet have some forther supply against they wanted. It is said, Psal. 81. 13, 14. Oh, that my People had hearkned to me, and Israel had walked in my wayes, I should soon have subdued their Ene- mies, and turned my hand against their Adversaries. But now our perverse and evil carriages in the sight of the Lord, have so offended him, that instead of turn- ing his hand against them, the Lord feeds and nourishes them up to be a scourge to the whole Land.

5. Another thing that I would observe is, the strange providence of God, in turning things about when the Indians was at the highest, and the English at the lowest. I was with the Enemy eleven weeks and five dayes, and not one Week passed without the fury of the Enemy, and some desolation by fire and sword upon one place or other. They mourned (with their black faces) for their own lossess, yet tri- umphed and rejoyced in their inhumane, and many times devilish cruelty to the English. They would boast much of their Victories; saying, that in two hours time they had destroyed such a Captain, and his Company at such a place; and such a

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Captain and his Company in such a place; and such a Captain and his Company in such a place: and boast how many Towns they had destroyed, and then scoffe, and say, They had done them a good turn, to send them to Heaven so soon. Again, they would say, This Summer that they would knock all the Rogues in the head, or drive them into the Sea, or make them flie the Countrey: thinking surely, Agag-like, The bitterness of Death is past.5 Now the Heathen begins to think all is their own, and the poor Christians hopes to fail (as to man) and now their eyes are more to God, and their hearts sigh heaven-ward: and to say in good earnest, Help Lord, or we perish: When the Lord had brought his people to this, that they saw no help in any thing but himself: then he takes the quarrel into his own hand: and though they had made a pit, in their own imaginations, as deep as hell for the Christians that Summer, yet the Lord hurll’d them selves into it. And the Lord had not so many wayes before to preserve them, but now he hath as many to destroy them.

But to return again to my going home, where we may see a remarkable change of Providence: At first they were all against it, except my Husband would come for me; but afterwards they assented to it, and seemed much to rejoyce in it; some askt me to send them some Bread, others some Tobacco, others shaking me by the hand, offering me a Hood and Scarfe to ride in; not one moving hand or tongue against it. Thus hath the Lord answered my poor desire, and the many earnest re- quests of others put up unto God for me. In my travels an Indian came to me, and told me, if I were willing, he and his Squaw would run away, and go home along with me: I told him No: I was not willing to run away, but desired to wait Gods time, that I might go home quietly, and without fear. And now God hath granted me my desire. O the wonderfull power of God that I have seen, and the experi- ence that I have had: I have been in the midst of those roaring Lyons, and Salvage Bears, that feared neither God, nor Man, nor the Devil, by night and day, alone and in company: sleeping all sorts together, and yet not one of them ever offered me the least abuse of unchastity to me, in word or action. Though some are ready to say, I speak it for my own credit; But I speak it in the presence of God, and to his Glory. Gods Power is as great now, and as sufficient to save, as when he pre- served Daniel in the Lions Den; or the three Children in the fiery Furnace.6 I may well say as his Psal. 107. 12, Oh give thanks unto the Lord for he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever. Let the Redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath re- deemed from the hand of the Enemy, especially that I should come away in the midst of so many hundreds of Enemies quietly and peacably, and not a Dog mov- ing his tongue. So I took my leave of them, and in coming along my heart melted into tears, more then all the while I was with them, and I was almost swallowed up with the thoughts that ever I should go home again. About the Sun going down, Mr. Hoar, and my self, and the two Indians came to Lancaster, and a solemn sight it was to me. There had I lived many comfortable years amongst my Relations and Neighbours, and now not one Christian to be seen, nor one house left stand- ing. We went on to a Farm house that was yet standing, where we lay all night: and a comfortable lodging we had, though nothing but straw to ly on. The Lord

5. I Samuel 15:32. Shortly after this reflection, “Samuel hewed Agag in pieces” (I Samuel 15:33). 6. Daniel 3:13–30.

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Mary Rowlandson from A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson

preserved us in safety that night, and raised us up again in the morning, and car- ried us along, that before noon, we came to Concord. Now was I full of joy, and yet not without sorrow: joy to see such a lovely sight, so many Christians together, and some of them my Neighbours: There I met with my Brother, and my Brother in Law, who asked me, if I knew where his Wife was? Poor heart! he had helped to bury her, and knew it not; she being shot down by the house was partly burnt: so that those who were at Boston at the desolation of the Town, and came back afterward, and buried the dead, did not know her. Yet I was not without sorrow, to think how many were looking and longing, and my own Children amongst the rest, to enjoy that deliverance that I had now received, and I did not know whither ever I should see them again. Being recruited7 with food and raiment we went to Boston that day, where I met with my dear Husband, but the thoughts of our dear Children, one being dead, and the other we could not tell where, abated our com- fort each to other. I was not before so much hem’d in with the merciless and cruel Heathen, but now as much with pittiful, tender-hearted and compassionate Chris- tians. In that poor, and destressed, and beggerly condition I was received in, I was kindly entertained in severall Houses: so much love I received from several (some of whom I knew, and others I knew not) that I am not capable to declare it. But the Lord knows them all by name: The Lord reward them seven fold into their bosoms of his spirituals, for their temporals.8 The twenty pounds the price of my redemption was raised by some Boston Gentlemen, and Mrs. Usher, whose bounty and religious charity, I would not forget to make mention of. Then Mr. Thomas Shepard of Charlstown received us into his House, where we continued eleven weeks; and a Father and Mother they were to us. And many more tender-hearted Friends we met with in that place. We were now in the midst of love, yet not with- out much and frequent heaviness of heart for our poor Children, and other Rela- tions, who were still in affliction. The week following, after my coming in, the Governour and Council sent forth to the Indians again; and that not without suc- cess; for they brought in my Sister, and Good-wife Kettle: Their not knowing where our Children were, was a sore tryal to us still, and yet we were not without secret hopes that we should see them again. That which was dead lay heavier upon my spirit, than those which were alive and amongst the Heathen; thinking how it suffered with its wounds, and I was no way able to relieve it; and how it was buried by the Heathen in the Wilderness from among all Christians. We were hurried up and down in our thoughts, sometime we should hear a report that they were gone this way, and sometimes that; and that they were come in, in this place or that: We kept enquiring and listning to hear concerning them, but no cer- tain news as yet. About this time the Council had ordered a day of publick Thanks- giving:9 though I thought I had still cause of mourning, and being unsettled in our minds, we thought we would ride toward the Eastward, to see if we could hear any thing concerning our Children. And as we were riding along (God is the wise disposer of all things) between Ipswich and Rowly we met with Mr. William Hub-

7. Supplied. 8. Worldly gifts. 9. June 29, 1676.

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Mary Rowlandson from A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson

bard, who told us that our Son Joseph was come in to Major Waldrens, and an- other with him, which was my Sisters Son. I asked him how he knew it? He said, the Major himself told him so. So along we went till we came to Newbury; and their Minister being absent, they desired my Husband to Preach the Thanks giving for them; but he was not willing to stay there that night, but would go over to Sal- isbury, to hear further, and come again in the morning; which he did, and Preached there that day. At night, when he had done, one came and told him that his Daugh- ter was come in at Providence: Here was mercy on both hands: Now hath God fulfiled that precious Scripture which was such a comfort to me in my distressed condition. When my heart was ready to sink into the Earth (my Children being gone I could not tell whither) and my knees trembled under me, And I was walk- ing through the valley of the shadow of Death: Then the Lord brought, and now has fulfilled that reviving word unto me: Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy Work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and they shall come again from the Land of the Enemy.1 Now we were between them, the one on the East, and the other on the West: Our Son being near- est, we went to him first, to Portsmouth, where we met with him, and with the Major also: who told us he had done what he could, but could not redeem him under seven pounds; which the good People thereabouts were pleased to pay. The Lord reward the Major, and all the rest, though unknown to me, for their labour of Love. My Sisters Son was redeemed for four pounds, which the Council gave order for the payment of. Having now received one of our Children, we hastened toward the other; going back through Newbury, my Husband preached there on the Sabbath-day: for which they rewarded him many fold.

On Munday we came to Charlstown, where we heard that the Governour of Road-Island had sent over for our Daughter, to take care of her, being now within his Jurisdiction: which should not pass without our acknowledgments. But she being nearer Rehoboth than Road-Island, Mr. Newman went over, and took care of her, and brought her to his own House. And the goodness of God was ad- mirable to us in our low estate, in that he raised up passionate2 Friends on every side to us, when we had nothing to recompance any for their love. The Indians were now gone that way, that it was apprehended dangerous to go to her: But the Carts which carried Provision to the English Army, being guarded, brought her with them to Dorchester, where we received her safe: blessed be the Lord for it, For great is his Power, and he can do whatsoever seemeth him good. Her coming in was after this manner: She was travelling one day with the Indians, with her basket at her back; the company of Indians were got before her, and gone out of sight, all except one Squaw; she followed the Squaw till night, and then both of them lay down, having nothing over them but the heavens, and under them but the earth. Thus she travelled three dayes together, not knowing whither she was going: having nothing to eat or drink but water, and green Hirtle-berries. At last they came into Providence, where she was kindly entertained by several of that Town. The Indians often said, that I should never have her under twenty pounds: But now the Lord hath brought her in upon free-cost, and given her to me the sec-

1. Jeremiah 31:16. 2. Compassionate.

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Mary Rowlandson from A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson

ond time. The Lord make us a blessing indeed, each to others. Now have I seen that Scripture also fulfilled, Deut. 30:4, 7. If any of thine be driven out to the out- most parts of heaven, from thence will the Lord thy God gather thee, and from thence will he fetch thee. And the Lord thy God will put all these curses upon thine enemies, and on them which hate thee, which persecuted thee. Thus hath the Lord brought me and mine out of that horrible pit, and hath set us in the midst of tender-hearted and compassionate Christians. It is the desire of my soul, that we may walk worthy of the mercies received, and which we are receiving.

Our Family being now gathered together (those of us that were living) the South Church in Boston hired an House for us: Then we removed from Mr. Shep- ards, those cordial Friends, and went to Boston, where we continued about three quarters of a year: Still the Lord went along with us, and provided graciously for us. I thought it somewhat strange to set up House-keeping with bare walls; but as Solomon sayes, Mony answers all things;3 and that we had through the benevo- lence of Christian-friends, some in this Town, and some in that, and others: And some from England, that in a little time we might look, and see the House furnished with love. The Lord hath been exceeding good to us in our low estate, in that when we had neither house nor home, nor other necessaries; the Lord so moved the hearts of these and those towards us, that we wanted neither food, nor raiment for our selves or ours, Prov. 18. 24. There is a Friend which sticketh closer than a Brother. And how many such Friends have we found, and now living amongst? And truly such a Friend have we found him to be unto us, in whose house we lived, viz. Mr. James Whitcomb, a Friend unto us near hand, and afar off.

I can remember the time, when I used to sleep quietly without workings in my thoughts, whole nights together, but now it is other wayes with me. When all are fast about me, and no eye open, but his who ever waketh, my thoughts are upon things past, upon the awfull dispensation of the Lord towards us; upon his won- derfull power and might, in carrying of us through so many difficulties, in return- ing us in safety, and suffering none to hurt us. I remember in the night season, how the other day I was in the midst of thousands of enemies, and nothing but death before me: It is then hard work to perswade my self, that ever I should be satisfied with bread again. But now we are fed with the finest of the Wheat, and, as I may say, With honey out of the rock:4 In stead of the Husk, we have the fat- ted Calf:5 The thoughts of these things in the particulars of them, and of the love and goodness of God towards us, make it true of me, what David said of himself, Psal. 6. 6. I watered my Couch with my tears. Oh! the wonderfull power of God that mine eyes have seen, affording matter enough for my thoughts to run in, that when others are sleeping mine eyes are weeping.

I have seen the extrem vanity of this World: One hour I have been in health, and wealth, wanting nothing: But the next hour in sickness and wounds, and death, having nothing but sorrow and affliction.

Before I knew what affliction meant, I was ready sometimes to wish for it. When I lived in prosperity, having the comforts of the World about me, my rela- tions by me, my Heart chearfull, and taking little care for any thing; and yet seeing

3. Ecclesiastes 10:19. 4. Psalm 81:16. 5. Luke 15:23.

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Mary Rowlandson from A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson

many, whom I preferred before my self, under many tryals and afflictions, in sick- ness, weakness, poverty, losses, crosses, and cares of the World, I should be some- times jealous least I should have my portion in this life, and that Scripture would come to my mind, Heb. 12. 6. For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every Son whom he receiveth. But now I see the Lord had his time to scourge and chasten me. The portion of some is to have their afflictions by drops, now one drop and then another; but the dregs of the Cup, the Wine of astonish- ment, like a sweeping rain that leaveth no food, did the Lord prepare to be my portion. Affliction I wanted, and affliction I had, full measure (I thought) pressed down and running over; yet I see, when God calls a Person to any thing, and through never so many difficulties, yet he is fully able to carry them through and make them see, and say they have been gainers thereby. And I hope I can say in some measure, As David did, It is good for me that I have been afflicted.6 The Lord hath shewed me the vanity of these outward things. That they are the Vanity of vanities,7 and vexation of spirit; that they are but a shadow, a blast, a bubble, and things of no continuance. That we must rely on God himself, and our whole dependance must be upon him. If trouble from smaller matters begin to arise in me, I have something at hand to check my self with, and say, why am I troubled? It was but the other day that if I had had the world, I would have given it for my freedom, or to have been a Servant to a Christian. I have learned to look beyond present and smaller troubles, and to be quieted under them, as Moses said, Exod. 14. 13. Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.

Finis.

1682

6. Psalm 119:71. 7. “Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

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EDWARD TAYLOR (1642?–1729)

During the lifetime of Edward Taylor only a few friends read his poems, which re- mained in manuscript. The quiet country pastor tended his flock at Westfield, then a frontier village, in the Connecticut valley, and regarded his poems as sacramen- tal acts of private devotion and worship. Ezra Stiles, the poet’s grandson, inherited the manuscript, along with Taylor’s command “that his heirs should never pub- lish” it; he therefore deposited it in the library at Yale College, of which he was the president. More than two centuries passed before it was discovered, and by that time little could be learned of the man besides what appears in the poetry.

The poetry alone is sufficient to establish him as a writer of a genuine power unequaled by any American poet until Bryant appeared, 150 years later. “A man of small stature but firm: of quick Passions—yet serious and grave,” wrote his grand- son Ezra Stiles; and Samuel Sewall remembered a sermon he had preached at the Old South Church in Boston, which “might have been preached at Paul’s Cross.” This poet was clearly a man of great spiritual passion, of large and liberal learning, enraptured by the Puritan dream to such a degree that he could express it in living song. His success was by no means invariable, but his best poems, a considerable number, justify the position that he at once attained in our literature when in 1939 Thomas H. Johnson published from manuscript a generous selection.

Taylor was probably born in Sketchley, Leicestershire, England, and most likely in a family of dissenters. Johnson points out that an ardent young Congre- gationalist was not then welcome at the British universities, and concludes that the persecutions of 1662 confirmed Taylor’s resolution to emigrate. He taught school for a few years, but finally, in July 1668, he arrived in Boston, seeking lib- erty and education. He carried letters to Increase Mather, already a prominent clergyman, and to John Hull, the Master of the Mint, the leading capitalist of the colony, and father of Sewall’s first wife. The earnest young seeker captured the af- fections of his hosts—the Mathers became his intimates for life—and in a few days it was arranged for him to be off for Harvard, where he and Samuel Mather, a nephew of Increase, were classmates. He and Sewall were still closer—“Chamber- fellows and Bed-fellows,” as the latter records, adding that “he * * * drew me thither.” Quite certainly young Taylor captivated everyone, although his college life was otherwise uneventful, save for some academic distinctions.

Upon graduation in 1671 he accepted a call from the congregation of West- field, and spent the remaining fifty-eight years of his life in quiet usefulness as pas- tor to his Congregational flock. He married twice and became the father of thirteen children, most of whom he outlived. In 1720 Harvard conferred on him the de- gree of master of arts. Taylor died in 1729, “entirely enfeebled * * * longing and waiting for his Dismission.”

Taylor’s manuscript book is in several sections: “God’s Determinations,” which includes “The Preface,” “The Glory of and Grace in the Church set out,” and “The Joy of Church Fellowship rightly attended”; the “Preparatory Meditations,” in two series, including the “Meditations” below and “The Reflexion”; and “Miscella- neous Poems,” the source of the remaining poems reprinted here. Never a servile

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imitator, Taylor was quite evidently acquainted with the serious British poetry of his times, especially the metaphysical poets—such as Donne, Crashaw, and Her- bert—and the contemporaries of Milton, who published Paradise Lost the year be- fore young Taylor set out for America. Dr. Samuel Johnson called Donne’s poems “metaphysical” in disparagement, but poets of the twentieth century restored them to honor. Readers of the seventeenth-century poets or of Hopkins, Yeats, or Eliot will recognize Taylor’s metaphysical language, in which the extreme extension of an emotion has led to extravagant projection of the figure of speech, or to the asso- ciation of ideas and images under almost unbearable tensions, as in the figure of the spinning wheel of “Huswifery” and in the metaphors of the bird of paradise and the bread of life in “Meditation 8.” Taylor’s work was uneven; yet at his best he produced lines and passages of startling vitality, fusing lofty concept and homely detail in the memorable fashion of great poetry. He was a true mystic whose expe- rience still convinces us, and one of the four or five American Puritans whose writ- ings retain the liveliness of genuine literature.

Thomas H. Johnson edited The Poetical Works of Edward Taylor, 1939, a selection. Donald E. Stan- ford’s The Poems of Edward Taylor, 1960, is more complete. Other editions of Taylor’s work include Norman S. Grabo’s Edward Taylor’s “Christographia,” 1962; Grabo’s edition of Treatise Concerning the Lord’s Supper, 1966; T. M. and V. L. Davis, eds., The Unpublished Writings of Edward Taylor, 3 vols., 1981; and T. M. and V. L. Davis, eds., Edward Taylor’s Harmony of the Gospels, 1983. Studies are by Donald Stanford, Edward Taylor, 1965; Karl Keller, The Example of Edward Taylor, 1975; Karen E. Rowe, Saint and Singer: Edward Taylor’s Typology and the Poetics of Meditation, 1986; and John Gatta, Gracious Laughter: The Meditative Wit of Edward Taylor, 1989.

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Edward Taylor Upon Wedlock, and Death of Children

EDWARD TAYLOR

Upon Wedlock, and Death of Children

A Curious Knot God made in Paradise, And drew it out inamled neatly Fresh.

It was the True-Love Knot, more sweet than spice And set with all the flowres of Graces dress. Its Weddens Knot, that ne’re can be unti’de. 5 No Alexanders Sword can it divide.1

The slips here planted, gay and glorious grow: Unless an Hellish breath do sindge their Plumes.

Here Primrose, Cowslips, Roses, Lilies blow With Violets and Pinkes that voide2 perfumes. 10 Whose beautious leaves ore laid with Hony Dew. And Chanting birds Cherp out sweet Musick true.

When in this Knot I planted was, my Stock Soon knotted, and a manly flower3 out brake.

And after it my branch again did knot 15 Brought out another Flowre its sweet breathd mate. One knot gave one tother the tothers place. Whence Checkling smiles fought in each others face.

But oh! a glorious hand from glory came Guarded with Angells, soon did Crop this flowre 20

Which almost tore the root up of the same At that unlookt for, Dolesome, darksome houre. In Pray’re to Christ perfum’de it did ascend, And Angells bright did it to heaven tend.

But pausing on’t, this sweet perfum’d my thought, 25 Christ would in Glory have a Flowre, Choice, Prime,

And having Choice, chose this my branch forth brought. Lord take’t. I thanke thee, thou takst ought of mine,

1. As in the story of the Gordian knot cut by Alexander the Great. 2. Emit. 3. The first of four children of Taylor mentioned in the poem (see ll. 16, 32, 33). Two died before the poem was written, probably in 1682 or 1683—after the second death, but before the birth of a fifth child, not mentioned in the poem.

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Edward Taylor Upon Wedlock, and Death of Children

It is my pledg in glory, part of mee Is now in it, Lord, glorifi’de with thee. 30

But praying ore my branch, my branch did sprout And bore another manly flower, and gay

And after that another, sweet brake out, The which the former hand soon got away. But oh! the tortures, Vomit, screechings, groans, 35 And six weeks Fever would pierce hearts like stones.

Griefe o’re doth flow: and nature fault would finde Were not thy Will, my Spell Charm, Joy, and Gem:

That as I said, I say, take, Lord, they’re thine. I piecemeale pass to Glory bright in them. 40 I joy, may I sweet Flowers for Glory breed, Whether thou getst them green, or lets them seed.

1682–1683 1939

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Crosscurrents Puritanism, Indians, and Witchcraft

In the grand vision of John Winthrop’s “A Model of Christian Charity,” Puritansin Massachusetts were placed “as a city upon a hill” to create a model of suc- cess and prosperity that would light the way for the rest of humankind. They be- lieved that God had chosen them to establish a New Jerusalem in a land of Edenic promise and conceived of that effort as an epic fraught with peril. The country was rich to the plow but darkened by forests of unknown nature and extent. The native people, scarce remainders of a population decimated by diseases prior to the earliest Puritan settlements, greeted them in friendship, but they were not be- lievers in ways familiar to Europeans.

The Puritans believed God both favored and tested them. In their theology the devil possessed real existence as a tempter and tormentor, whose efforts they must defeat in order to earn the eternal salvation of God’s best promise. Some saw the Indians as souls to be saved, and men like John Eliot worked to Christianize them, establishing towns of “Praying Indians” near Boston and other settlements. Others saw them as imps of Satan, conscripts in the devil’s warfare against the godly. As the seventeenth century wore on, events conspired to diminish the idea of Indians as potential friends and allies and greatly enlarge the concept of them as implacable enemies and instruments of the devil. By the closing decades of the seventeenth cen- tury, Puritans inhabited a land where the bright promise of the plow had turned into a grim reality of guns and tomahawks. Towns and villages burned, and men, women, and children, both white and red, died in bloody ways and astonishing numbers. Whites were carried as captives to Canada. Indians were sent as slaves to Barbados.

In this grievous time, the Puritans believed that God sent another test. In 1692, when Massachusetts succumbed to witchcraft fever, they believed that the devil was asserting his power again, though the scourge itself was not new. They had no doubt that witches existed. In Europe, an estimated half a million had been put to death, most by burning. By this measure, Salem numbers seem small, the deaths less grisly.

On the American side of the Atlantic, the drama played out against a back- ground of unknown forces in dark forests. The “black man” or “tawny man” mentioned in trial records simultaneously evoked both the devil and the Indians. Torments alleged against the witches replicated hurts suffered at the hands of the Indians, and supernatural powers accorded to both seemed eerily similar. While the trials progressed, Indian raids continued to bring burnings, deaths, mutila- tions, and captivities to nearby towns in Massachusetts and New Hampshire where some of the accused and their accusers had lived. In the resultant hysteria, the very life of the Puritan settlements seemed at risk.

The trials lasted only a few months. Indian wars in New England lasted not much longer. The region’s deep wounds from both sources brought lasting remorse and fueled later fires of literary imagination and social reform.

CROSSCURRENTS Puritanism, Indians, and Witchcraft

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Crosscurrents Puritanism, Indians, and Witchcraft

The following selections reflect the trajectory of the Puritans’ witch anxiety: they show the connection between Indian powaws (or medicine men) and witch- craft in the Puritan imagination; they show the similarities between the magic the Indians were believed to practice and that the accused witches were thought guilty of; they display the strength and spiritual integrity of one of the victims of the tri- als; and they show the community’s later deep sorrow and repentance.

WILLIAM WOOD (fl. 1629–1635)

An early resident of Massachusetts, Wood is remembered for his call for others to settle there, New England’s Prospect: A True, Lively, and Experimental Description of that Part of America, Commonly Called New England (1634), the source of the following selection. The Indians in his time were friendly, but the belief that they had powers that came from the devil opened a wedge of prejudice for the future.

[Native Religion]

* * * They report of one Pissacannawa that he can make the water burn, the rocks move, the trees dance, metamorphize himself into a flaming man. But, it may be objected, this is but deceptio visus.1 He will therefore do more, for in win- ter, when there is no green leaves to be got, he will burn an old one to ashes, and putting those into the water, produce a new green leaf, which you shall not only see but substantially handle and carry away; and make of a dead snake’s skin a living snake, both to be seen, felt, and heard. This I write but upon the report of the Indians, who confidently affirm stranger things.

But to make manifest that by God’s permission, through the Devil’s help, their charms are of force to produce effects of wonderment, an honest gentleman re- lated this story to me, being an eyewitness of the same. A powaw2 having a pa- tient with the stump of some small tree run through his foot, being past the cure of his ordinary surgery, betook himself to his charms, and being willing to show his miracle before the English stranger, he wrapped a piece of cloth about the foot of the lame man. Upon that wrapping a beaver skin, by his sucking charms he brought out the stump, which he spat into a tray of water, returning the foot as whole as its fellow in a short time.

The manner of their action in their conjuration is thus. The parties that are sick or lame being brought before them, the powaw sits down, the rest of the Indi- ans give attentive audience to his imprecations and invocations, and after the vio- lent expression of many a hideous bellowing and groaning, he makes a stop, and then all the auditors with one voice utter a short canto; which done, the powaw still proceeds in his invocations, sometimes roaring like a bear, other times groan-

1. An illusion. 2. Magician or medicine man.

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ing like a dying horse, foaming at the mouth like a chased boar, smiting on his naked breast and thighs with such violence as if he were mad. Thus will he con- tinue sometimes half a day, spending his lungs, sweating out his fat, and torment- ing his body in this diabolical worship. Sometimes the Devil for requital of their worship recovers the party, to nuzzle them up in their devilish religion.

1634

JOHN WINTHROP (1588–1649)

In his History of New England from 1630 to 1649 Winthrop reports a witchcraft trial nearly half a century before the Salem trials of 1692.

[The Trial of Margaret Jones]

At this court one Margaret Jones of Charlestown was indicted and found guilty of witchcraft, and hanged for it [1648].

The evidence against her was: 1. That she was found to have such a malig- nant touch as many persons (men, women, and children) whom she stroked or touched with any affection or displeasure were taken with deafness, or vomiting, or other violent pains or sickness.

2. She practicing physic, and her medicines being such things as (by her own confession) were harmless, as aniseed, liquors, et cetera, yet had extraordinary vi- olent effects.

3. She would use to tell such as would not make use of her physic that they would never be healed, and accordingly their diseases and hurts continued, with relapse against the ordinary course, and beyond the apprehension of all physicians and surgeons.

4. Some things which she foretold came to pass accordingly; other things she could tell of (as secret speeches, et cetera) which she had no ordinary means to come to the knowledge of.

5. She had (upon search) an apparent teat in her secret parts as fresh as if it had been newly sucked, and after it had been scanned, upon a forced search, that was withered and another began on the opposite side.

6. In the prison, in the clear daylight, there was seen in her arms, she sitting on the floor and her clothes up, a little child, which ran from her into another room, and the officer following it, it was vanished. The like child was seen in two other places, to which she had relation; and one maid that saw it fell sick upon it, and was cured by the said Margaret, who used means to be employed to that end.

Her behavior at her trial was very intemperate, lying notoriously and railing upon the jury and witnesses, and in the like distemper she died. The same day and hour she was executed, there was a very great tempest at Connecticut, which blew down many trees.

1825–1826

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Crosscurrents Puritanism, Indians, and Witchcraft

COTTON MATHER (1663–1728)

In Magnalia Christi Americana (1702), Mather reports on mixed Indian and Christian beliefs and practices.

[Indian Powaws and Witchcraft]

Having promised an account of the conversation of many Indians inhabiting these parts of America, it may be well expected I should say something of their religion while heathen.

They generally acknowledged and worshiped many gods, and therefore greatly esteemed and reverenced their priests, powaws, or wizards, as having im- mediate converse with the gods. To them therefore they addressed themselves in all difficult cases. Yet could not all that desire that dignity (as they esteemed it) ob- tain familiarity with the infernal spirits, nor were all powaws alike successful in their addresses; but they become such, either by immediate revelation or in the use of certain rites and ceremonies. Tradition had left a means conducing to that end, in so much that parents often out of zeal dedicated their children to the gods and educated them accordingly, observing certain diet, debarring sleep, et cetera. Yet of the many thus designed, but few obtained their desire.

Supposing that where the practice of witchcraft has been highly esteemed, there may be given the plainest demonstration of mortals having familiarity with infernal spirits, I am willing to let my reader know that not many years since died here one of the powaws, who never pretended to astrological knowledge, yet could precisely inform such who desire his assistance from whence goods stolen from them were taken, and whither carried, with many things of the like nature. Nor was he ever known to endeavor concealing that his knowledge was immediately from a god subservient to him that the English worshiped. * * *

I must a little digress, and tell my reader that this powaw’s wife was accounted a godly woman and lived in the practice and profession of the Christian religion, not only by the approbation but encouragement of her husband. She constantly prayed in the family, and he could not blame her for that she served a God that was above him. But that as to himself, his god’s continued kindness obliged him not to forsake his service.

That the powaws by the infernal spirits often killed persons, caused lameness and impotency, as well as showed their art in performing things beyond human, by diabolic skill—such who have conversed much among them have had no rea- son to question.

Their practice was either to desire the spirit appearing to them to perform what mischief they intended; or to form a piece of leather, like an arrowhead, tying an hair thereto, or using some bone, as of fish (that it might be known witchcraft to the bewitched), over which they performed certain ceremonies, and dismissed them to effect their desire.

Such enchanted things have most certainly either entered the bodies of those intended by them to be wounded, or the Devil hath formed the like within their flesh, without any outward breach of the skin. Such we have good reason to be- lieve, the powaws acknowledging that practice, and such things having been taken

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out of the flesh of the ones supposed to be bewitched. Or they seize something of the spirit (as the Devil made them think) of those they intended to torment or kill, while it wandered in their sleep. This they kept, being in form of a fly, closely im- prisoned; and accordingly as they dealt with this, so it fared with the body it be- longed to.

1702

MARY TOWNE EASTY (1634?–1692)

Mary Easty was accused of witchcraft during the Salem trials. In April 1692, Judge John Hathorne, an ancestor of Nathaniel Hawthorne, ordered her to join her sis- ters Sarah Cloyce and Rebecca Nurse in jail. Rebecca was tried in June and hanged in July. Mary appeared before the grand jury in August and was tried, condemned, and hanged in September.

She had petitioned that “no more innocent blood be shed,” but Governor Phips did not respond to her petition. For most of the summer and during the pe- riod of Easty’s trial and execution, he was in Maine (then a part of Massachusetts), where he was attempting to forestall further attacks from the French and Indians. Nor did others within the court system respond, although sentiment against the tri- als was rapidly building. Robert Calef reported in his More Wonders of the Invis- ible World (1700) that her death was “as serious, religious, distinct, and affectionate as could well be expressed” and that her “last farewell” drew “tears from the eyes of almost all present.” She and the seven men and women who died with her were the last “witches” to be executed in Massachusetts.

By the end of the year the trials were terminated. Easty’s petition speaks elo- quently to the independent spirit, unwavering faith, and firm resolve of a strong woman caught in the web of a tragic communal mistake.

[The Petition of Mary Easty]

The humble petition of Mary Easty unto his Excellencies Sir William Phips, and to the Honored Judge and bench now sitting in judicature in Salem, and the Rev- erend Ministers, humbly sheweth:

That whereas your poor and humble petitioner, being condemned to die, do humbly beg of you to take it in your judicious and pious considerations that your poor and humble petitioner, knowing my own innocencie—blessed be the Lord for it—and seeing plainly the wiles and subtility of my accusers, by myself cannot but judge charitably of others that are going the way of myself, if the Lord steps not mightily in. I was confined a whole month upon the same account that I am condemned now for, and then cleared by the afflicted persons, as some of your Honors know. And in two days time I was cried out upon by them and have been confined and now am condemned to die. The Lord above knows my innocencie then and likewise does now, as at the great day will be known to men and angels. I petition to your Honors not for my own life, for I know I must die and my ap- pointed time is set, but (the Lord knows it is) that if it be possible, no more inno- cent blood may be shed, which undoubtedly cannot be avoided in the way and course you go in. I question not but your Honors does to the utmost of your power

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Crosscurrents Puritanism, Indians, and Witchcraft

in the discovery and selecting of witchcraft and witches, and would not be guilty of innocent blood for the world; but by my innocencie I know you are in the wrong way. The Lord in his infinite mercy direct you in this great work, if it be blessed will that no more innocent blood be shed. I would humbly beg of you that your Honors would be pleased to examine these afflicted persons strictly and keep them apart some time, and likewise to try some of these confessing witches, I being confident there is several of them has belied themselves and others, as will appear if not in this world I am sure in the world to come, whither I am now a-going. And I question not but you’ll see an alteration of these things they say myself and others, having made a league with the devil, we cannot confess. I know and the Lord knows, as will shortly appear, they belie me and so I question not but they do others. The Lord above, who is the searcher of all hearts, knows that as I shall answer it at the tribunal seat that I know not the least thing of witchcraft—there- fore I cannot, I dare not, belie my own Soul. I beg your Honors not to deny this my humble petition from a poor dying innocent person, and I question not but that the Lord will give a blessing to your endeavors.

1692

SAMUEL SEWALL (1652–1730)

Five years after the witchcraft trials ended, Judge Sewall posted his confession in church and summarized the occasion in his diary in the form reprinted below. Such was the community’s accumulated sense of wrong that a dozen jurors also begged forgiveness, expressing “to all in general (and to the surviving Sufferers in especial) our deep sense of, and sorrow for our Errors, in acting on such Evidence to the condemning of any person.”

[A Witchcraft Judge’s Confession of Guilt]

Jan. 14, 1697. Copy of the Bill I put up on the Fast day; giving it to Mr. Willard as he pass’d by, and standing up at the reading of it, and bowing when finished; in the Afternoon.

Samuel Sewall, sensible of the reiterated strokes of God upon himself and family;1 and being sensible, that as to the Guilt contracted upon the opening of the late commission of Oyer and Terminer2 at Salem (to which the order for this Day relates) he is, upon many accounts, more concerned than any that he knows of, Desires to take the Blame and shame of it, Asking pardon of men, And espe- cially desiring prayers that God, who has an Unlimited Authority, would pardon that sin and all other his sins; personal and Relative: And according to his infinite Benignity, and Sovereignty, Not Visit the sin of him, or of any other, upon himself or any of his, nor upon the Land: But that He would powerfully defend him against all Temptations to Sin, for the future; and vouchsafe him the efficacious, saving Conduct of his Word and Spirit. 1697 1878

1. In 1696, the Sewalls had lost two children, a stillborn son in May and a daughter in December. 2. Court for criminal trials.

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COTTON MATHER (1663–1728)

From his own day to the present, few of his critics have been able to express unal- loyed enthusiasm for Cotton Mather, either as man or as writer. Yet it is impossi- ble to ignore the fantastic bulk of his writing, his contemporary influence, or the international reputation of his best works. In fact, in spite of the colossal mass, dullness, and personal bias of his work as a whole, it has been a valuable source for knowledge of the history and the people of colonial New England, while a number of his writings possess genuine and enduring power. Mather himself has been viewed as a pedantic egotist, a reactionary, and a bigoted witch-hunter; yet it seems only just to remember also that he was fighting a losing battle for the sur- vival of an ideal and a theology that to him were life itself, while the tide of a new age, secular and materialistic, crumbled the defenses about his zealot’s Zion.

The way of life that he belatedly defended was symbolized by the dynasty of which he was the last, in succession to his grandfather, Richard, and his father, In- crease Mather. This priesthood had represented the dominant hierarchy of New England during more than a half century. Cotton Mather was enrolled in Harvard at eleven, already prodigious for his command of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and soon to become saturated with self-conscious piety and learning. Receiving his mas- ter of arts degree at eighteen, he entered the ministry at the Second Church in Boston as assistant to his father, whom he succeeded in due course. There he spent his life in a superhuman ferment of activity and publication which carried far beyond his parish duties into public issues, decorum, and morals, as well as theological dogma.

His personality, however, was not likely to sustain his chosen role even under favorable circumstances, and Boston was no longer the Puritan community of his father’s youth. Encouraged by inherited authority and by his early reputation of unearthly genius, convinced that God had ordained him vicar by removing a speech defect, he became, as Moses Coit Tyler says in A History of American Lit- erature, 1607–1765, a victim of circumstances, “stretched every instant of his life, on the rack of ostentatious exertion, intellectual and religious, * * * in defer- ence to a dreadful system of ascetic and pharisaic formalism, in which his nature was hopelessly enmeshed.” In his all-consuming study he amassed two thousand books, the largest of the colonial libraries; his scientific speculations secured his election to the Royal Society; his ceaseless writing produced 444 bound volumes, fourteen of them in one year in which he also continued to perform his duties as pastor and observed twenty vigils and sixty fasts. It is reported that he kept 450 fasts during his life and once publicly humiliated himself for his sins. In modern terms this suggests a state of hysteria, a Puritan tragedy of genius. When he died in 1728, he had survived three wives—the last died insane—he had outlived all but two of fifteen children, and one of the survivors had gone far astray. His pub- lic leadership had failed, yet his own faith had never wavered, however narrow it may seem to modern thought.

Mather’s great literary defect was his style—pedantic, heavy with literary al- lusions and quotations in several languages, often arrogant, violent in its images, language, and bursts of passion. This “fantastic” style had flourished for a time in

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various European literatures from Italy to England, and Mather was among its last defenders. When he was deeply moved, however, he could make of it an im- pressive instrument, particularly in the biographical sketches in Magnalia Christi Americana (1702), his best-known production. This ponderous work comprises seven books, including a history of the New England settlements; “lives” of gov- ernors, magistrates, and “sixty famous divines”; records of “divine providences” and the “wars of the Lord” against Satan, witches, heretics, Quakers, and Indi- ans—a pastiche of brilliance, beauty, and botch-work. The earlier Wonders of the Invisible World (1693) is a vigorous analysis of the validity of evidence against witches, which still evokes the morbid fascination of reasoned error. Mather had not participated in the bloody trials of the previous year, but his influence then was on the side of the prosecution, although in 1700 he repudiated some of the convicting evidence as invalid. Bonifacius (1710), later called Essays to Do Good, quite remarkably establishes a practical system for the daily transaction of good deeds and benevolence—and delighted Franklin’s rationalistic mind. Psalterium Americanum (1718), a translation of the psalms, advanced Mather’s liberal lead- ership in the movement to restore psalm singing to worship. Parentator (1724), his life of his father, vies with his sketch of John Eliot in Magnalia for gentleness and insight; and these qualities are again present in Manuductio ad Ministerium (1726), a manual of guidance for young ministers.

There is no collected edition of the works of Cotton Mather. Editions are listed in J. T. Holmes, Cot- ton Mather: A Bibliography of His Works, 3 vols., with analyses and notes, 1940. Carefully chosen and edited is Kenneth B. Murdock’s Selections from Cotton Mather, 1926. Magnalia Christi Americana; or The Ecclesiastical History of New-England, was published in London, 1702, and in Hartford, 1820, new ed., 2 vols., 1853–55. A scholarly modern edition is Magnalia Christi Americana, ed. Kenneth B. Murdock, with Elizabeth W. Miller, 1977. Other modern editions of value include Selected Letters, ed. K. Silverman, 1971, and Bonifacius, ed. David Levin, 1966. Wonders of the Invisible World, reprinted as Witchcraft, appeared in 1956, and the Diary, 2 vols., in 1957. The first full biography is Kenneth Sil- verman’s The Life and Times of Cotton Mather, 1984. An earlier profile is Barrett Wendell’s Cotton Mather, 1891. See also Robert Middlekauff, The Mathers: Three Generations of Puritan Intellectuals, 1971; David Levin, Cotton Mather: The Young Life of The Lord’s Remembrancer, 1978; and J. Erwin, The Millennialism of Cotton Mather, 1990.

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Cotton Mather from Bonifacius: Essays to Do Good

COTTON MATHER

From Bonifacius: Essays to Do Good1@

Much Occasion for Doing Good

Such glorious things are spoken in the oracles of God, concerning them who de- vise good, that A BOOK OF GOOD DEVICES may reasonably demand attention and ac- ceptance from those who have any impressions of the most reasonable religion upon them. I am devising such a BOOK; but at the same time offering a sorrowful demonstration, that if men would set themselves to devise good, a world of good might be done more than is now done, in this “present evil world.” Much is requi- site to be done that the great God and his Christ may be more known and served in the world; and that the errors which prevent men from glorifying their Creator and Redeemer may be rectified. Much is necessary to be done that the evil man- ners of the world, by which men are drowned in perdition, may be reformed; and mankind rescued from the epidemical corruption which has overwhelmed it. Much must be done that the miseries of the world may have suitable remedies provided for them; and that the wretched may be relieved and comforted. The world con- tains, it is supposed, about a thousand millions of inhabitants. What an ample field do these afford, for doing good? In a word, the kingdom of God in the world calls for innumerable services from us. To do such things is to do good. Those men devise good, who form plans which have such a tendency, whether the objects be of a temporal or spiritual nature. You see the general matter, appearing as yet but a chaos, which is to be wrought upon. O! that the good Spirit of God may now fall upon us, and carry on the glorious work which lies before us!

1. In its first publication (1710) Bonifacius had a five-line title, but it soon became known as “Essays to Do Good.” Actually the essays have a certain continuity: the first third or more is the philosophical generalization, which we represent here. The remainder is a quaintly pedagogical, yet perceptive analy- sis of problems of “doing good” for specific groups—wives, servants, and so on; or in occupations—as teachers, civil officials, “rich men,” lawyers.

In the philosophical generalization, his magnanimous “world-view” somewhat resembles the con- cerns of the present century. Mather’s ethical system is God-centered, but God is not exclusively the Judeo-Christian Jehovah. “I produce,” says Mather, “not only religion but even Humanity itself. * * * I speak to wise men, whose reason shall be my rhetoric, and to Christians, whose conscience shall be my eloquence, * * * that Mankind [be] rescued from the epidemical corruption which has over- whelmed it. * * * A man cannot but find himself while he is doing good [because of] that ‘divine na- ture’ of which we are partakers.”

Among many, Franklin was early influenced by this book, as he tells us in his Autobiography, so much so that he echoed its title for the “Do-good Papers.” Also, Franklin’s system of self-appraisal may reflect the system of practical self-discipline recommended by Mather. And fifty years after Mather’s death Franklin wrote to Richard Mather, his son (from Passy, France, 1779), “it gave me such a turn of thinking as to have influence on my conduct through life.”

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The Excellence of Well-Doing

It may be presumed that my readers will readily admit, that it is an excellent thing to be full of devices to bring about such noble designs. For any man to deride or despise my proposal, “That we resolve and study to do as much good in the world as we can,” would be the mark of so black a character, that I am almost unwilling to suppose its existence. Let no man pretend to the name of a Christian, who does not approve the proposal of a perpetual endeavour to do good in the world. What pretension can such a man have to be a follower of the Good One? The primitive Christians gladly accepted and improved the name, when the Pagans, by a mis- take, styled them Chrestians; because it signified, useful ones. The Christians, who have no ambition to be such, shall be condemned by the Pagans; among whom it was a title of the highest honour to be termed, “a Benefactor:” To have done good, was accounted honourable. The philosopher being asked, Why every one desired to gaze on a fair object, answered, that it was the question of a blind man. If any man ask, Why it is so necessary to do good? I must say, it sounds not like the ques- tion of a good man. The “spiritual taste” of every good man will give him an un- speakable relish for it. Yea, unworthy to be deemed a man, is he, who is not for doing good among men. An enemy to the proposal, “that mankind may be the better for us,” deserves to be reckoned little better than a common enemy of mankind. How cogently do I bespeak a good reception of what is now designed! I produce not only religion, but even humanity itself, as full of a “fiery indignation against the adversaries” of the design. Excuse me, Sirs; I declare, that if I could have my choice, I would never eat or drink, or walk, with such a one, as long as I live; or look on him as any other than one by whom humanity itself is debased and blemished. A very wicked writer had yet found himself compelled, by the force of reason, to publish this confession: “To love the public; to study the universal good; and to promote the interest of the whole world, as far as it is in our power, is surely the highest goodness, and constitutes that temper, which we call divine.” And he proceeds—“Is doing good for the sake of glory so divine?” (alas! too much human!) “or, is it not more divine to do good, even where it may be thought in- glorious; even to the ungrateful, and to those who are wholly insensible of the good they receive?” A man must be far gone in wickedness, who will open his mouth against such maxims and actions! A better pen has remarked it; yea, the man must be much a stranger to history, who has not made the remark: “To speak truth, and to do good, were, in the esteem even of the heathen world, most God- like qualities.” God forbid, that there should be any abatement of esteem for those qualities in the Christian world!

The Reward of Well-Doing

I will not yet propose the REWARD of well doing, and the glorious things which the mercy and truth of God will perform for those who devise good; because I would have to do with such as esteem it a sufficient reward to itself. I will suppose my readers to be possessed of that ingenuous temper, which will induce them to ac- count themselves well rewarded in the thing itself, if God will permit them to do good in the world. It is an invaluable honour to do good; it is an incomparable pleasure. A man must look upon himself as dignified and gratified by God, when an opportunity to do good is put into his hands. He must embrace it with rapture,

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as enabling him to answer the great end of his being. He must manage it with rap- turous delight, as a most suitable business, as a most precious privilege. He must “sing in those ways of the Lord,” wherein he cannot but find himself while he is doing good. As the saint of old sweetly sang, “I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord;”2 so ought we to be glad when any opportu- nity of doing good is presented to us. We should need no arguments to incline us to entertain the offer; but should naturally fly into the matter, as most agreeable to that “divine nature” of which we are made partakers. It should gratify us wonder- fully; as much as if an ingot of gold were presented to us! We should rejoice as having obtained the utmost of our wishes. Some servants of God have been so in- tent on this object, that they have cheerfully proposed to make any recompense that could be desired, to a friend who would supply the barrenness of their own thoughts, and suggest any special methods by which they might be useful. Cer- tainly, to do good, is a thing that brings its own recompense, in the opinion of those who deem information on this head worthy of a recompense. I will only say, that if any of my readers are strangers to such a disposition as this, and do not consider themselves enriched and favoured of God, when he employs them in doing good—with such persons I have done, and would beg them to lay the book aside: it will be irksome to carry on any further conversation with them: it is a subject on which the house of Caleb3 will not be conversed with. I will be content with one of Dr. Stoughton’s4 introductions; “It is enough for me that I speak to wise men, whose reason shall be my rhetoric; to Christians, whose conscience shall be my eloquence.”

Though the assertion may fly like a chain-shot amongst us, and rake down all before it, I will again and again assert, that every one of us might do more good than he does; and therefore this is the first proposal I would make. To be exceed- ingly humbled that we have done so little good in the world. I am not uncharita- ble in saying, that I know not one assembly of Christians on earth, which ought not to be a Bochim,5 on this consideration. O! tell me in what Utopia I shall find it. Sirs! let us begin to be fruitful, by lamenting our past unfruitfulness. Verily, sins of omission must be confessed and lamented, or else we add to their number. The most useful men in the world have gone out of it, crying, “Lord, forgive our sins of omission!” Many a good man, who has been peculiarly conscientious about the profitable employment of his time, has had his death bed rendered uneasy by this reflection, “The loss of time now lies heavy upon me!” Certain it is, that all unre- generate persons are unprofitable persons; and they are properly compared to “thorns and briers,” to teach us what they are. An unrenewed sinner! alas, he never performed one good work in all his life! In all his life, did I say? I recall that word. He is “dead while he liveth”—he is “dead in sin;” he has not yet begun to

2. Psalm 122:1. 3. An emissary of Joshua sent with other scouts to view the land of Canaan before the actual entry of the Israelites. They returned with fine fruits as evidence of the productivity of the land, but some mur- mured that the land could not be captured (Numbers 13:2 ff.). 4. William Stoughton (1630?–1710), one of the judges of the Salem witch trials, founder of Stoughton Hall, Harvard, one-time lieutenant governor of Massachusetts. 5. The place of mourners.

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“live unto God;” and as he is himself dead, so are all his works; they are “dead works.” O, wretched, useless being! Wonder, wonder, at the patience of Heaven, which yet forbears to cut down such “a cumberer of the ground!” O that such persons may immediately acknowledge the necessity of turning to God; and how unable they are to do it; and how unworthy they are that God should make them able! O that they may cry to God for his sovereign grace to quicken them; and let them plead the sacrifice of Christ for their reconciliation to God; seriously resolve on a life of obedience to God, and resign themselves up to the Holy Spirit, that he may lead them in the paths of holiness! No good will be done, till this be done. The first-born of all devices to do good, is in being born again. * * *

On Internal Piety and Self-Examination

Why should not the charity of which we are treating, “begin at home?” It ob- serves not a due decorum if it doth not; and it will be liable to great exceptions in its pretensions and proceedings, “Call not that man wise whose wisdom begins not at home.” This then, is to be made an early PROPOSAL.

First, Let every man devise what good may be done for the correction of what is yet amiss, IN HIS OWN HEART AND LIFE. It is a good remark of the witty Fuller;6

“He need not complain of too little work, who hath a little world in himself to mend.” It was of old complained, “No man repented him, saying, What have I done?” Every man upon earth may find in himself something that wants correct- ing; and the work of repentance is to inquire, not only, “what we have done,” but also, “what we have to do.” Frequent self-examination is the duty of all who would know themselves, or would not lose themselves. The great intention of self- examination is to find out the points wherein we are to “amend our ways.” A christian that would thrive in christianity must be no stranger to a course of medi- tation. This is one of the masters which are requisite to make a “man of God.” One article and exercise in our meditation should be to find out the things wherein a greater conformity to the truths upon which we have been meditating, may be attempted. If we would be good men, we must often devise how we may grow in knowledge and in all goodness. Such an inquiry as this should often be made: “What shall I do, that what is yet lacking in the image of God upon me, may be perfected? What shall I do, that I may live more perfectly, more watchfully, more fruitfully before my glorious Lord?”

And why should not our meditation, when we retire to that profitable engage- ment, conclude with some resolution? Devise now, and resolve something to strengthen your walk with God.

With some devout hearers of the word, it is a practice, where they have heard a sermon, to think, “What good thing have I now to ask of God with a peculiar importunity?” they are also accustomed to call upon their children, and make them answer this question: “Child, what blessing will you now ask of the glorious God?” After which, they charge them to go and do accordingly.

In pursuance of this piety, why may not this be one of the exercises which shall conspire to form a good evening for the best of days? Let it be a part of our

6. Thomas Fuller (1608–1661), prominent British clergyman and author.

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work on the Lord’s-day evening, seriously to ask ourselves the following question: “If I should die this week, what have I left undone, which I should then wish I had been more diligent in performing?” My friend, place thyself in dying circum- stances; apprehend and realize thy approaching dissolution. Suppose thy last, solemn hour arrived: thy breath failing, thy throat rattling, thy hands with a cold sweat upon them—only the turn of the tide expected for thy expiration. In this condition, “What wouldst thou wish to have done more than thou hast already done, for thy own soul, for thy family, or for the people of God?” Think upon this question, and do not forget the result of thy thoughts; do not delay to perform what thou hast resolved upon. How much more agreeable and profitable would such an exercise be on the Lord’s-day evening than those vanities to which that evening is too commonly prostituted, and by which all the good of the past day is defeated! And if such an exercise were often performed, O! how much would it regulate our lives; how watchfully, how fruitfully would it cause us to live; what an incredible number of good works would it produce in the world!

Will you remember, Sirs, that every christian is a “temple of God!” It would be of great service to christianity, if this notion of its true nature were more fre- quently and clearly cultivated. But certainly there yet remains very much for every one of us to do, that the temple may be carried on to perfection; that it may be re- paired, finished, purified, and the topstone of it laid, with shoutings of “grace, grace!” unto it.

As a branch of this piety, I will recommend a serious and fruitful improvement of the various dispensations of Divine Providence which we have occasion to no- tice. More particularly: Have you received any special blessing and mercies from the hand of God? You do not suitably express your thankfulness; you do not ren- der again according to the benefit that is done unto you, unless you set yourself to consider, “What shall I render unto the Lord?” You should contrive some signal thing to be done on this occasion; some service to the kingdom of God, either within yourself, or among others, which may be a just confession and memorial of what a gracious God has done for you. This is an action, to which the “goodness of God leadeth you.” And I would ask, How can a good voyage, or a good bargain be made without some special returns of gratitude to God? I would have a portion of your property made a thank-offering, by being set apart for pious uses. * * *

Give me leave to press this one point of prudence upon you. There are not a few persons who have many hours of leisure in the way of their personal callings. When the weather takes them off from their business, or when their shops are not full of customers, they have little or nothing to do. Now, Sirs, the proposal is, “Be not fools,” but redeem this time to your own advantage, to the best advantage. To the man of leisure as well as to the minister, it is an advice of wisdom, “Give thy- self unto reading.” Good books of all sorts may employ your leisure, and enrich you with treasures more valuable than those which you might have procured in your usual avocations. Let the baneful thoughts of idleness be chased out of our minds. But then also, let some thoughts on that subject, “What good may I do?” succeed them. When you have leisure to think on that subject you can have no ex- cuse for neglecting so to do.

1710

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Thematic Section Introduction

The South and the Middle Colonies

During the seventeenth century, the South was not a land of large plantations. The eventual shift from a yeoman economy of small landholding farmers to a slave- holding plantation economy resulted from pressures of British mercantilism, a colonial system that brought substantial benefits for a time to the agricultural colonies of the South. England’s Navigation Acts of the late seventeenth century were intended to compel the colonists to sell to the mother country all their raw materials and agricultural exports, in exchange for British manufactured prod- ucts. Since British shipping had a monopoly of the carriage, at rates fixed in En- gland, the mother country was assured of a credit balance. In the northern colonies, where natural conditions favored manufactures and commerce, this ex- ploitation in time became intolerable and provided one of the deep-rooted reasons for the Revolution.

Although the southern plantation colonies were restless at being confined to the British market, their crops were generally salable there. Southern plantation wealth grew steadily, as did the system of chattel slavery. By the time of the Revo- lution the colonies had imported half a million Africans—roughly a dozen times the number of British convicts transported to work out their sentences. In the eigh- teenth century, the system supported a tidewater aristocracy that produced fami- lies of great culture, whose sons enjoyed the advantages of British and Continental universities and built fine private libraries. Among them were such leaders and statesmen as the Byrds, Jefferson, and Madison. Yet, before the period of the Rev- olution, the South added little to the creative literature of the colonies. This is not surprising. Southern urban centers were small and widely separated, and the pop- ulation, much dispersed, was composed of a few privileged aristocrats, thousands of slaves, a number of indentured servants, and a white middle class of generally unlettered frontier settlers and small yeoman farmers.

Between New England and the sprawling farmlands of the southern colonies stretched the provinces of New York, New Jersey, Delaware, and Pennsylvania. The seeds of American toleration rooted early in this area populated by diverse national strains. Here the melting pot that produced Crèvecœur’s conception of an American boiled with a briskness unknown elsewhere along the Atlantic seaboard. Dutch and Swedish colonies were established in New York and Pennsylvania be- fore the British came, the tolerance of Pennsylvania attracted large numbers of French Huguenot and German refugees, and Jewish merchants appeared early in New York and Philadelphia.

Of all the colonies, the Middle Colonies enjoyed the best geographical loca- tion: the easiest access to the great inland waterways and stored natural resources of the continent, and the finest balance of agricultural, manufacturing, and com- mercial potentials. By 1750, the Quaker city of Philadelphia had become the unofficial colonial capital by virtue of its location, the size of its population, and the volume of its commercial activity; in these respects it surpassed all other cities in the British Empire except London. The cultural institutions of the Middle

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Thematic Section Introduction

The South and the Middle Colonies

Colonies proved quite as important as those of New England in providing condi- tions and ideas that combined during the revolutionary crises of the eighteenth century to shape a national character and frame a democratic government then unique among nations. When the time came, the Middle Colonies, with their mixed cultures and central location, served as the natural center for activities of mutual interest, such as the colonial convention or congress.

Of the many groups in the Pennsylvania Colony, the Quakers were most ho- mogeneous. Although they were drawn in the beginning primarily from the hum- bler ranks of the English middle classes—artisans, tradesmen, and yeoman farmers—their American leader, William Penn, was one of the best-trained men in the colonies, and one of the greatest. He was a follower of George Fox, the En- glish shepherd and cobbler whose powerful evangelism welded his disciples into the Religious Society of Friends. Fundamentally closer to Luther’s theology than to Calvin’s, early Quaker theology was concerned less with the original depravity that was so important to Puritans than with the abounding grace of God. Also ex- tending Luther’s rebellion against the delegated authority of pope or bishop fur- ther than the Puritans, Fox and his followers taught that the ultimate authority for any person was the “inner light,” the divine immanence, revealed to that per- son’s own soul. Thus, the Quaker worshiped in quiet, waiting upon the inward revelation of unity with the Eternal.

Inheriting from his father a large financial claim upon the government of Charles II, in 1681 Penn secured in settlement the vast colonial estate that the king named Pennsylvania. As proprietor, Penn possessed great powers, but in writing his famous “Frame of Government” he ordained a free commonwealth, bestow- ing wide privileges of self-government upon the people. Convinced that “the na- tions want a precedent,” he declared that “any government is free to the people where the laws rule * * * and the people are party to the laws. * * * Liberty without obedience is confusion, and obedience without liberty is slavery.” These words, and the precedent established by his “Holy Experiment,” remained alive in the American colonies, much later to be embodied in the Declaration of Indepen- dence and the United States Constitution, both written in Penn’s Philadelphia, a city named from the Greek words for “brotherly love.”

Pennsylvania thrived. Like the Puritans, the Quakers quickly provided for ed- ucation. Four years after Penn’s arrival, they established their first press (1686) and a public school chartered by the proprietor. In 1740 Philadelphians chartered the Charity School, soon called the Academy and later the University of Pennsyl- vania, the fourth colonial college (following Harvard, William and Mary, and Yale) and the first secular one. During the same period the Middle Colonies founded three other colleges: Princeton (The College of New Jersey, 1746), Co- lumbia (King’s College, 1754), and Rutgers (Queen’s College, 1766). The energies of these colonists of mixed cultures, centered in Pennsylvania, fostered the devel- opment of science and medicine, technical enterprise and commerce, journalism, and government—Penn, for example, made the first proposal for a union of the colonies—but, in spite of the remarkable currency of the printed word among them, they produced less of lasting literary value than New England did until after the first quarter of the eighteenth century. Among Penn’s most interesting writings are his “Frame of Government”; his No Cross No Crown (1669), a defense of his creed; and Some Fruits of Solitude (1693), a collection of essays on the conduct of

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Perkins−Perkins: Selections from American Literature

Thematic Section Introduction

The South and the Middle Colonies

life and his Christian faith. The arrival of Benjamin Franklin in Philadelphia five years after the death of Penn brought to Pennsylvania one of the great writers of the early period, an intellectual and literary giant whose deistic humanism meshed well with the colony’s Quaker heritage. Other writings of the Middle Colonies were varied. Many early American Friends published journals, but only John Woolman’s survives as great literature. Some early colonial travelers and observers from the Middle Colonies produced records comparable with those of Byrd of Virginia and Knight of Boston. Crèvecœur, the most gifted of colonial observers, settled in Pennsylvania and later in upstate New York. John Bartram and his more famous son, William, established a long tradition of natural history in Philadel- phia. Each of the Bartrams left an important record of his travels and observa- tions of American natural history, scientifically valuable and, in William’s case, a work of lasting literature.

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