by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Bartram the lime-burner, a rough, heavy-looking
man, begrimed with charcoal, sat watching his kiln, at nightfall, while his
little son played at building houses with the scattered fragments of marble,
when, on the hill-side below them, they heard a roar of laughter, not mirthful,
but slow, and even solemn, like a wind shaking the boughs of the forest.
"Father, what is that?" asked the
little boy, leaving his play, and pressing betwixt his father's knees.
"O, some drunken man, I suppose,"
answered the lime-burner; "some merry fellow from the bar-room in the
village, who dared not laugh loud enough within doors, lest he should blow the
roof of the house off. So here he is, shaking his jolly sides at the foot of
"But, father," said the child, more
sensitive than the obtuse, middle-aged clown, "he does not laugh like a man
that is glad. So the noise frightens me!"
"Don't be a fool, child!" cried his
father, gruffly. "You will never make a man, I do believe; there is too
much of your mother in you. I have known the rustling of a leaf startle you.
Hark! Here comes the merry fellow, now. You shall see that there is no harm in
Bartram and his little son, while they were
talking thus, sat watching the same lime-kiln that had been the scene of Ethan
Brand's solitary and meditative life, before he began his search for the
Unpardonable Sin. Many years, as we have seen, had now elapsed, since that
portentous night when the idea was first developed. The kiln, however,
on the mountain-side, stood unimpaired, and was in nothing changed since he had
thrown his dark thoughts into the intense glow of its furnace, and melted them,
as it were, into the one thought that took possession of his life. It was a
rude, round, tower-like structure, about twenty feet high, heavily built of
rough stones, and with a hillock of earth heaped about the larger part of its
circumference; so that the blocks and fragments of marble might be drawn by
cart-loads, and thrown in at the top. There was an opening at the bottom of the
tower, like an oven-mouth, but large enough to admit a man in a stooping posture,
and provided with a massive iron door. With the smoke and jets of flame issuing
from the chinks and crevices of this door, which seemed to give admittance into
the hill-side, it resembled nothing so much as the private entrance to the
infernal regions, which the shepherds of the Delectable Mountains were
accustomed to show to pilgrims.
There are many such lime-kilns in that tract of
country, for the purpose of burning the white marble which composes a large part
of the substance of the hills. Some of them, built years ago, and long deserted,
with weeds growing in the vacant round of the interior, which is open to the sky,
and grass and wild-flowers rooting themselves into the chinks of the stones,
look already like relics of antiquity, and may yet be overspread with the
lichens of centuries to come. Others, where the lime-burner still feeds his
daily and nightlong fire, afford points of interest to the wanderer among the
hills, who seats himself on a log of wood or a fragment of marble, to hold a
chat with the solitary man. It is a lonesome, and, when the character is
inclined to thought, may be an intensely thoughtful occupation; as it proved in
the case of Ethan Brand, who had mused to such strange purpose, in days gone by,
while the fire in this very kiln was burning.
The man who now watched the fire was of a
different order, and troubled himself with no thoughts save the very few that
were requisite to his business. At frequent intervals, he flung back the
clashing weight of the iron door, and, turning his face from the insufferable
glare, thrust in huge logs of oak, or stirred the immense brands with a long
pole. Within the furnace were seen the curling and riotous flames, and the
burning marble, almost molten with the intensity of heat; while without, the
reflection of the fire quivered on the dark intricacy of the surrounding forest,
and showed in the foreground a bright and ruddy little picture of the hut, the
spring beside its door, the athletic and coal-begrimed figure of the lime-burner,
and the half-frightened child, shrinking into the protection of his father's
shadow. And when again the iron door was closed, then reappeared the tender
light of the half-full moon, which vainly strove to trace out the indistinct
shapes of the neighboring mountains; and, in the upper sky, there was a flitting
congregation of clouds, still faintly tinged with the rosy sunset, though thus
far down into the valley the sunshine had vanished long and long ago.
The little boy now crept still closer to his
father, as footsteps were heard ascending the hill-side, and a human form thrust
aside the bushes that clustered beneath the trees.
"Halloo! who is it?" cried the
lime-burner, vexed at his son's timidity, yet half infected by it. "Come
forward, and show yourself, like a man, or I'll fling this chunk of marble at
"You offer me a rough welcome," said
a gloomy voice, as the unknown man drew nigh. "Yet I neither claim nor
desire a kinder one, even at my own fireside."
To obtain a distincter view, Bartram threw open
the iron door of the kiln, whence immediately issued a gush of fierce light,
that smote full upon the stranger's face and figure. To a careless eye there
appeared nothing very remarkable in his aspect, which was that of a man in a
coarse, brown, country-made suit of clothes, tall and thin, with the staff and
heavy shoes of a wayfarer. As he advanced, he fixed his eyes—which were very
bright—intently upon the brightness of the furnace, as if he beheld, or
expected to behold, some object worthy of note within it.
"Good evening, stranger," said the
lime-burner; "whence come you, so late in the day?"
"I come from my search," answered the
wayfarer; "for, at last, it is finished."
"Drunk!—or crazy!" muttered Bartram
to himself. "I shall have trouble with the fellow. The sooner I drive him
away, the better."
The little boy, all in a tremble, whispered to
his father, and begged him to shut the door of the kiln, so that there might not
be so much light; for that there was something in the man's face which he was
afraid to look at, yet could not look away from. And, indeed, even the
lime-burner's dull and torpid sense began to be impressed by an indescribable
something in that thin, rugged, thoughtful visage, with the grizzled hair
hanging wildly about it, and those deeply-sunken eyes, which gleamed like fires
within the entrance of a mysterious cavern. But, as he closed the door, the
stranger turned towards him, and spoke in a quiet, familiar way, that made
Bartram feel as if he were a sane and sensible man, after all.
"Your task draws to an end, I see,"
said he. "This marble has already been burning three days. A few hours more
will convert the stone to lime."
"Why, who are you?" exclaimed the
lime-burner. "You seem as well acquainted with my business as I am myself."
"And well I may be," said the
stranger; "for I followed the same craft many a long year, and here, too,
on this very spot. But you are a newcomer in these parts. Did you never hear of
"The man that went in search of the
Unpardonable Sin?" asked Bartram, with a laugh.
"The same," answered the stranger.
"He has found what he sought, and therefore he comes back again."
"What! then you are Ethan Brand himself?"
cried the lime-burner, in amazement. "I am a newcomer here, as you say, and
they call it eighteen years since you left the foot of Gray-lock. But, I can
tell you, the good folks still talk about Ethan Brand, in the village yonder,
and what a strange errand took him away from his lime-kiln. Well, and so you
have found the Unpardonable Sin?"
"Even so!" said the stranger, calmly.
"If the question is a fair one,"
proceeded Bartram, "where might it be?"
Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own heart.
"Here!" replied he.
And then, without mirth in his countenance, but
as if moved by an involuntary recognition of the infinite absurdity of seeking
throughout the world for what was the closest of all things to himself, and
looking into every heart, save his own, for what was hidden in no other breast,
he broke into a laugh of scorn. It was the same slow, heavy laugh, that had
almost appalled the lime-burner when it heralded the wayfarer's approach.
The solitary mountain-side was made dismal by
it. Laughter, when out of place, mistimed, or bursting forth from a disordered
state of feeling, may be the most terrible modulation of the human voice. The
laughter of one asleep, even if it be a little child—the madman's laugh—the
wild, screaming laugh of a born idiot—are sounds that we sometimes tremble to
hear, and would always willingly forget. Poets have imagined no utterance of
fiends or hobgoblins so fearfully appropriate as a laugh. And even the obtuse
lime-burner felt his nerves shaken, as this strange man looked inward at his own
heart, and burst into laughter that rolled away into the night, and was
indistinctly reverberated among the hills.
"Joe," said he to his little son,
"scamper down to the tavern in the village, and tell the jolly fellows
there that Ethan Brand has come back, and that he has found the Unpardonable
The boy darted away on his errand, to which
Ethan Brand made no objection, nor seemed hardly to notice it. He sat on a log
of wood, looking steadfastly at the iron door of the kiln. When the child was
out of sight, and his swift and light footsteps ceased to be heard treading
first on the fallen leaves and then on the rocky mountain path, the lime-burner
began to regret his departure. He felt that the little fellow's presence had
been a barrier between his guest and himself, and that he must now deal, heart
to heart, with a man who, on his own confession, had committed the one only
crime for which Heaven could afford no mercy. That crime, in its indistinct
blackness, seemed to overshadow him. The lime-burner's own sins rose up within
him, and made his memory riotous with a throng of evil shapes that asserted
their kindred with the Master Sin, whatever it might be, which it was within the
scope of man's corrupted nature to conceive and cherish. They were all of one
family; they went to and fro between his breast and Ethan Brand's, and carried
dark greetings from one to the other.
Then Bartram remembered the stories which had
grown traditionary in reference to this strange man, who had come upon him like
a shadow of the night, and was making himself at home in his old place, after so
long absence that the dead people, dead and buried for years, would have had
more right to be at home, in any familiar spot, than he. Ethan Brand, it was
said, had conversed with Satan himself in the lurid blaze of this very kiln. The
legend had been matter of mirth heretofore but looked grisly now. According to
this tale, before Ethan Brand departed on his search, he had been accustomed to
evoke a fiend from the hot furnace of the lime-kiln, night after night, in order
to confer with him about the Unpardonable Sin; the man and the fiend each
laboring to frame the image of some mode of guilt which could neither be atoned
for nor forgiven. And, with the first gleam of light upon the mountain-top, the
fiend crept in at the iron door, there to abide the intensest element of fire,
until again summoned forth to share in the dreadful task of extending man's
possible guilt beyond the scope of Heaven's else infinite mercy.
While the lime-burner was struggling with the
horror of these thoughts, Ethan Brand rose from the log, and flung open the door
of the kiln. The action was in such accordance with the idea in Bartram's mind,
that he almost expected to see the Evil One issue forth, red-hot from the raging
"Hold! hold!" cried he, with a
tremulous attempt to laugh; for he was ashamed of his fears, although they
overmastered him. "Don't, for mercy's sake, bring out your devil now!"
"Man!" sternly replied Ethan Brand,
"what need have I of the devil? I have left him behind me, on my track. It
is with such halfway sinners as you that he busies himself. Fear not because I
open the door. I do but act by old custom, and am going to trim your fire, like
a lime-burner, as I was once."
He stirred the vast coals, thrust in more wood,
and bent forward to gaze into the hollow prison-house of the fire, regardless of
the fierce glow that reddened upon his face. The lime-burner sat watching him,
and half suspected his strange guest of a purpose, if not to evoke a fiend, at
least to plunge bodily into the flames, and thus vanish from the sight of man.
Ethan Brand, however, drew quietly back, and closed the door of the kiln.
"I have looked, said he, "into many a
human heart that was seven times hotter with sinful passions than yonder furnace
is with fire. But I found not there what I sought. No, not the Unpardonable
"What is the Unpardonable Sin?" asked
the lime-burner; and then he shrank further from his companion, trembling lest
his question should be answered.
"It is a sin that grew within my own
breast," replied Ethan Brand, standing erect, with a pride that
distinguishes all enthusiasts of his stamp. "A sin that grew nowhere else!
The sin of an intellect that triumphed over the sense of brotherhood with man
and reverence for God, and sacrificed everything to its own mighty claims! The
only sin that deserves a recompense of immortal agony! Freely, were it to do
again, would I incur the guilt. Unshrinkingly I accept the retribution!"
"The man's head is turned," muttered
the lime-burner to himself. "He may be a sinner, like the rest of us—nothing
more likely—but, I'll be sworn, he is a madman too."
Nevertheless he felt uncomfortable at his
situation, alone with Ethan Brand on the wild mountain-side, and was right glad
to hear the rough murmur of tongues, and the footsteps of what seemed a pretty
numerous party, stumbling over the stones and rustling through the underbrush.
Soon appeared the whole lazy regiment that was wont to infest the village tavern
comprehending three or four individuals who had drunk flip beside the bar-room
fire through all the winters, and smoked their pipes beneath the stoop through
all the summers, since Ethan Brand's departure. Laughing boisterously, and
mingling all their voices together in unceremonious talk, they now burst into
the moonshine and narrow streaks of fire-light that illuminated the open space
before the lime-kiln. Bartram set the door ajar again, flooding the spot with
light, that the whole company might get a fair view of Ethan Brand, and he of
There, among other old acquaintances, was a
once ubiquitous man, now almost extinct, but whom we were formerly sure to
encounter at the hotel of every thriving village throughout the country. It was
the stage-agent. The present specimen of the genus was a wilted and smoke-dried
man, wrinkled and red-nosed, in a smartly cut, brown, bob-tailed coat, with
brass buttons, who, for a length of time unknown, had kept his desk and corner
in the bar-room, and was still puffing what seemed to be the same cigar that he
had lighted twenty years before. He had great fame as a dry joker, though,
perhaps, less on account of any intrinsic humor than from a certain flavor of
brandy-toddy and tobacco-smoke, which impregnated all his ideas and expressions,
as well as his person. Another well-remembered though strangely altered face was
that of Lawyer Giles, as people still called him in courtesy; an elderly
ragamuffin, in his soiled shirt-sleeves and tow-cloth trousers. This poor fellow
had been an attorney, in what he called his better days, a sharp practitioner,
and in great vogue among the village litigants; but flip, and sling, and toddy,
and cocktails, imbibed at all hours, morning, noon, and night, had caused him to
slide from intellectual to various kinds and degrees of bodily labor, till, at
last, to adopt his own phrase, he slid into a soap-vat. In other words, Giles
was now a soap-boiler, in a small way. He had come to be but the fragment of a
human being, a part of one foot having been chopped off by an axe, and an entire
hand torn away by the devilish grip of a steam-engine. Yet, though the corporeal
hand was gone, a spiritual member remained; for, stretching forth the stump,
Giles steadfastly averred that he felt an invisible thumb and fingers with as
vivid a sensation as before the real ones were amputated. A maimed and miserable
wretch he was; but one, nevertheless, whom the world could not trample on, and
had no right to scorn, either in this or any previous stage of his misfortunes,
since he had still kept up the courage and spirit of a man, asked nothing in
charity, and with his one hand—and that the left one—fought a stern battle
against want and hostile circumstances.
Among the throng, too, came another personage,
who, with certain points of similarity to Lawyer Giles, had many more of
difference. It was the village doctor; a man of some fifty years, whom, at an
earlier period of his life, we introduced as paying a professional visit to
Ethan Brand during the latter's supposed insanity. He was now a purple-visaged,
rude, and brutal, yet half-gentlemanly figure, with something wild, ruined, and
desperate in his talk, and in all the details of his gesture and manners. Brandy
possessed this man like an evil spirit, and made him as surly and savage as a
wild beast, and as miserable as a lost soul; but there was supposed to be in him
such wonderful skill, such native gifts of healing, beyond any which medical
science could impart, that society caught hold of him, and would not let him
sink out of its reach. So, swaying to and fro upon his horse, and grumbling
thick accents at the bedside, he visited all the sick chambers for miles about
among the mountain towns, and sometimes raised a dying man, as it were, by
miracle, or quite as often, no doubt, sent his patient to a grave that was dug
many a year too soon. The doctor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth, and, as
somebody said, in allusion to his habit of swearing, it was always alight with
These three worthies pressed forward, and
greeted Ethan Brand each after his own fashion, earnestly inviting him to
partake of the contents of a certain black bottle, in which, as they averred, he
would find something far better worth seeking for than the Unpardonable Sin. No
mind, which has wrought itself by intense and solitary meditation into a high
state of enthusiasm, can endure the kind of contact with low and vulgar modes of
thought and feeling to which Ethan Brand was now subjected. It made him doubt—and,
strange to say, it was a painful doubt—whether he had indeed found the
Unpardonable Sin, and found it within himself. The whole question on which he
had exhausted life, and more than life, looked like a delusion.
"Leave me," he said, bitterly, "ye
brute beasts, that have made yourselves so, shrivelling up your souls with fiery
liquors! I have done with you. Years and years ago, I groped into your hearts,
and found nothing there for my purpose. Get ye gone!"
"Why, you uncivil scoundrel," cried
the fierce doctor, "is that the way you respond to the kindness of your
best friends? Then let me tell you the truth. You have no more found the
Unpardonable Sin than yonder boy Joe has. You are but a crazy fellow—I told
you so twenty years ago—neither better nor worse than a crazy fellow, and the
fit companion of old Humphrey, here!"
He pointed to an old man, shabbily dressed,
with long white hair, thin visage, and unsteady eyes. For some years past this
aged person had been wandering about among the hills, inquiring of all
travellers whom he met for his daughter. The girl, it seemed, had gone off with
a company of circus-performers; and occasionally tidings of her came to the
village, and fine stories were told of her glittering appearance as she rode on
horse-back in the ring, or performed marvellous feats on the tight-rope.
The white-haired father now approached Ethan
Brand, and gazed unsteadily into his face.
"They tell me you have been all over the
earth," said he, wringing his hands with earnestness. "You must have
seen my daughter, for she makes a grand figure in the world, and everybody goes
to see her. Did she send any word to her old father, or say when she was coming
Ethan Brand's eye quailed beneath the old man's.
That daughter, from whom he so earnestly desired a word of greeting, was the
Esther of our tale, the very girl whom, with such cold and remorseless purpose,
Ethan Brand had made the subject of a psychological experiment, and wasted,
absorbed, and perhaps annihilated her soul, in the process.
"Yes," murmured he, turning away from
the hoary wanderer; "it is no delusion. There is an Unpardonable Sin!"
While these things were passing, a merry scene
was going forward in the area of cheerful light, beside the spring and before
the door of the hut. A number of the youth of the village, young men and girls,
had hurried up the hill-side, impelled by curiosity to see Ethan Brand, the hero
of so many a legend familiar to their childhood. Finding nothing, however, very
remarkable in his aspect—nothing but a sun-burnt wayfarer, in plain garb and
dusty shoes, who sat looking into the fire, as if he fancied pictures among the
coals—these young people speedily grew tired of observing him. As it happened,
there was other amusement at hand. An old German Jew, travelling with a diorama
on his back, was passing down the mountain-road towards the village just as the
party turned aside from it, and, in hopes of eking out the profits of the day,
the showman had kept them company to the lime-kiln.
"Come, old Dutchman," cried one of
the young men, "let us see your pictures, if you can swear they are worth
"O, yes, Captain," answered the Jew—whether
as a matter of courtesy or craft, he styled everybody Captain—"I shall
show you, indeed, some very superb pictures!"
So, placing his box in a proper position, he
invited the young men and girls to look through the glass orifices of the
machine, and proceeded to exhibit a series of the most outrageous scratchings
and daubings, as specimens of the fine arts, that ever an itinerant showman had
the face to impose upon his circle of spectators. The pictures were worn out,
moreover, tattered, full of cracks and wrinkles, dingy with tobacco-smoke, and
otherwise in a most pitiable condition. Some purported to be cities, public
edifices, and ruined castles in Europe; others represented Napoleon's battles
and Nelson's sea-fights; and in the midst of these would be seen a gigantic,
brown, hairy hand—which might have been mistaken for the Hand of Destiny,
though, in truth, it was only the showman's—pointing its forefinger to various
scenes of the conflict, while its owner gave historical illustrations. When,
with much merriment at its abominable deficiency of merit, the exhibition was
concluded, the German bade little Joe put his head into the box. Viewed through
the magnifying glasses, the boy's round, rosy visage assumed the strangest
imaginable aspect of an immense Titanic child, the mouth grinning broadly, and
the eyes and every other feature overflowing with fun at the joke. Suddenly,
however, that merry face turned pale, and its expression changed to horror, for
this easily impressed and excitable child had become sensible that the eye of
Ethan Brand was fixed upon him through the glass.
"You make the little man to be afraid,
Captain," said the German Jew, turning up the dark and strong outline of
his visage, from his stooping posture. "But look again, and, by chance, I
shall cause you to see somewhat that is very fine, upon my word!"
Ethan Brand gazed into the box for an instant,
and then starting back, looked fixedly at the German. What had he seen? Nothing,
apparently; for a curious youth, who had peeped in almost at the same moment,
beheld only a vacant space of canvas.
"I remember you now," muttered Ethan
Brand to the showman.
"Ah, Captain," whispered the Jew of
Nuremberg, with a dark smile, "I find it to be a heavy matter in my
show-box—this Unpardonable Sin! By my faith, Captain, it has wearied my
shoulders, this long day, to carry it over the mountain."
"Peace," answered Ethan Brand,
sternly, "or get thee into the furnace yonder!"
The Jew's exhibition had scarcely concluded,
when a great, elderly dog—who seemed to be his own master, as no person in the
company laid claim to him—saw fit to render himself the object of public
notice. Hitherto, he had shown himself a very quiet, well disposed old dog,
going round from one to another, and, by way of being sociable, offering his
rough head to be patted by any kindly hand that would take so much trouble. But
now, all of a sudden, this grave and venerable quadruped, of his own mere motion,
and without the slightest suggestion from anybody else, began to run round after
his tail, which, to heighten the absurdity of the proceeding, was a great deal
shorter than it should have been. Never was seen such headlong eagerness in
pursuit of an object that could not possibly be attained; never was heard such a
tremendous outbreak of growling, snarling, barking, and snapping—as if one end
of the ridiculous brute's body were at deadly and most unforgivable enmity with
the other. Faster and faster, round about went the cur; and faster and still
faster fled the unapproachable brevity of his tail; and louder and fiercer grew
his yells of rage and animosity; until, utterly exhausted, and as far from the
goal as ever, the foolish old dog ceased his performance as suddenly as he had
begun it. The next moment he was as mild, quiet, sensible, and respectable in
his deportment, as when he first scraped acquaintance with the company.
As may be supposed, the exhibition was greeted
with universal laughter, clapping of hands, and shouts of encore, to which the
canine performer responded by wagging all that there was to wag of his tail, but
appeared totally unable to repeat his very successful effort to amuse the
Meanwhile, Ethan Brand had resumed his seat
upon the log, and moved, it might be, by a perception of some remote analogy
between his own case and that of this self-pursuing cur, he broke into the awful
laugh, which, more than any other token, expressed the condition of his inward
being. From that moment, the merriment of the party was at an end; they stood
aghast, dreading lest the inauspicious sound should be reverberated around the
horizon, and that mountain would thunder it to mountain, and so the horror be
prolonged upon their ears. Then, whispering one to another that it was late—that
the moon was almost down—that the August night was growing chill—they
hurried homewards leaving the lime-burner and little Joe to deal as they might
with their unwelcome guest. Save for these three human beings, the open space on
the hill-side was a solitude, set in a vast gloom of forest. Beyond that
darksome verge, the fire-light glimmered on the stately trunks and almost black
foliage of pines, intermixed with the lighter verdure of sapling oaks, maples,
and poplars, while here and there lay the gigantic corpses of dead trees,
decaying on the leaf-strewn soil. And it seemed to little Joe—a timorous and
imaginative child—that the silent forest was holding its breath, until some
fearful thing should happen.
Ethan Brand thrust more wood into the fire, and
closed the door of the kiln; then looking over his shoulder at the lime-burner
and his son, he bade, rather than advised, them to retire to rest.
"For myself, I cannot sleep," said he.
"I have matters that it concerns me to meditate upon. I will watch the fire,
as I used to do in the old time."
"And call the devil out of the furnace to
keep you company, I suppose," muttered Bartram, who had been making
intimate acquaintance with the black bottle above-mentioned. "But watch, if
you like, and call as many devils as you like! For my part, I shall be all the
better for a snooze. Come, Joe!"
As the boy followed his father into the hut, he
looked back at the wayfarer, and the tears came into his eyes, for his tender
spirit had an intuition of the bleak and terrible loneliness in which this man
had enveloped himself.
When they had gone, Ethan Brand sat listening
to the crackling of the kindled wood, and looking at the little spirts of fire
that issued through the chinks of the door. These trifles, however, once so
familiar, had but the slightest hold of his attention, while deep within his
mind he was reviewing the gradual but marvellous change that had been wrought
upon him by the search to which he had devoted himself. He remembered how the
night dew had fallen upon him—how the dark forest had whispered to him—how
the stars had gleamed upon him—a simple and loving man, watching his fire in
the years gone by, and ever musing as it burned. He remembered with what
tenderness, with what love and sympathy for mankind, and what pity for human
guilt and woe, he had first begun to contemplate those ideas which afterwards
became the inspiration of his life; with what reverence he had then looked into
the heart of man, viewing it as a temple originally divine, and, however
desecrated, still to be held sacred by a brother; with what awful fear he had
deprecated the success of his pursuit, and prayed that the Unpardonable Sin
might never be revealed to him. Then ensued that vast intellectual development,
which, in its progress, disturbed the counterpoise between his mind and heart.
The Idea that possessed his life had operated as a means of education; it had
gone on cultivating his powers to the highest point of which they were
susceptible; it had raised him from the level of an unlettered laborer to stand
on a star-lit eminence, whither the philosophers of the earth, laden with the
lore of universities, might vainly strive to clamber after him. So much for the
intellect! But where was the heart? That, indeed, had withered—had contracted—had
hardened—had perished! It had ceased to partake of the universal throb. He had
lost his hold of the magnetic chain of humanity. He was no longer a brother-man,
opening the chambers or the dungeons of our common nature by the key of holy
sympathy, which gave him a right to share in all its secrets; he was now a cold
observer, looking on mankind as the subject of his experiment, and, at length,
converting man and woman to be his puppets, and pulling the wires that moved
them to such degrees of crime as were demanded for his study.
Thus Ethan Brand became a fiend. He began to be
so from the moment that his moral nature had ceased to keep the pace of
improvement with his intellect. And now, as his highest effort and inevitable
development—as the bright and gorgeous flower, and rich, delicious fruit of
his life's labor—he had produced the Unpardonable Sin!
What more have I to seek? What more to achieve?"
said Ethan Brand to himself. "My task is done, and well done!"
Starting from the log with a certain alacrity
in his gait, and ascending the hillock of earth that was raised against the
stone circumference of the lime-kiln, he thus reached the top of the structure.
It was a space of perhaps ten feet across, from edge to edge, presenting a view
of the upper surface of the immense mass of broken marble with which the kiln
was heaped. All these innumerable blocks and fragments of marble were red-hot
and vividly on fire, sending up great spouts of blue flame, which quivered aloft
and danced madly, as within a magic circle, and sank and rose again, with
continual and multitudinous activity. As the lonely man bent forward over this
terrible body of fire, the blasting heat smote up against his person with a
breath that, it might be scorched and shrivelled him up in a moment.
Ethan Brand stood erect, and raised his arms on
high. The blue flames played upon his face, and imparted the wild and ghastly
light which alone could have suited its expression; it was that of a fiend on
the verge of plunging into his gulf of intensest torment.
"O Mother Earth," cried he, "who
art no more my Mother, and into whose bosom this frame shall never be resolved!
O mankind, whose brotherhood I have cast off, and trampled thy great heart
beneath my feet! O stars of heaven, that shone on me of old, as if to light me
onward and upward!—farewell all, and forever. Come, deadly element of Fire—henceforth
my familiar friend! Embrace me, as I do thee!"
That night the sound of a fearful peal of
laughter rolled heavily through the sleep of the lime-burner and his little son;
dim shapes of horror and anguish haunted their dreams, and seemed still present
in the rude hovel, when they opened their eyes to the daylight.
"Up, boy, up!" cried the lime-burner,
staring about him. "Thank Heaven, the night is gone, at last; and rather
than pass such another, I would watch my lime-kiln, wide awake, for a
twelvemonth. This Ethan Brand, with his humbug of an Unpardonable Sin, has done
me no such mighty favor, in taking my place!"
He issued from the hut, followed by little Joe,
who kept fast hold of his father's hand. The early sunshine was already pouring
its gold upon the mountain-tops; and though the valleys were still in shadow,
they smiled cheerfully in the promise of the bright day that was hastening
onward. The village, completely shut in by hills, which swelled away gently
about it, looked as if it had rested peacefully in the hollow of the great hand
of Providence. Every dwelling was distinctly visible; the little spires of the
two churches pointed upwards, and caught a fore-glimmering of brightness from
the sun-gilt skies upon their gilded weather-cocks. The tavern was astir, and
the figure of the old, smoke-dried stage-agent, cigar in mouth, was seen beneath
the stoop. Old Graylock was glorified with a golden cloud upon his head.
Scattered likewise over the breasts of the surrounding mountains, there were
heaps of hoary mist, in fantastic shapes, some of them far down into the valley,
others high up towards the summits and still others, of the same family of mist
or cloud, hovering in the gold radiance of the upper atmosphere. Stepping from
one to another of the clouds that rested on the hills, and thence to the loftier
brotherhood that sailed in air, it seemed almost as if a mortal man might thus
ascend into the heavenly regions. Earth was so mingled with sky that it was a
day-dream to look at it.
To supply that charm of the familiar and homely,
which Nature so readily adopts into a scene like this, the stage-coach was
rattling down the mountain-road, and the driver sounded his horn, while echo
caught up the notes, and intertwined them into a rich and varied and elaborate
harmony, of which the original performer could lay claim to little share. The
great hills played a concert among themselves, each contributing a strain of
Little Joe's face brightened at once.
"Dear father," cried he, skipping
cheerily to and fro, "that strange man is gone, and the sky and the
mountains all seem glad of it!"
"Yes," growled the lime-burner, with
an oath, "but he has let the fire go down, and no thanks to him if five
hundred bushels of lime are not spoiled. If I catch the fellow hereabouts again,
I shall feel like tossing him into the furnace!"
With his long pole in his hand, he ascended to
the top of the kiln. After a moment's pause, he called to his son.
"Come up here, Joe!" said he.
So little Joe ran up the hillock, and stood by
his father's side. The marble was all burnt into perfect, snow-white lime. But
on its surface, in the midst of the circle—snow-white too, and thoroughly
converted into lime lay a human skeleton, in the attitude of a person who, after
long toil, lies down to long repose. Within the ribs - strange to say - as the
shape of a human heart.
"Was the fellow's heart made of marble?"
cried Bartram, in some perplexity at this phenomenon. "At any rate, it is
burnt into what looks like special good lime; and, taking all the bones together,
my kiln is half a bushel the richer for him."
So saying, the rude lime-burner lifted his
pole, and, letting it fall upon the skeleton, the relics of Ethan Brand were
crumbled into fragments