Twice-Told Tales E-Book

Nathaniel Hawthorne

• Herausgeber: Nathaniel Hawthorne
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Nathaniel Hawthorne was already a man of forty-six, and a tale writer of some twenty-four years’ standing, when “The Scarlet Letter” appeared. He was born at Salem, Mass., on July 4th, 1804, son of a sea-captain. He led there a shy and rather sombre life; of few artistic encouragements, yet not wholly uncongenial, his moody, intensely meditative temperament being considered. Its colours and shadows are marvelously reflected in his “Twice–Told Tales” and other short stories, the product of his first literary period. Even his college days at Bowdoin did not quite break through his acquired and inherited reserve; but beneath it all, his faculty of divining men and women was exercised with almost uncanny prescience and subtlety. “The Scarlet Letter,” which explains as much of this unique imaginative art, as is to be gathered from reading his highest single achievement, yet needs to be ranged with his other writings, early and late, to have its last effect. In the year that saw it published, he began “The House of the Seven Gables,” a later romance or prose-tragedy of the Puritan–American community as he had himself known it — defrauded of art and the joy of life, “starving for symbols” as Emerson has it. Nathaniel Hawthorne died at Plymouth, New Hampshire, on May 18th, 1864.Hawthorne's contributions to magazines were numerous, and most of his tales appeared first in periodicals, chiefly in “The Token,” 1831–1838, “New England Magazine,” 1834,1835; “Knickerbocker,” 1837–1839; “Democratic Review,” 1838–1846; “Atlantic Monthly,” 1860–1872

Leseprobe

Twice-Told Tales

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Table of Contents

The Gray Champion.

Sunday at Home.

The Wedding-Knell.

The Minister’s Black Veil: A Parable.

The Maypole of Merry Mount.

The Gentle Boy.

Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe.

Little Annie’s Ramble.

Wakefield.

A Rill From the Town-Pump.

The Great Carbuncle.

The Prophetic Pictures.

David Swan.

Sights From a Steeple.

The Hollow of the Three Hills.

The Toll-Gatherer’s Day.

The Vision of the Fountain.

Fancy’s Show-Box.

Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment.

Legends of the Province-House. Howe’s Masquerade. Edward Randolph’s Portrait. Lady Eleanore’s Mantle. Old Esther Dudley.

The Haunted Mind.

The Village Uncle.

The Ambitious Guest.

The Sister-Years.

Snowflakes.

The Seven Vagabonds.

The White Old Maid.

Peter Goldthwaite’s Treasure.

Chippings with a Chisel.

The Shaker Bridal.

Night-Sketches,

Endicott and the Red Cross.

The Lily’s Quest.

Footprints on the Seashore.

Edward Fane’s Rosebud.

The Threefold Destiny.

The Gray Champion.

There was once a time when New England groaned under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened ones which brought on the Revolution. James II., the bigoted successor of Charles the Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endanger our religion. The administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single characteristic of tyranny — a governor and council holding office from the king and wholly independent of the country; laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people, immediate or by their representatives; the rights of private citizens violated and the titles of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the press; and finally, disaffection overawed by the first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the mother-country, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector or popish monarch. Till these evil times, however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects of Great Britain.

At length a rumor reached our shores that the prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise the success of which would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of New England. It was but a doubtful whisper; it might be false or the attempt might fail, and in either case the man that stirred against King James would lose his head. Still, the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people smiled mysteriously in the streets and threw bold glances at their oppressors, while far and wide there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher measures.

One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the governor’s guard and made their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was near setting when the march commenced. The roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets less as the martial music of the soldiers than as a muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. A multitude by various avenues assembled in King street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterward, of another encounter between the troops of Britain and a people struggling against her tyranny.

Though more than sixty years had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. There was the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech and the confidence in Heaven’s blessing on a righteous cause which would have marked a band of the original Puritans when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct, since there were men in the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees before a house was reared to the God for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here, also, were the veterans of King Philip’s war, who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old with pious fierceness while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence as if there were sanctity in their very garments. These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them.

Meantime, the purpose of the governor in disturbing the peace of the town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment was almost the Universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained.

“Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,” cried some, “because he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison. We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King street.”

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession — a crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied at that period that New England might have a John Rogers of her own to take the place of that worthy in the Primer.

“The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew,” cried others. “We are to be massacred, man and male-child.”

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser class believed the governor’s object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing that Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of military force and to confound the opposite faction by possessing himself of their chief.