As regards Judge Pyncheon's invisibility, however, that matter will
soon be remedied. The northwest wind has swept the sky clear. The
window is distinctly seen. Through its panes, moreover, we dimly catch
the sweep of the dark, clustering foliage outside, fluttering with a
constant irregularity of movement, and letting in a peep of starlight,
now here, now there. Oftener than any other object, these glimpses
illuminate the Judge's face. But here comes more effectual light.
Observe that silvery dance upon the upper branches of the pear-tree,
and now a little lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while,
through their shifting intricacies, the moonbeams fall aslant into the
room. They play over the Judge's figure and show that he has not
stirred throughout the hours of darkness. They follow the shadows, in
changeful sport, across his unchanging features. They gleam upon his
watch. His grasp conceals the dial-plate,--but we know that the
faithful hands have met; for one of the city clocks tells midnight.
A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon, cares no more for
twelve o'clock at night than for the corresponding hour of noon.
However just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding pages,
between his Puritan ancestor and himself, it fails in this point. The
Pyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most of his
contemporaries, professed his full belief in spiritual ministrations,
although reckoning them chiefly of a malignant character. The Pyncheon
of to-night, who sits in yonder arm-chair, believes in no such
nonsense. Such, at least, was his creed, some few hours since. His
hair will not bristle, therefore, at the stories which--in times when
chimney-corners had benches in them, where old people sat poking into
the ashes of the past, and raking out traditions like live coals--used
to be told about this very room of his ancestral house. In fact, these
tales are too absurd to bristle even childhood's hair. What sense,
meaning, or moral, for example, such as even ghost-stories should be
susceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at
midnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor?
And, pray, for what? Why, to see whether the portrait of their ancestor
still keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with his
testamentary directions! Is it worth while to come out of their graves
for that?
We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea. Ghost-stories are
hardly to be treated seriously any longer. The family-party of the
defunct Pyncheons, we presume, goes off in this wise.
First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak, steeple-hat, and
trunk-breeches, girt about the waist with a leathern belt, in which
hangs his steel-hilted sword; he has a long staff in his hand, such as
gentlemen in advanced life used to carry, as much for the dignity of
the thing as for the support to be derived from it. He looks up at the
portrait; a thing of no substance, gazing at its own painted image! All
is safe. The picture is still there. The purpose of his brain has
been kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up in
graveyard grass. See! he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the
frame. All safe! But is that a smile?--is it not, rather a frown of
deadly import, that darkens over the shadow of his features? The stout
Colonel is dissatisfied! So decided is his look of discontent as to
impart additional distinctness to his features; through which,
nevertheless, the moonlight passes, and flickers on the wall beyond.
Something has strangely vexed the ancestor! With a grim shake of the
head, he turns away. Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe, in
their half a dozen generations, jostling and elbowing one another, to
reach the picture. We behold aged men and grandames, a clergyman with
the Puritanic stiffness still in his garb and mien, and a red-coated
officer of the old French war; and there comes the shop-keeping
Pyncheon of a century ago, with the ruffles turned back from his
wrists; and there the periwigged and brocaded gentleman of the artist's
legend, with the beautiful and pensive Alice, who brings no pride out
of her virgin grave. All try the picture-frame. What do these ghostly
people seek? A mother lifts her child, that his little hands may touch
it! There is evidently a mystery about the picture, that perplexes
these poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest. In a corner,
meanwhile, stands the figure of an elderly man, in a leathern jerkin
and breeches, with a carpenter's rule sticking out of his side pocket;
he points his finger at the bearded Colonel and his descendants,
nodding, jeering, mocking, and finally bursting into obstreperous,
though inaudible laughter.