"Never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "On earth, never!""Dark old man!" exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with whathorrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment?"Father Hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his throat; but,with a mighty effort, grasping forward with his hands, he caughthold of life, and held it back till he should speak. He even raisedhimself in bed; and there he sat, shivering with the arms of deatharound him, while the black veil hung down, awful at that last moment,in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the faint, sad smile,so often there, now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and lingeron Father Hooper's lips.
"Why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled faceround the circle of pale spectators. "Tremble also at each other! Havemen avoided me, and women shown no pity, and children screamed andfled, only for my black veil? What, but the mystery which it obscurelytypifies, has made this piece of crape so awful? When the friend showshis inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best beloved; whenman does not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, loathsomelytreasuring up the secret of his sin; then deem me a monster, for thesymbol beneath which I have lived, and die! I look around me, and, lo!
on every visage a Black Veil!"
While his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual affright,Father Hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faintsmile lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in hiscoffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The grass ofmany years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the burialstone is moss-grown, and good Mr. Hooper's face is dust; but awfulis still the thought that it mouldered beneath the Black Veil!
NOTE. Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, ofYork, Maine, who died about eighty years since, made himselfremarkable by the same eccentricity that is here related of theReverend Mr. Hooper. In his case, however, the symbol had adifferent import. In early life he had accidentally killed a belovedfriend; and from that day till the hour of his own death, he hid hisface from men.
THE END
.
1837
TWICE-TOLD TALES
THE PROPHETIC PICTURES
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
BUT THIS PAINTER!" cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. "He notonly excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements inall other learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather, andgives lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet thebest instructed man among us on his own ground. Moreover, he is apolished gentleman- a citizen of the world- yes, a true cosmopolite;for he will speak like a native of each clime and country of the globeexcept our own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all thiswhat I most admire in him.""Indeed!" said Elinor, who had listened with a woman's interestto the description of such a man. "Yet this is admirable enough.""Surely it is," replied her lover, "but far less so than hisnatural gift of adapting himself to every variety of character,insomuch that all men- and all women too, Elinor- shall find amirror of themselves in this wonderful painter. But the greatestwonder is yet to be told.""Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than these," saidElinor, laughing, "Boston is a perilous abode for the poorgentleman. Are you telling me of a painter or a wizard?""In truth," answered he, that question might be asked much moreseriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man'sfeatures, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments andpassions, and throws them upon the canvas, like sunshine- orperhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernalfire. It is an awful gift," added Walter, lowering his voice fromits tone of enthusiasm. "I shall be almost afraid to sit to him.""Walter, are you in earnest?" exclaimed Elinor.
"For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the lookwhich you now wear," said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed.
"There: it is passing away now, but when you spoke you seemedfrightened to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?""Nothing, nothing," answered Elinor hastily. "You paint my facewith your own fantasies. Well, come for me tomorrow, and we will visitthis wonderful artist."But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that aremarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthfulface of his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little inaccordance with what should have been the feelings of a maiden onthe eve of wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.
"A look!" said Elinor to herself. "No wonder that it startledhim, if it expressed what I sometimes feel. I know, by my ownexperience, how frightful a look may be. But it was all fancy. Ithought nothing of it at the time- I have seen nothing of it since-I did but dream it."And she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff, in which shemeant that her portrait should be taken.
