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    The House of the Seven Gables
    The House of the Seven Gables
    The House of the Seven Gables
    Ebook381 pages7 hours

    The House of the Seven Gables

    By Nathaniel Hawthorne

    3.5/5

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    The classic Hawthorne novel, in which he waxes eloquent about the future, "Then there is electricity,--the demon, the angel, the mighty physical power, the all-pervading intelligence!" exclaimed Clifford. "Is that a humbug, too?Is it a fact--or have I dreamt it--that, by means of electricity, the world of matter has become a great nerve, vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless point of time? Rather, the round globe is a vast head, a brain, instinct with intelligence! Or, shall we say, it is itself a thought, nothing but thought, and no longer the substance which we deemed it!" And what he's so enthused about, using words appropriate for today's Internet, is the telegraph. According to Wikipedia: "Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804 –1864) was an American novelist and short story writer... Much of Hawthorne's writing centers around New England and many feature moral allegories with a Puritan inspiration. His fiction works are considered part of the Romantic movement and, more specifically, dark romanticism. His themes often center on the inherent evil and sin of humanity and his works often have moral messages and deep psychological complexity. His published works include novels, short stories, and a biography of his friend Franklin Pierce."
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSeltzer Books
    Release dateMar 1, 2018
    ISBN9781455389063
    Author

    Nathaniel Hawthorne

    Born in 1804, Nathaniel Hawthorne is known for his historical tales and novels about American colonial society. After publishing The Scarlet Letter in 1850, its status as an instant bestseller allowed him to earn a living as a novelist. Full of dark romanticism, psychological complexity, symbolism, and cautionary tales, his work is still popular today. He has earned a place in history as one of the most distinguished American writers of the nineteenth century.

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    Reviews for The House of the Seven Gables

    3.5/5

    872 ratings63 reviews

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    • 3/5
      I found it a bit of a slog but still worth the read. Most interesting were details or expressions that I thought wouldn't have been around in 1851. A description of a Cunard ship bringing news from Europe brought a smile to my face.
    • 2/5
      I read somewhere that trying to read Hawthorne is like trying to run through mud. This book is no exception. I couldn't get through two pages without falling asleep, and I NEVER fall asleep while reading. Absolutely nothing but character development happened until the last three chapters... and most of the character's weren't worth that much development. Some may be a fan of his fantastic use of words to paint a picture, and while I agree it is fantastic, it is also boring.
    • 5/5
      "This contrast, or intermingling of tragedy with mirth, happens daily, hourly, momently. This gloomy and desolate old house, deserted of life, and with awful Death sitting sternly in its solitude, was the emblem of many a human heart, which, nevertheless, is compelled to hear the thrill and echo of the world's gaiety around it." The incredible detail of The House of Seven Gables left me feeling extreme pity one moment and laughing out loud to myself the next. This was just about everything I could ask for in a novel - a curse that spans generations, a haunted house and a wealth of description. A great read.
    • 2/5
      I've read a lot of classics but for some reason this was one of the hardest books I've ever read. I can't really say I enjoyed it much but I am glad of the accomplishment of having read it.
    • 3/5
      I liked Hepzibah. And Hawthorne's descriptions are vivid and pleasing to the mind's eye. Those are the only nice things I can think of to say about this book. Hawthorne's narrative is rambling and I still can't tell you what the hell the plot was of the book. Completely and utterly forgettable. This saddens me since I enjoyed The Scarlet Letter and love what short stories of his I've read.
    • 4/5
      I loved this book. Certainly it is wordy, heavy on description and detail, but still beautifully written.
    • 4/5
      Still a classic.
    • 4/5
      The usual Hawthorne makes for some long sentences, but not necessarily unwieldy; it just takes a little more concentration than some. I enjoyed very much this story of an old house and the family that lives in (and through) it. It reminded me a little of Poe's Fall of the House of Usher. An enjoyable read, but just note that it's from an earlier era when we had longer attention spans.
    • 3/5
      After 20 years of dragging the book around I finally got past page 7. As a Boston native and spending a great deal of time in Salem near "The House of Seven Gables," I felt as a teacher I should read the book. It was quite difficult to get into...very slow in the beginning, but about half-way through the story picks up and the Pyncheon family become interesting. The characters are eccenctric and twisted, and the story well is interestingly weird.
    • 4/5
      A spooky classic for October. This reminds me of a Shirley Jackson's 'The Haunting of Hill House' but with more to say about the human mind and situation than I remember from Hill House. The psychology that Hawthorne presents here for his characters is most impressive. No matter who the character, Hawthorne can seamlessly create an inner life: what comes with Hepzibah's solitude. The prison of the mind that comes after the incarceration of Clifford. At times I could relate to Hepzibah, Clifford and Phoebe. The ending seems to wrap a little too conveniently and perfectly for everyone, but Hawthorne's delving into so many minds was worth it. So much more here than "the wrongdoing of one generation lives into the successive ones".
    • 2/5
      Though Gothic in style, the comparative lightness of this book's themes (as opposed to The Scarlet Letter) allows the full wryness of Hawthorne to blossom. God, especially in the descriptions of Hepzibah. Don't get me wrong, there is full creepiness at some points, but it's light hearted in a way, as terrible things happen to the Pyncheons because they're Pyncheons, though they feel that that particular attribute—being Pyncheons—should be protecting them from such degradation and horror.
    • 5/5
      Definitely a classic. Hawthorne catches the mood of his time very well. The tale itself reminds me of some of Dicken's plots.
    • 3/5
      This is an artistic attempt at a horror story. The wording is laboriously detailed regarding pointless information. The story in some aspects is predictable. The characters are well developed and the story line is somewhat interesting. I mildly recommend this book.
    • 2/5
      This is the first book I ever read in highschool that I did not finish. I have been eyeing this book for awhile and decided to give it another shot, but this time in audio. Recently I've been enjoying relistening to the classics. The Count of Monte Cristo made by Best of 2009 list. This book, is not going to make it the Mediocre of 2010 awards. The plot was interesting, a bit of a ghost story combined with a view of colonial America. I just couldn't stomach Hawthorne's indirect style. I love the way Dickens goes off on a tangent. He throws in a subtle sense of humor with his long descriptions. But Hawthorne just seems to meander along. Am I missing something? I am proud that I finished the book - probably wouldn't have accomplished this without audio!
    • 5/5
      the American Gothic at its finest. Utterly finest.
    • 3/5
      Pales in comparison with Hawthorne's masterpiece, The Scarlet Letter; however, if you're familiar with The Scarlet Letter, it is interesting to see how certain themes and symbols interact between the texts, especially Hawthorne's fascination/repulsion with his Puritan past.
    • 3/5
      I was intrigued by the back cover and the promise of a ghost story and came away fustrated and disappointed. a great, creepy set-up in the early passages but the endless pages of minute descriptions were repetitious and interrupted the flow of the story. the supernatural elements appeared to be after thoughts crammed into the story rather than driving it.
    • 2/5
      I thought that this book was painful to read. I have been trying to read the Classics but I couldn't even force myself to finish it. There was no room for imagination, every adjective in the world (it seemed) was used to describe every bit of this story. I got so sick of having everything descibed to me that I started obsessing on that instead of following the story.
    • 5/5
      It took me a really long time to get through this book, but I'm not really sure why. I enjoyed every moment of it and found the writing clever and accessible. I picked it up initially because I remembered enjoying The Scarlet Letter in highschool and wanted to revisit Hawthorne, but decided to read something I was completely unfamiliar with so that I could decide what my feelings were about his writing without being influenced by my experiences being taught it in school. I liked The House of the Seven Gables far more than I liked The Scarlet Letter, and had an excellent time getting to know the characters -- including the house itself, which functions very much like a character throughout the novel.The House of the Seven Gables is about the Pyncheon family and their family home, and mainly concerns elderly Hepzibah Pyncheon and her brother Clifford Pyncheon as they struggle against Judge Pyncheon who seeks to uncover a missing fortune. Their story is reflective of what we are told about the entire Pyncheon family history, and there are hints and connections placed around the book about their past and the infamous Pyncheon family curse.The story is suspenseful and moves along at a moderate pace, though we are given a lot of very pleasurable images of the house and the town and the smaller characters within it. Though it's a very serious book in most ways, there are instances of light-heartedness that I found very refreshing. Hawthorne's prose style is inviting and captivating. I'm excited to continue reading his work.
    • 5/5
      They just don't come like this any more. The House of the Seven Gables is a book that will take time to read, but is well worth it for the historical events, language, and thought. Relationships between characters are interesting and the history of the house itself brings you far deeper into the story than you could imagine. There is no one plot here, but several moving around and shifting all at once; each character having their own story told to its conclusion. If ever you wanted to pick up a book for the single purpose of diving in to complex language and thought, into deep feelings and actions related to such, this is one of those books. There are scenes and images that will remain with you as beautiful, heart warming, or sad, all the way throughout. Inspiration for writers and thinkers can come from these pages, don't be modern and rush through each page. This is a book best read in time, as if you were living in the days when books were the television of the era. Set aside your schedule for a little while each day and go back in time. You'll be glad you did.
    • 4/5
      Delightful and haunting gothic novel.
    • 3/5
      The only reason I gave it three stars was the author's outstanding command of English prose. As a novel this book was insufferably boring. It took me two weeks to finish it. A work of this small size normally takes me a few days.
    • 5/5
      a classic -- must read!!! A++++
    • 3/5
      I was surprised how much I enjoyed this book when my first impression was it was going to be dark and depressing. Somehow it was still dark but the depressing elements swifted into something like an early form of mystery novel and I was left with the feeling that I liked it. If you have to read a dark gloomy setting novel you could do a lot worst than this one I think :)
    • 3/5
      This is an odd book. It's diverting, but not amazing. It concerns an age old feud between the Pyncheon family and the Maule family. It involves murder, or maybe not. It involves theft, or maybe not. A whole lot of nothing happens, punctuated by the occasional mystical episode. I'm glad I only paid £1 for it.
    • 3/5
      I read Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter a few years ago and loved it, this book not so much. It has a great premise - a family haunted by the past and striking characters, but it lacked a certain something that I found so compelling in the Scarlet Letter. Worth the read and very engaging for a nineteenth-century classic, but not Hawthorne's best work.
    • 4/5
      Albeit a tedious read, I'm respecting the fact that is a classic reflecting thedark romanticism of the period.
    • 1/5
      Hawthorne is the equivalent of nudging someone and winking without actually thinking of anything interesting, risque, beautiful, or even useful. It is sad that a man with such a voluminous writing ability was seemingly devoid of any notion of what to do with it.
    • 4/5
      Several years ago, I went on a trip to Salem, Massachusetts and right as we were getting on the airplane my best friend's mom gave me a copy of The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne. You might be completely confused about why this would be the best reading material for a quick airplane trip from Alabama to Massachusetts so allow me to shed some light on the situation for you. The story is all about the Pyncheon family and their gabled house in Salem (which is an actual home that you should all visit). The matriarch of the family, Hepzibah, has been forced to open a small shop in the house to supplement their income after her brother, Clifford, is released from prison for a crime which he has always maintained he did not commit. A distant cousin, Phoebe, joins their ranks just as they taken on a lodger by the name of Holgrave who mostly keeps to himself. An estranged cousin who is a Judge in town is a malevolent spirit on the fringes of their lives. There is a legend surrounding the family that they are cursed and that is why misfortune has seemed to follow them since the family home was acquired. It's a classic example of Gothic literature with a supernatural twist of the occult. If you're hesitant to give it a shot because of The Scarlet Letter (which I honestly wouldn't blame you for as I really didn't like that novel myself), I strongly encourage you to make an exception. It's a really fantastic book with a swiftly moving plot that is full of intrigue, romance, and familial drama.
    • 4/5
      819 The House of Seven Gables A Romance, by Nathaniel Hawthorne (read 15 Sep 1965) I found this a worthwhile book.

    Book preview

    The House of the Seven Gables - Nathaniel Hawthorne

    THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

    published by Samizdat Express, Orange, CT, USA

    established in 1974, offering over 14,000 books

    Novels by Nathaniel Hawthorne --

    Fanshawe (1828)

    The Scarlet Letter (1850)

    The House of the Seven Gables (1851)

    The Blithedale Romance (1852)

    The Marble Faun (1860)

    Septimius Felton or the Elixir of Life (1872)

    Doctor Grimshawe's Secret (1882)

    feedback welcome: [email protected]

    visit us at samizdat.com

    INTRODUCTORY NOTE

    AUTHOR'S PREFACE

    I. THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY

    II. THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW

    III. THE FIRST CUSTOMER

    IV. A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER

    V. MAY AND NOVEMBER

    VI. MAULE'S WELL

    VII. THE GUEST

    VIII. THE PYNCHEON OF TO-DAY

    IX. CLIFFORD AND PHOEBE

    X.. THE PYNCHEON GARDEN

    XI. THE ARCHED WINDOW

    XII. THE DAGUERREOTYPIST

    XIII. ALICE PYNCHEON

    XIV. PHOEBE'S GOOD-BY

    XV. THE SCOWL AND SMILE

    XVI. CLIFFORD'S CHAMBER

    XVII. THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS

    XVIII. GOVERNOR PYNCHEON

    XIX.  ALICE'S POSIES

    XX. THE FLOWER OF EDEN

    XXI. THE DEPARTURE

    INTRODUCTORY NOTE.  THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.

    IN September of the year during the February of which Hawthorne had completed The Scarlet Letter, he began The House of the Seven Gables. Meanwhile, he had removed from Salem to Lenox, in Berkshire County, Massachusetts, where he occupied with his family a small red wooden house, still standing at the date of this edition, near the Stockbridge Bowl.

    I sha'n't have the new story ready by November,  he explained to his publisher, on the 1st of October, for I am never good for anything in the literary way till after the first autumnal frost, which has somewhat such an effect on my imagination that it does on the foliage here about me-multiplying and brightening its hues. But by vigorous application he was able to complete the new work about the middle of the January following.

    Since research has disclosed the manner in which the romance is interwoven with incidents from the history of the Hawthorne family, The House of the Seven Gables has acquired an interest apart from that by which it first appealed to the public.  John Hathorne (as the name was then spelled), the great-grandfather of Nathaniel Hawthorne, was a magistrate at Salem in the latter part of the seventeenth century, and officiated at the famous trials for witchcraft held there.  It is of record that he used peculiar severity towards a certain woman who was among the accused; and the husband of this woman prophesied that God would take revenge upon his wife's persecutors.  This circumstance doubtless furnished a hint for that piece of tradition in the book which represents a Pyncheon of a former generation as having persecuted one Maule, who declared that God would give his enemy blood to drink. It became a conviction with The Hawthorne family that a curse had been pronounced upon its members, which continued in force in the time of The romancer; a conviction perhaps derived from the recorded prophecy of The injured woman's husband, just mentioned; and, here again, we have a correspondence with Maule's malediction in The story. Furthermore, there occurs in The American Note-Books (August 27, 1837), a reminiscence of The author's family, to the following effect. Philip English, a character well-known in early Salem annals, was among those who suffered from John Hathorne's magisterial harshness, and he maintained in consequence a lasting feud with the old Puritan official. But at his death English left daughters, one of whom is said to have married the son of Justice John Hathorne, whom English had declared he would never forgive.  It is scarcely necessary to point out how clearly this foreshadows the final union of those hereditary foes, the Pyncheons and Maules, through the marriage of Phoebe and Holgrave. The romance, however, describes the Maules as possessing some of the traits known to have been characteristic of the Hawthornes:  for example, so long as any of the race were to be found, they had been marked out from other men--not strikingly, nor as with a sharp line, but with an effect that was felt rather than spoken of--by an hereditary characteristic of reserve.  Thus, while the general suggestion of the Hawthorne line and its fortunes was followed in the romance, the Pyncheons taking the place of The author's family, certain distinguishing marks of the Hawthornes were assigned to the imaginary Maule posterity.

    There are one or two other points which indicate Hawthorne's method of basing his compositions, the result in the main of pure invention, on the solid ground of particular facts.  Allusion is made, in the first chapter of the Seven Gables, to a grant of lands in Waldo County, Maine, owned by the Pyncheon family.  In the American Note-Books there is an entry, dated August 12, 1837, which speaks of the Revolutionary general, Knox, and his land-grant in Waldo County, by virtue of which the owner had hoped to establish an estate on the English plan, with a tenantry to make it profitable for him.  An incident of much greater importance in the story is the supposed murder of one of the Pyncheons by his nephew, to whom we are introduced as Clifford Pyncheon.  In all probability Hawthorne connected with this, in his mind, the murder of Mr. White, a wealthy gentleman of Salem, killed by a man whom his nephew had hired.  This took place a few years after Hawthorne's gradation from college, and was one of the celebrated cases of the day, Daniel Webster taking part prominently in the trial.  But it should be observed here that such resemblances as these between sundry elements in the work of Hawthorne's fancy and details of reality are only fragmentary, and are rearranged to suit the author's purposes.

    In the same way he has made his description of Hepzibah Pyncheon's seven-gabled mansion conform so nearly to several old dwellings formerly or still extant in Salem, that strenuous efforts have been made to fix upon some one of them as the veritable edifice of the romance.  A paragraph in The opening chapter has perhaps assisted this delusion that there must have been a single original House of the Seven Gables, framed by flesh-and-blood carpenters; for it runs thus:-

    Familiar as it stands in the writer's recollection--for it has been an object of curiosity with him from boyhood, both as a specimen of the best and stateliest architecture of a long-past epoch, and as the scene of events more full of interest perhaps than those of a gray feudal castle--familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age, it is therefore only the more difficult to imagine the bright novelty with which it first caught the sunshine."

    Hundreds of pilgrims annually visit a house in Salem, belonging to one branch of the Ingersoll family of that place, which is stoutly maintained to have been The model for Hawthorne's visionary dwelling.  Others have supposed that the now vanished house of The identical Philip English, whose blood, as we have already noticed, became mingled with that of the Hawthornes, supplied the pattern; and still a third building, known as the Curwen mansion, has been declared the only genuine establishment. Notwithstanding persistent popular belief, The authenticity of all these must positively be denied; although it is possible that isolated reminiscences of all three may have blended with the ideal image in the mind of Hawthorne.  He, it will be seen, remarks in the Preface, alluding to himself in the third person, that he trusts not to be condemned for laying out a street that infringes upon nobody's private rights...  and building a house of materials long in use for constructing castles in the air. More than this, he stated to persons still living that the house of the romance was not copied from any actual edifice, but was simply a general reproduction of a style of architecture belonging to colonial days, examples of which survived into the period of his youth, but have since been radically modified or destroyed.  Here, as elsewhere, he exercised the liberty of a creative mind to heighten the probability of his pictures without confining himself to a literal description of something he had seen.

    While Hawthorne remained at Lenox, and during the composition of this romance, various other literary personages settled or stayed for a time in the vicinity; among them, Herman Melville, whose intercourse Hawthorne greatly enjoyed, Henry James, Sr., Doctor Holmes, J.  T.  Headley, James Russell Lowell, Edwin P. Whipple, Frederika Bremer, and J.  T.  Fields; so that there was no lack of intellectual society in the midst of the beautiful and inspiring mountain scenery of the place.  In the afternoons, nowadays, he records, shortly before beginning the work, this valley in which I dwell seems like a vast basin filled with golden Sunshine as with wine; and, happy in the companionship of his wife and their three children, he led a simple, refined, idyllic life, despite the restrictions of a scanty and uncertain income. A letter written by Mrs. Hawthorne, at this time, to a member of her family, gives incidentally a glimpse of the scene, which may properly find a place here.  She says:  I delight to think that you also can look forth, as I do now, upon a broad valley and a fine amphitheater of hills, and are about to watch the stately ceremony of the sunset from your piazza.  But you have not this lovely lake, nor, I suppose, the delicate purple mist which folds these slumbering mountains in airy veils.  Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sun shine, slightly fleckered with the shadows of a tree, and Una and Julian have been making him look like the mighty Pan, by covering his chin and breast with long grass-blades, that looked like a verdant and venerable beard.  The pleasantness and peace of his surroundings and of his modest home, in Lenox, may be taken into account as harmonizing with the mellow serenity of the romance then produced.  Of the work, when it appeared in the early spring of 1851, he wrote to Horatio Bridge these words, now published for the first time:-

    `The House of the Seven Gables' in my opinion, is better than `The Scarlet Letter:' but I should not wonder if I had refined upon the principal character a little too much for popular appreciation, nor if the romance of the book should be somewhat at odds with the humble and familiar scenery in which I invest it. But I feel that portions of it are as good as anything I can hope to write, and the publisher speaks encouragingly of its success.

    From England, especially, came many warm expressions of praise, --a fact which Mrs. Hawthorne, in a private letter, commented on as the fulfillment of a possibility which Hawthorne, writing in boyhood to his mother, had looked forward to.  He had asked her if she would not like him to become an author and have his books read in England.

    G.  P.  L.

    PREFACE.

    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 extent, of the writer's own choosing or creation.  If he think fit, also, he may so manage 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 moderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle the Marvelous 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 success, fortunately, it is not for him to judge--to keep undeviatingly within his immunities.  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 distance, 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 texture as to require this advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more difficult 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 temporary 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 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, therefore, 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 causing 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 laying 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, therefore, 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.

    I.  The Old Pyncheon Family

     HALFWAY down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst.  The street is Pyncheon Street; the house is the old Pyncheon House; and an elm-tree, of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to every town-born child by the title of the Pyncheon Elm.  On my occasional visits to the town aforesaid, I seldom failed to turn down Pyncheon Street, for the sake of passing through the shadow of these two antiquities, --the great elm-tree and the weather-beaten edifice.

    The aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human countenance, bearing the traces not merely of outward storm and sunshine, but expressive also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within.  Were these to be worthily recounted, they would form a narrative of no small interest and instruction, and possessing, moreover, a certain remarkable unity, which might almost seem the result of artistic arrangement.  But the story would include a chain of events extending over the better part of two centuries, and, written out with reasonable amplitude, would fill a bigger folio volume, or a longer series of duodecimos, than could prudently be appropriated to the annals of all New England during a similar period.  It consequently becomes imperative to make short work with most of the traditionary lore of which the old Pyncheon House, otherwise known as the House of the Seven Gables, has been the theme.

    With a brief sketch, therefore, of the circumstances amid which the foundation of the house was laid, and a rapid glimpse at its quaint exterior, as it grew black in the prevalent east wind,--pointing, too, here and there, at some spot of more verdant mossiness on its roof and walls,--we shall commence the real action of our tale at an epoch not very remote from the present day.  Still, there will be a connection with the long past--a reference to forgotten events and personages, and to manners, feelings, and opinions, almost or wholly obsolete --which, if adequately translated to the reader, would serve to illustrate how much of old material goes to make up the freshest novelty of human life.  Hence, too, might be drawn a weighty lesson from the little-regarded truth, that the act of the passing generation is the germ which may and must produce good or evil fruit in a far-distant time; that, together with the seed of the merely temporary crop, which mortals term expediency, they inevitably sow the acorns of a more enduring growth, which may darkly overshadow their posterity.

    The House of the Seven Gables, antique as it now looks, was not the first habitation erected by civilized man on precisely the same spot of ground.  Pyncheon Street formerly bore the humbler appellation of Maule's Lane, from the name of the original occupant of the soil, before whose cottage-door it was a cow-path.  A natural spring of soft and pleasant water--a rare treasure on the sea-girt peninsula where the Puritan settlement was made--had early induced Matthew Maule to build a hut, shaggy with thatch, at this point, although somewhat too remote from what was then the centre of the village. In the growth of the town, however, after some thirty or forty years, the site covered by this rude hovel had become exceedingly desirable in the eyes of a prominent and powerful personage, who asserted plausible claims to the proprietorship of this and a large adjacent tract of land, on the strength of a grant from the legislature.  Colonel Pyncheon, the claimant, as we gather from whatever traits of him are preserved, was characterized by an iron energy of purpose.  Matthew Maule, on the other hand, though an obscure man, was stubborn in the defence of what he considered his right; and, for several years, he succeeded in protecting the acre or two of earth which, with his own toil, he had hewn out of the primeval forest, to be his garden ground and homestead.  No written record of this dispute is known to be in existence.  Our acquaintance with the whole subject is derived chiefly from tradition.  It would be bold, therefore, and possibly unjust, to venture a decisive opinion as to its merits; although it appears to have been at least a matter of doubt, whether Colonel Pyncheon's claim were not unduly stretched, in order to make it cover the small metes and bounds of Matthew Maule.  What greatly strengthens such a suspicion is the fact that this controversy between two ill-matched antagonists --at a period, moreover, laud it as we may, when personal influence had far more weight than now--remained for years undecided, and came to a close only with the death of the party occupying the disputed soil.  The mode of his death, too, affects the mind differently, in our day, from what it did a century and a half ago.  It was a death that blasted with strange horror the humble name of the dweller in the cottage, and made it seem almost a religious act to drive the plough over the little area of his habitation, and obliterate his place and memory from among men.

    Old Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for the crime of witchcraft.  He was one of the martyrs to that terrible delusion, which should teach us, among its other morals, that the influential classes, and those who take upon themselves to be leaders of the people, are fully liable to all the passionate error that has ever characterized the maddest mob.  Clergymen, judges, statesmen,--the wisest, calmest, holiest persons of their day stood in the inner circle round about the gallows, loudest to applaud the work of blood, latest to confess themselves miserably deceived.  If any one part of their proceedings can be said to deserve less blame than another, it was the singular indiscrimination with which they persecuted, not merely the poor and aged, as in former judicial massacres, but people of all ranks; their own equals, brethren, and wives.  Amid the disorder of such various ruin, it is not strange that a man of inconsiderable note, like Maule, should have trodden the martyr's path to the hill of execution almost unremarked in the throng of his fellow sufferers.  But, in after days, when the frenzy of that hideous epoch had subsided, it was remembered how loudly Colonel Pyncheon had joined in the general cry, to purge the land from witchcraft; nor did it fail to be whispered, that there was an invidious acrimony in the zeal with which he had sought the condemnation of Matthew Maule. It was well known that the victim had recognized the bitterness of personal enmity in his persecutor's conduct towards him, and that he declared himself hunted to death for his spoil.  At the moment of execution--with the halter about his neck, and while Colonel Pyncheon sat on horseback, grimly gazing at the scene Maule had addressed him from the scaffold, and uttered a prophecy, of which history, as well as fireside tradition, has preserved the very words.  God, said the dying man, pointing his finger, with a ghastly look, at the undismayed countenance of his enemy, --God will give him blood to drink!  After the reputed wizard's death, his humble homestead had fallen an easy spoil into Colonel Pyncheon's grasp.  When it was understood, however, that the Colonel intended to erect a family mansion-spacious, ponderously framed of oaken timber, and calculated to endure for many generations of his posterity over the spot first covered by the log-built hut of Matthew Maule, there was much shaking of the head among the village gossips.  Without absolutely expressing a doubt whether the stalwart Puritan had acted as a man of conscience and integrity throughout the proceedings which have been sketched, they, nevertheless, hinted that he was about to build his house over an unquiet grave.  His home would include the home of the dead and buried wizard, and would thus afford the ghost of the latter a kind of privilege to haunt its new apartments, and the chambers into which future bridegrooms were to lead their brides, and where children of the Pyncheon blood were to be born.  The terror and ugliness of Maule's crime, and the wretchedness of his punishment, would darken the freshly plastered walls, and infect them early with the scent of an old and melancholy house.  Why, then, --while so much of the soil around him was bestrewn with the virgin forest leaves,--why should Colonel Pyncheon prefer a site that had already been accurst?

    But the Puritan soldier and magistrate was not a man to be turned aside from his well-considered scheme, either by dread of the wizard's ghost, or by flimsy sentimentalities of any kind, however specious.  Had he been told of a bad air, it might have moved him somewhat; but he was ready to encounter an evil spirit on his own ground.  Endowed with commonsense, as massive and hard as blocks of granite, fastened together by stern rigidity of purpose, as with iron clamps, he followed out his original design, probably without so much as imagining an objection to it.  On the score of delicacy, or any scrupulousness which a finer sensibility might have taught him, the Colonel, like most of his breed and generation, was impenetrable.  He therefore dug his cellar, and laid the deep foundations of his mansion, on the square of earth whence Matthew Maule, forty years before, had first swept away the fallen leaves.  It was a curious, and, as some people thought, an ominous fact, that, very soon after the workmen began their operations, the spring of water, above mentioned, entirely lost the deliciousness of its pristine quality. Whether its sources were disturbed by the depth of the new cellar, or whatever subtler cause might lurk at the bottom, it is certain that the water of Maule's Well, as it continued to be called, grew hard and brackish.  Even such we find it now; and any old woman of the neighborhood will certify that it is productive of intestinal mischief to those who quench their thirst there.

    The reader may deem it singular that the head carpenter of the new edifice was no other than the son of the very man from whose dead gripe the property of the soil had been wrested.  Not improbably he was the best workman of his time; or, perhaps, the Colonel thought it expedient, or was impelled by some better feeling, thus openly to cast aside all animosity against the race of his fallen antagonist. Nor was it out of keeping with the general coarseness and matter-of-fact character of the age, that the son should be willing to earn an honest penny, or, rather, a weighty amount of sterling pounds, from the purse of his father's deadly enemy.  At all events, Thomas Maule became the architect of the House of the Seven Gables, and performed his duty so faithfully that the timber framework fastened by his hands still holds together.

    Thus the great house was built.  Familiar as it stands in the writer's recollection,--for it has been an object of curiosity with him from boyhood, both as a specimen of the best and stateliest architecture of a longpast epoch, and as the scene of events more full of human interest, perhaps, than those of a gray feudal castle,--familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age, it is therefore only the more difficult to imagine the bright novelty with which it first caught the sunshine.  The impression of its actual state, at this distance of a hundred and sixty years, darkens inevitably through the picture which we would fain give of its appearance on the morning when the Puritan magnate bade all the town to be his guests.  A ceremony of consecration, festive as well as religious, was now to be performed.  A prayer and discourse from the Rev.  Mr. Higginson, and the outpouring of a psalm from the general throat of the community, was to be made acceptable to the grosser sense by ale, cider, wine, and brandy, in copious effusion, and, as some authorities aver, by an ox, roasted whole, or at least, by the weight and substance of an ox, in more manageable joints and sirloins.  The carcass of a deer, shot within twenty miles, had supplied material for the vast circumference of a pasty.  A codfish of sixty pounds, caught in the bay, had been dissolved into the rich liquid of a chowder.

    The chimney of the new house, in short, belching forth its kitchen smoke, impregnated the whole air with the scent of meats, fowls, and fishes, spicily concocted with odoriferous herbs, and onions in abundance.  The mere smell of such festivity, making its way to everybody's nostrils, was at once an invitation and an appetite.

    Maule's Lane, or Pyncheon Street, as it were now more decorous to call it, was thronged, at the appointed hour, as with a congregation on its way to church.  All, as they approached, looked upward at the imposing edifice, which was henceforth to assume its rank among the habitations of mankind.  There it rose, a little withdrawn from the line of the street, but in pride, not modesty.  Its whole visible exterior was ornamented with quaint figures, conceived in the grotesqueness of a Gothic fancy, and drawn or stamped in the glittering plaster, composed of lime, pebbles, and bits of glass, with which the woodwork of the walls was overspread.  On every side the seven gables pointed sharply towards the sky, and presented the aspect of a whole sisterhood of edifices, breathing through the spiracles of one great chimney.  The many lattices, with their small, diamond-shaped panes, admitted the sunlight into hall and chamber, while, nevertheless, the second story, projecting far over the base, and itself retiring beneath the third, threw a shadowy and thoughtful gloom into the lower rooms.  Carved globes of wood were affixed under the jutting stories.  Little spiral rods of iron beautified each of the seven peaks.  On the triangular portion of the gable, that fronted next the street, was a dial, put up that very morning, and on which the sun was still marking the passage of the first bright hour in a history that was not destined to be all so bright.  All around were scattered shavings, chips, shingles, and broken halves of bricks; these, together with the lately turned earth, on which the grass had not begun to grow, contributed to the impression of strangeness and novelty proper to a house that had yet its place to make among men's daily interests.

    The principal entrance, which had almost the breadth of a church-door, was in the angle between the two front gables, and was covered by an open porch, with benches beneath its shelter. Under this arched doorway, scraping their feet on the unworn threshold, now trod the clergymen, the elders, the magistrates, the deacons, and whatever of aristocracy there was in town or county.  Thither, too, thronged the plebeian classes as freely as their

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