Micro R&D 1/MicroRD-CD-ROM-Vol1-1994.iso/books/hawthorn/holocaus

Text File | 1992-12-02 | 45KB | 701 lines

                                      1844
                                TWICE-TOLD TALES
                               EARTH'S HOLOCAUST
                             by Nathaniel Hawthorne

   ONCE UPON A TIME- but whether in the time past or time to come,
is a matter of little or no moment- this wide world had become so
overburthened with an accumulation of worn-out trumpery, that the
inhabitants determined to rid themselves of it by a general bonfire.
The site fixed upon, at the representation of the insurance companies,
and as being as central a spot as any other on the globe, was one of
the broadest prairies of the West, where no human habitation would
be endangered by the flames, and where a vast assemblage of spectators
might commodiously admire the show. Having a taste for sights of
this kind, and imagining, likewise, that the illumination of the
bonfire might reveal some profundity or moral truth, heretofore hidden
in mist or darkness, I made it convenient to journey thither and be
present. At my arrival, although the heap of condemned rubbish was
as yet comparatively small, the torch had already been applied. Amid
that boundless plain, in the dusk of the evening, like a far-off
star alone in the firmament, there was merely visible one tremulous
gleam, whence none could have anticipated so fierce a blaze as was
destined to ensue. With every moment, however, there came
foot-travellers, women holding up their aprons, men on horseback,
wheelbarrows, lumbering baggage wagons, and other vehicles, great
and small, and from far and near, laden with articles that were judged
fit for nothing but to be burnt.
   "What materials have been used to kindle the flame?" inquired I
of a bystander, for I was desirous of knowing the whole process of the
affair from beginning to end.
   The person whom I addressed was a grave man, fifty years old, or
thereabout, who had evidently come thither as a looker-on; he struck
me immediately as having weighed for himself the true value of life
and its circumstances, and therefore as feeling little personal
interest in whatever judgment the world might form of them. Before
answering my question, he looked me in the face, by the kindling light
of the fire.
   "Oh, some very dry combustibles," replied he, "and extremely
suitable to the purpose- no other, in fact, than yesterday's
newspapers, last month's magazines, and last year's withered leaves.
Here, now, comes some antiquated trash, that will take fire like a
handful of shavings."
   As he spoke, some rough-looking men advanced to the verge of the
bonfire, and threw in, as it appeared, all the rubbish of the Herald's
office; the blazonry of coat-armor, the crests and devices of
illustrious families; pedigrees that extended back, like lines of
light, into the mist of the dark ages, together with stars, garters,
and embroidered collars, each of which, as paltry a bauble as it might
appear to the uninstructed eye, had once possessed vast
significance, and was still, in truth, reckoned among the most
precious of moral or material facts, by the worshippers of the
gorgeous past. Mingled with this confused heap, which was tossed
into the flames by armfuls at once, were innumerable badges of
knighthood, comprising those of all the European sovereignties, and
Napoleon's decoration of the Legion of Honor, the ribands of which
were entangled with those of the ancient order of St. Louis. There,
too, were the medals of our own society of Cincinnati, by means of
which, as history tells us, an order of hereditary knights came near
being constituted out of the king-quellers of the Revolution. And
besides, there were the patents of nobility of German counts and
barons, Spanish grandees, and English peers, from the worm-eaten
instruments signed by William the Conqueror, down to the bran-new
parchment of the latest lord who has received his honors from the fair
hand of Victoria.
   At sight of these dense volumes of smoke, mingled with vivid jets
of flame that gushed and eddied forth from this immense pile of
earthly distinctions, the multitude of plebeian spectators set up a
joyous shout, and clapt their hands with an emphasis that made the
welkin echo. That was their moment of triumph, achieved, after long
ages, over creatures of the same clay and the same spiritual
infirmities, who had dared to assume the privileges due only to
Heaven's better workmanship. But now there rushed towards the
blazing heap a gray-haired man, of stately presence, wearing a coat
from the breast of which a star, or other badge of rank, seemed to
have been forcibly wrenched away. He had not the tokens of
intellectual power in his face; but still there was the demeanor-
the habitual, and almost native dignity- of one who had been born to
the idea of his own social superiority, and had never felt it
questioned till that moment.
   "People," cried he, gazing at the ruin of what was dearest to his
eyes with grief and wonder, but nevertheless, with a degree of
stateliness; "people, what have you done! This fire is consuming all
that marked your advance from barbarism, or that could have
prevented your relapse thither. We- the men of the privileged
orders- were those who kept alive, from age to age, the old chivalrous
spirit; the gentle and generous thought; the higher, the purer, the
more refined and delicate life! With the nobles, too, you cast off the
poet, the painter, the sculptor- all the beautiful arts; for we were
their patrons and created the atmosphere in which they flourish. In
abolishing the majestic distinctions of rank, society loses not only
its grace, but its steadfastness-"
   More he would doubtless have spoken, but here there arose an
outcry, sportive, contemptuous, and indignant, that altogether drowned
the appeal of the fallen nobleman, insomuch that, casting one look
of despair at his own half-burnt pedigree, he shrunk back into the
crowd, glad to shelter himself under his new-found insignificance.
   "Let him thank his stars that we have not flung him into the same
fire!" shouted a rude figure, spurning the embers with his foot. "And,
henceforth, let no man dare to show a piece of musty parchment as
his warrant for lording it over his fellows! If he have strength of
arm, well and good; it is one species of superiority. If he have
wit, wisdom, courage, force of character, let these attributes do
for him what they may. But, from this day forward, no mortal must hope
for place and consideration by reckoning up the mouldy bones of his
ancestors! That nonsense is done away."
   "And in good time," remarked the grave observer by my side, in a
low voice, however- "if no worse nonsense comes in its place. But,
at all events, this species of nonsense has fairly lived out its
life."
   There was little space to muse or moralize over the embers of
this time-honored rubbish; for, before it was half burnt out, there
came another multitude from beyond the sea, bearing the purple robes
of royalty, and the crowns, globes, and sceptres of emperors and
kings. All these had been condemned as useless baubles, playthings, at
best, fit only for the infancy of the world, or rods to govern and
chastise it in its nonage; but with which universal manhood, at its
full-grown stature, could no longer brook to be insulted. Into such
contempt had these regal insignia now fallen, that the gilded crown
and tinseled robes of the player-king, from Drury-Lane Theatre, had
been thrown in among the rest, doubtless as a mockery of his
brother-monarchs on the great stage of the world. It was a strange
sight to discern the crown-jewels of England, glowing and flashing
in the midst of the fire. Some of them had been delivered down from
the time of the Saxon princes; others were purchased with vast
revenues, or, perchance, ravished from the dead brows of the native
potentates of Hindostan; and the whole now blazed with a dazzling
lustre, as if a star had fallen in that spot, and been shattered
into fragments. The splendor of the ruined monarchy had no reflection,
save in those inestimable precious stones. But enough on this subject.
It were but tedious to describe how the Emperor of Austria's mantle
was converted to tinder, and how the posts and pillars of the French
throne became a heap of coals, which it was impossible to
distinguish from those of any other wood. Let me add, however, that
I noticed one of the exiled Poles stirring up the bonfire with the
Czar of Russia's sceptre, which he afterwards flung into the flames.
   "The smell of singed garments is quite intolerable here,"
observed my new acquaintance, as the breeze enveloped us in the
smoke of a royal wardrobe. "Let us get to windward, and see what
they are doing on the other side of the bonfire."
   We accordingly passed around, and were just in time to witness
the arrival of a vast procession of Washingtonians- as the votaries of
temperance call themselves now-a-days- accompanied by thousands of the
Irish disciples of Father Mathew, with that great apostle at their
head. They brought a rich contribution to the bonfire; being nothing
less than all the hogsheads and barrels of liquor in the world,
which they rolled before them across the prairie.
   "Now, my children," cried Father Mathew, when they reached the
verge of the fire- "one shove more, and the work is done! And now
let us stand off and see Satan deal with his own liquor!"
   Accordingly, having placed their wooden vessels within reach of the
flames, the procession stood off at a safe distance, and soon beheld
them burst into a blaze that reached the clouds, and threatened to set
the sky itself on fire. And well it might. For here was the whole
world's stock of spirituous liquors, which, instead of kindling a
frenzied light in the eyes of individual topers, as of yore, soared
upwards with a bewildering gleam that startled all mankind. It was the
aggregate of that fierce fire which would otherwise have scorched
the hearts of millions. Meantime, numberless bottles of precious
wine were flung into the blaze, which lapped up the contents as if
it loved them, and grew, like other drunkards, the merrier and fiercer
for what it quaffed. Never again will the insatiable thirst of the
fire-fiend be so pampered! Here were the treasures of famous
bon-vivants- liquors that had been tossed on ocean, and mellowed in
the sun, and hoarded long in the recesses of the earth- the pale,
the gold, the ruddy juice of whatever vineyards were most delicate-
the entire vintage of Tokay- all mingling in one stream with the
vile fluids of the common pot-house, and contributing to heighten
the self-same blaze. And while it rose in a gigantic spire, that
seemed to wave against the arch of the firmament, and combine itself
with the light of stars, the multitude gave a shout, as if the broad
earth were exulting in its deliverance from the curse of ages.
   But the joy was not universal. Many deemed that human life would be
gloomier than ever, when that brief illumination should sink down.
While the reformers were at work, I overheard muttered
expostulations from several respectable gentlemen with red noses,
and wearing gouty shoes; and a ragged worthy, whose face looked like a
hearth where the fire is burnt out, now expressed his discontent
more openly and boldly.
   "What is this world good for," said the last toper, "now that we
can never be jolly any more? What is to comfort the poor man in sorrow
and perplexity? how is he to keep his heart warm against the cold
winds of this cheerless earth? and what do you propose to give him
in exchange for the solace that you take away? How are old friends
to sit together by the fireside, without a cheerful glass between
them? A plague upon your reformation! It is a sad world, a cold world,
a selfish world, a low world, not worth an honest fellow's living
in, now that good fellowship is gone for ever!"
   This harangue excited great mirth among the bystanders. But,
preposterous as was the sentiment, I could not help commiserating
the forlorn condition of the last toper, whose boon-companions had
dwindled away from his side, leaving the poor fellow without a soul to
countenance him in sipping his liquor, nor indeed any liquor to sip.
Not that this was quite the true state of the case; for I had observed
him, at a critical moment, filch a bottle of fourth-proof brandy
that fell beside the bonfire, and hide it in his pocket.
   The spirituous and fermented liquors being thus disposed of, the
zeal of the reformers next induced them to replenish the fire with all
the boxes of tea and bags of coffee in the world. And now came the
planters of Virginia, bringing their crops of tobacco. These, being
cast upon the heap of inutility, aggregated it to the size of a
mountain, and incensed the atmosphere with such potent fragrance
that methought we should never draw pure breath again. The present
sacrifice seemed to startle the lovers of the weed more than any
that they had hitherto witnessed.
   "Well, they've put my pipe out," said an old gentleman, flinging it
into the flames in a pet. "What is this world coming to? Everything
rich and racy- all the spice of life- is to be condemned as useless.
Now that they have kindled the bonfire, if these nonsensical reformers
would fling themselves into it, all would be well enough!"
   "Be patient," responded a staunch conservative; "it will come to
that in the end. They will first fling us in, and finally themselves."
   From the general and systematic measures of reform, I now turned to
consider the individual contributions to this memorable bonfire. In
many instances these were of a very amusing character. One poor fellow
threw in his empty purse, and another a bundle of counterfeit or
insolvable bank notes. Fashionable ladies threw in their last season's
bonnets, together with heaps of ribbons, yellow lace, and much other
half-worn milliner's ware; all of which proved even more evanescent in
the fire than it had been in the fashion. A multitude of lovers of
both sexes- discarded maids or bachelors, and couples mutually weary
of one another- tossed in bundles of perfumed letters and enamored
sonnets. A hack politician, being deprived of bread by the loss of
office, threw in his teeth, which happened to be false ones. The
Rev. Sydney Smith- having voyaged across the Atlantic for that sole
purpose- came up to the bonfire with a bitter grin, and threw in
certain repudiated bonds, fortified though they were with the broad
seal of a sovereign state. A little boy of five years old, in the
premature manliness of the present epoch, threw in his playthings; a
college graduate, his diploma; an apothecary, ruined by the spread
of homoeopathy, his whole stock of drugs and medicines; a physician,
his library; a parson, his old sermons; and a fine gentleman of the
old school, his code of manners, which he had formerly written down
for the benefit of the next generation. A widow, resolving on a second
marriage, slily threw in her dead husband's miniature. A young man,
jilted by his mistress, would willingly have flung his own desperate
heart into the flames, but could find no means to wrench it out of his
bosom. An American author, whose works were neglected by the public,
threw his pen and paper into the bonfire, and betook himself to some
less discouraging occupation. It somewhat startled me to overhear a
number of ladies, highly respectable in appearance, proposing to fling
their gowns and petticoats into the flames, and assume the garb,
together with the manners, duties, offices, and responsibilities, of
the opposite sex.
   What favor was accorded to this scheme, I am unable to say; my
attention being suddenly drawn to a poor, deceived, and half-delirious
girl, who, exclaiming that she was the most worthless thing alive or
dead, attempted to cast herself into the fire, amid all that wrecked
and broken trumpery of the world. A good man, however, ran to her
rescue.
   "Patience, my poor girl!" said he, as he drew her back from the
fierce embrace of the destroying angel. "Be patient, and abide
Heaven's will. So long as you possess a living soul, all may be
restored to its first freshness. These things of matter, and creations
of human fantasy, are fit for nothing but to be burnt, when once
they have had their day. But your day is eternity!"
   "Yes," said the wretched girl, whose frenzy seemed now to have sunk
down into deep despondency; "yes, and the sunshine is blotted out of
it!"
   It was now rumored among the spectators that all the weapons and
munitions of war were to be thrown into the bonfire, with the
exception of the world's stock of gunpowder, which, as the safest mode
of disposing of it, had already been drowned in the sea. This
intelligence seemed to awaken great diversity of opinion. The
hopeful philanthropist esteemed it a token that the millennium was
already come; while persons of another stamp, in whose view mankind
was a breed of bull-dogs, prophesied that all the old stoutness,
fervor, nobleness, generosity, and magnanimity of the race would
disappear; these qualities, as they affirmed, requiring blood for
their nourishment. They comforted themselves, however, in the belief
that the proposed abolition of war was impracticable, for any length
of time together.
   Be that as it might, numberless great guns, whose thunder had
long been the voice of battle- the artillery of the Armada, the
battering-trains of Marlborough, and the adverse cannon of Napoleon
and Wellington- were trundled into the midst of the fire. By the
continual addition of dry combustibles, it had now waxed so intense
that neither brass nor iron could withstand it. It was wonderful to
behold how these terrible instruments of slaughter melted away like
playthings of wax. Then the armies of the earth wheeled around the
mighty furnace, with their military music playing triumphant
marches, and flung in their muskets and swords. The
standard-bearers, likewise, cast one look upward at their banners, all
tattered with shot-holes, and inscribed with the names of victorious
fields, and, giving them a last flourish on the breeze, they lowered
them into the flame, which snatched them upward in its rush toward the
clouds. This ceremony being over, the world was left without a
single weapon on in its hands, except, possibly, a few old king's arms
and rusty swords, and other trophies of the Revolution, in some of our
state armories. And now the drums were beaten and the trumpets
brayed all together, as a prelude to the proclamation of universal and
eternal peace, and the announcement that glory was no longer to be won
by blood; but that it would henceforth be the contention of the
human race to work out the greatest mutual good, and that beneficence,
in the future annals of the earth, would claim the praise of valor.
The blessed tidings were accordingly promulgated, and caused
infinite rejoicings among those who had stood aghast at the horror and
absurdity of war.
   But I saw a grim smile pass over the seared visage of a stately old
commander- by his war-worn figure and rich military dress, he might
have been one of Napoleon's famous marshals- who, with the rest of the
world's soldiery, had just flung away the sword that had been familiar
to his right hand for half a century.
   "Aye, aye!" grumbled he. "Let them proclaim what they please;
but, in the end, we shall find that all this foolery has only made
more work for the armorers and cannon-founders."
   "Why, sir," exclaimed I, in astonishment, "do you imagine that
the human race will ever so far return on the steps of its past
madness as to weld another sword, or cast another cannon?"
   "There will be no need," observed, with a sneer, one who neither
felt benevolence, nor had faith in it. "When Cain wished to slay his
brother, he was at no loss for a weapon."
   "We shall see," replied the veteran commander. "If I am mistaken,
so much the better; but in my opinion- without pretending to
philosophize about the matter- the necessity of war lies far deeper
than these honest gentlemen suppose. What! Is there a field for all
the petty disputes of individuals, and shall there be no great
law-court for the settlement of national difficulties? The
battle-field is the only court where such suits can be tried!"
   "You forget, general," rejoined I, "that, in this advanced stage of
civilization, Reason and Philanthropy combined will constitute just
such a tribunal as is requisite."
   "Ah, I had forgotten that, indeed!" said the old warrior, as he
limped away.
   The fire was now to be replenished with materials that had hitherto
been considered of even greater importance to the well-being of
society, than the warlike munitions which we had already seen
consumed. A body of reformers had travelled all over the earth, in
quest of the machinery by which the different nations were
accustomed to inflict the punishment of death. A shudder passed
through the multitude, as these ghastly emblems were dragged
forward. Even the flames seemed at first to shrink away, displaying
the shape and murderous contrivance of each in a full blaze of
light, which, of itself, was sufficient to convince mankind of the
long and deadly error of human law. Those old implements of cruelty-
those horrible monsters of mechanism- those inventions which it seemed
to demand something worse than man's natural heart to contrive, and
which had lurked in the dusky nooks of ancient prisons, the subject of
terror-stricken legend- were now brought forth to view. Headsmen's
axes, with the rust of noble and royal blood upon them, and a vast
collection of halters that had choked the breath of plebeian
victims, were thrown in together. A shout greeted the arrival of the
guillotine, which was thrust forward on the same wheels that had borne
it from one to another of the blood-stained streets of Paris. But
the loudest roar of applause went up, telling the distant sky of the
triumph of the earth's redemption, when the gallows made its
appearance. An ill-looking fellow, however, rushed forward, and,
putting himself in the path of the reformers, bellowed hoarsely, and
fought with brute fury to stay their progress.
   It was little matter of surprise, perhaps, that the executioner
should thus do his best to vindicate and uphold the machinery by which
he himself had his livelihood, and worthier individuals their death.
But it deserved special note, that men of a far different sphere- even
of that class in whose guardianship the world is apt to trust its
benevolence- were found to take the hangman's view of the question.
   "Stay, my brethren!" cried one of them. "You are misled by a
false philanthropy! you know not what you do. The gallows is a
Heaven-ordained instrument! Bear it back, then, reverently, and set it
up in its old place; else the world will fall to speedy ruin and
desolation!"
   "Onward, onward!" shouted a leader in the reform. "Into the
flames with the accursed instrument of man's bloody policy. How can
human law inculcate benevolence and love, while it persists in setting
up the gallows as its chief symbol! One heave more, good friends,
and the world will be redeemed from its greatest error!"
   A thousand hands, that, nevertheless, loathed the touch, now lent
their assistance, and thrust the ominous burthen far, far, into the
centre of the raging furnace. There its fatal and abhorred image was
beheld, first black, then a red coal, then ashes.
   "That was well done!" exclaimed I.
   "Yes, it was well done," replied- but with less enthusiasm than I
expected- the thoughtful observer who was still at my side; "well
done, if the world be good enough for the measure. Death, however,
is an idea that cannot easily be dispensed with, in any condition
between the primal innocence and that other purity and perfection,
which, perchance, we are destined to attain after travelling round the
full circle. But, at all events, it is well that the experiment should
now be tried."
   "Too cold! too cold!" impatiently exclaimed the young and ardent
leader in this triumph. "Let the heart have its voice here, as well as
the intellect. And as for ripeness- and as for progress- let mankind
always do the highest, kindest, noblest thing that, at any given
period, it has attained the perception of; and surely that thing
cannot be wrong, nor wrongly timed."
   I know not whether it were the excitement of the scene, or
whether the good people around the bonfire were really growing more
enlightened every instant; but they now proceeded to measures, in
the full length of which I was hardly prepared to keep them company.
For instance, some threw their marriage certificates into the
flames, and declared themselves candidates for a higher, holier, and
more comprehensive union than that which had subsisted from the
birth of time, under the form of the connubial tie. Others hastened to
the vaults of banks, and to the coffers of the rich- all of which were
open to the first comer, on this fated occasion- and brought entire
bales of paper-money to enliven the blaze, and tons of coin to be
melted down by its intensity. Henceforth, they said, universal
benevolence, uncoined and exhaustless, was to be the golden currency
of the world. At this intelligence, the bankers, and speculators in
the stocks, grew pale; and a pickpocket, who had reaped a rich harvest
among the crowd, fell down in a deadly fainting-fit. A few men of
business burnt their day-books and ledgers, the notes and
obligations of their creditors, and all other evidences of debts due
to themselves; while perhaps a somewhat larger number satisfied
their zeal for reform with the sacrifice of any uncomfortable
recollection of their own indebtment. There was then a cry, that the
period was arrived when the title-deeds of landed property should be
given to the flames, and the whole soil of the earth revert to the
public, from whom it had been wrongfully abstracted, and most
unequally distributed among individuals. Another party demanded that
all written constitutions, set forms of government, legislative
acts, statute-books, and everything else on which human invention
had endeavored to stamp its arbitrary laws, should at once be
destroyed, leaving the consummated world as free as the man first
created.
   Whether any ultimate action was taken with regard to these
propositions, is beyond my knowledge; for, just then, some matters
were in progress that concerned my sympathies more nearly.
   "See! see! what heaps of books and pamphlets!" cried a fellow,
who did not seem to be a lover of literature. "Now we shall have a
glorious blaze!"
   "That's just the thing," said a modern philosopher. "Now we shall
get rid of the weight of dead men's thought, which has hitherto
pressed so heavily on the living intellect that it has been
incompetent to any effectual self-exertion. Well done, my lads! Into
the fire with them! Now you are enlightening the world, indeed!"
   "But what is to become of the Trade?" cried a frantic bookseller.
   "Oh, by all means, let them accompany their merchandise," coolly
observed an author. "It will be a noble funeral pile!"
   The truth was, that the human race had now reached a stage of
progress so far beyond what the wisest and wittiest men of former ages
had ever dreamed of, that it would have been a manifest absurdity to
allow the earth to be any longer encumbered with their poor
achievements in the literary line. Accordingly, a thorough and
searching investigation had swept the booksellers' shops, hawkers'
stands, public and private libraries, and even the little book-shelf
by the country fireside, and had brought the world's entire mass of
printed paper, bound or in sheets, to swell the already
mountain-bulk of our illustrious bonfire. Thick, heavy folios,
containing the labors of lexicographers, commentators, and
encyclopedists, were flung in, and, falling among the embers with a
leaden thump, smouldered away to ashes, like rotten wood. The small,
richly gilt French tomes of the last age, with the hundred volumes
of Voltaire among them, went off in a brilliant shower of sparkles,
and little jets of flame; while the current literature of the same
nation burnt red and blue, and threw an infernal light over the
visages of the spectators, converting them all to the aspect of
parti-colored fiends. A collection of German stories emitted a scent
of brimstone. The English standard authors made excellent fuel,
generally exhibiting the properties of sound oak logs. Milton's works,
in particular, sent up a powerful blaze, gradually reddening into a
coal, which promised to endure longer than almost any other material
of the pile. From Shakspeare there gushed a flame of such marvellous
splendor that men shaded their eyes as against the sun's meridian
glory; nor even when the works of his own elucidators were flung
upon him did he cease to flash forth a dazzling radiance from
beneath the ponderous heap. It is my belief that he is still blazing
as fervidly as ever.
   "Could a poet but light a lamp at that glorious flame," remarked I,
"he might then consume the midnight oil to some good purpose."
   "That is the very thing which modern poets have been too apt to do,
or at least to attempt," answered a critic. "The chief benefit to be
expected from this conflagration of past literature undoubtedly is,
that writers will henceforth be compelled to light their lamps at
the sun or stars."
   "If they can reach so high," said I. "But that task requires a
giant, who may afterward distribute the light among inferior men. It
is not everyone that can steal the fire from heaven, like
Prometheus; but when once he had done the deed, a thousand hearths
were kindled by it."
   It amazed me much to observe how indefinite was the proportion
between the physical mass of any given author, and the property of
brilliant and long-continued combustion. For instance, there was not a
quarto volume of the last century- nor, indeed, of the present- that
could compete, in that particular, with a child's little
gilt-covered book, containing Mother Goose's Melodies. The Life and
Death of Tom Thumb outlasted the biography of Marlborough. An epic-
indeed, a dozen of them- was converted to white ashes, before the
single sheet of an old ballad was half consumed. In more than one
case, too, when volumes of applauded verse proved incapable of
anything better than a stifling smoke, an unregarded ditty of some
nameless bard- perchance in the corner of a newspaper- soared up among
the stars, with a flame as brilliant as their own. Speaking of the
properties of flame, methought Shelley's poetry emitted a purer
light than almost any other productions of his day; contrasting
beautifully with the fitful and lurid gleams, and gushes of black
vapor, that flashed and eddied from the volumes of Lord Byron. As
for Tom Moore, some of his songs diffused an odor like a burning
pastille.
   I felt particular interest in watching the combustion of American
authors, and scrupulously noted, by my watch, the precise number of
moments that changed most of them from shabbily printed books to
indistinguishable ashes. It would be invidious, however, if not
perilous, to betray these awful secrets; so that I shall content
myself with observing, that it was not invariably the writer most
frequent in the public mouth that made the most splendid appearance in
the bonfire. I especially remember, that a great deal of excellent
inflammability was exhibited in a thin volume of poems by Ellery
Channing; although, to speak the truth, there were certain portions
that hissed and spluttered in a very disagreeable fashion. A curious
phenomenon occurred in reference to several writers, native as well as
foreign. Their books, though of highly respectable figure, instead
of bursting into a blaze, or even smouldering out their substance in
smoke, suddenly melted away, in a manner that proved them to be ice.
   If it be no lack of modesty to mention my own works, it must here
be confessed, that I looked for them with fatherly interest, but in
vain. Too probably, they were changed to vapor by the first action
of the heat; at best, I can only hope that, in their quiet way, they
contributed a glimmering spark or two to the splendor of the evening.
   "Alas! and wo is me!" thus bemoaned himself a heavy-looking
gentleman in green spectacles. "The world is utterly ruined, and there
is nothing to live for any longer! The business of my life is snatched
from me. Not a volume to be had for love or money!"
   "This," remarked the sedate observer beside me, "is a book-worm-
one of those men who are born to gnaw dead thoughts. His clothes,
you see, are covered with the dust of libraries. He has no inward
fountain of ideas; and, in good earnest, now that the old stock is
abolished, I do not see what is to become of the poor fellow. Have you
no word of comfort for him?"
   "My dear sir," said I, to the desperate book-worm, "is not Nature
better than a book? is not the human heart deeper than any system of
philosophy? is not life replete with more instruction than past
observers have found it possible to write down in maxims? Be of good
cheer! The great book of Time is still spread wide open before us;
and, if we read it aright, it will be to us a volume of eternal
Truth."
   "Oh, my books, my books, my precious, printed books!" reiterated
the forlorn book-worm. "My only reality was a bound volume; and now
they will not leave me even a shadowy pamphlet!"
   In fact, the last remnant of the literature of all the ages was now
descending upon the blazing heap, in the shape of a cloud of pamphlets
from the press of the New World. These, likewise, were consumed in the
twinkling of an eye, leaving the earth, for the first time since the
days of Cadmus, free from the plague of letters- an enviable field for
the authors of the next generation!
   "Well! and does anything remain to be done?" inquired I, somewhat
anxiously. "Unless we set fire to the earth itself, and then leap
boldly off into infinite space, I know not that we can carry reform to
any further point."
   "You are vastly mistaken, my good friend," said the observer.
"Believe me, the fire will not be allowed to settle down without the
addition of fuel that will startle many persons, who have lent a
willing hand thus far."
   Nevertheless, there appeared to be a relaxation of effort, for a
little time, during which, probably, the leaders of the movement
were considering what should be done next. In the interval, a
philosopher threw his theory into the flames; a sacrifice which, by
those who knew how to estimate it, was pronounced the most
remarkable that had yet been made. The combustion, however, was by
no means brilliant. Some indefatigable people, scorning to take a
moment's ease, now employed themselves in collecting all the
withered leaves and fallen boughs of the forest, and thereby recruited
the bonfire to a greater height than ever. But this was mere by-play.
   "Here comes the fresh fuel that I spoke of," said my companion.
   To my astonishment, the persons who now advanced into the vacant
space around the mountain fire, bore surplices and other priestly
garments, mitres, crosiers, and a confusion of Popish and Protestant
emblems, with which it seemed their purpose to consummate the great
Act of Faith. Crosses, from the spires of old cathedrals, were cast
upon the heap with as little remorse as if the reverence of centuries,
passing in long array beneath the lofty towers, had not looked up to
them as the holiest of symbols. The font, in which infants were
consecrated to God; the sacramental vessels, whence Piety received the
hallowed draught; were given to the same destruction. Perhaps it
most nearly touched my heart to see, among these devoted relics,
fragments of the humble communion-tables and undecorated pulpits,
which I recognized as having been torn from the meeting-houses of
New England. Those simple edifices might have been permitted to retain
all of sacred embellishment that their Puritan founders had
bestowed, even though the mighty structure of St. Peter's had sent its
spoils to the fire of this terrible sacrifice. Yet I felt that these
were but the externals of religion, and might most safely be
relinquished by spirits that best knew their deep significance.
   "All is well," said I cheerfully. "The wood-paths shall be the
aisles of our cathedral- the firmament itself shall be its ceiling!
What needs an earthly roof between the Deity and his worshippers?
Our faith can well afford to lose all the drapery that even the
holiest men have thrown around it, and be only the more sublime in its
simplicity."
   "True," said my companion. "But will they pause here?"
   The doubt implied in his question was well founded. In the
general destruction of books already described, a holy volume- that
stood apart from the catalogue of human literature, and yet, in one
sense, was at its head- had been spared. But the Titan of
innovation- angel or fiend, double in his nature, and capable of deeds
befitting both characters- at first shaking down only the old and
rotten shapes of things, had now, as it appeared, laid his terrible
hand upon the main pillars which supported the whole edifice of our
moral and spiritual state. The inhabitants of the earth had grown
too enlightened to define their faith within a form of words, or to
limit the spiritual by any analogy to our material existence.
Truths, which the heavens trembled at, were now but a fable of the
world's infancy. Therefore, as the final sacrifice of human error,
what else remained to be thrown upon the embers of that awful pile,
except the Book, which, though a celestial revelation to past ages,
was but a voice from a lower sphere, as regarded the present race of
man? It was done! Upon the blazing heap of falsehood and worn-out
truth- things that the earth had never needed, or had ceased to
need, or had grown childishly weary of- fell the ponderous church
Bible, the great old volume, that had lain so long on the cushion of
the pulpit, and whence the pastor's solemn voice had given holy
utterance on so many a Sabbath day. There, likewise, fell the family
Bible, which the long buried patriarch had read to his children- in
prosperity or sorrow, by the fireside and in the summer shade of
trees- and had bequeathed downward, as the heir-loom of generations.
There fell the bosom Bible, the little volume that had been the soul's
friend of some sorely tried child of dust, who thence took courage,
whether his trial were for life or death, steadfastly confronting both
in the strong assurance of immortality.
   All these were flung into the fierce and riotous blaze; and then
a mighty wind came roaring across the plain, with a desolate howl,
as if it were the angry lamentations of the Earth for the loss of
Heaven's sunshine, and it shook the gigantic pyramid of flame, and
scattered the cinders of half-consumed abominations around upon the
spectators.
   "This is terrible!" said I, feeling that my cheek grew pale, and
seeing a like change in the visages about me.
   "Be of good courage yet," answered the man with whom I had so often
spoken. He continued to gaze steadily at the spectacle, with a
singular calmness, as if it concerned him merely as an observer. "Be
of good courage- nor yet exult too much; for there is far less both of
good and evil, in the effect of this bonfire, than the world might
be willing to believe."
   "How can that be?" exclaimed I impatiently. "Has it not consumed
everything? Has it not swallowed up, or melted down, every human or
divine appendage of our mortal state that had substance enough to be
acted on by fire? Will there be anything left us tomorrow morning,
better or worse than a heap of embers and ashes?"
   "Assuredly there will," said my grave friend. "Come hither tomorrow
morning- or whenever the combustible portion of the pile shall be
quite burnt out- and you will find among the ashes everything really
valuable that you have seen cast into the flames. Trust me, the
world of tomorrow will again enrich itself with the gold and
diamonds which have been cast off by the world of today. Not a truth
is destroyed- nor buried so deep among the ashes, but it will be raked
up at last."
   This was a strange assurance. Yet I felt inclined to credit it; the
more especially as I beheld among the wallowing flames a copy of the
Holy Scriptures, the pages of which, instead of being blackened into
tinder, only assumed a more dazzling whiteness as the finger-marks
of human imperfection were purified away. Certain marginal notes and
commentaries, it is true, yielded to the intensity of the fiery
test, but without detriment to the smallest syllable that had flamed
from the pen of inspiration.
   "Yes- there is the proof of what you say," answered I, turning to
the observer. " But if only what is evil can feel the action of the
fire, then, surely, the conflagration has been of inestimable utility.
Yet if I understand aright, you intimate a doubt whether the world's
expectation of benefit would be realized by it."
   "Listen to the talk of these worthies," said he, pointing to a
group in front of the blazing pile. "Possibly they may teach you
something useful, without intending it."
   The persons whom he indicated consisted of that brutal and most
earthy figure who had stood forth so furiously in defence of the
gallows- the hangman, in short- together with the last thief and the
last murderer; all three of whom were clustered about the last
toper. The latter was liberally passing the brandy bottle, which he
had rescued from the general destruction of wines and spirits. The
little convivial party seemed at the lowest pitch of despondency; as
considering that the purified world must needs be utterly unlike the
sphere that they had hitherto known, and therefore but a strange and
desolate abode for gentlemen of their kidney.
   "The best counsel for all of us is," remarked the hangman, "that-
as soon as we have finished the last drop of liqour- I help you, my
three friends, to a comfortable end upon the nearest tree, and then
hang myself on the same bough. This is no world for us any longer."
   "Poh, poh, my good fellows!" said a dark-complexioned personage,
who now joined the group- his complexion was indeed fearfully dark,
and his eyes glowed with a redder light than that of the bonfire-
"Be not so cast down, my dear friends; you shall see good days yet.
There is one thing that these wiseacres have forgotten to throw into
the fire, and without which all the rest of the conflagration is
just nothing at all; yes- though they had burnt the earth itself to
a cinder."
   "And what may that be?" eagerly demanded the last murderer.
   "What but the human heart itself!" said the dark-visaged
stranger, with a portentous grin. "And unless they hit upon some
method of purifying that foul cavern, forth from it will reissue all
the shapes of wrong and misery- the same old shapes, or worse ones-
which they have taken such a vast deal of trouble to consume to ashes.
I have stood by, this live-long night, and laughed in my sleeve at the
whole business. Oh, take my word for it, it will be the old world
yet!"
   This brief conversation supplied me with a theme for lengthened
thought. How sad a truth- if true it were- that Man's age-long
endeavor for perfection had served only to render him the mockery of
the Evil Principle, from the fatal circumstance of an error at the
very root of the matter! The heart- the heart- there was the little
yet boundless sphere, wherein existed the original wrong, of which the
crime and misery of this outward world were merely types. Purify
that inward sphere; and the many shapes of evil that haunt the
outward, and which now seem almost our only realities, will turn to
shadowy phantoms, and vanish of their own accord. But if we go no
deeper than the Intellect, and strive, with merely that feeble
instrument, to discern and rectify what is wrong, our whole
accomplishment will be a dream; so unsubstantial, that it matters
little whether the bonfire, which I have so faithfully described, were
what we choose to call a real event, and a flame that would scorch the
finger- or only a phosphoric radiance, and a parable of my own brain!


                        THE END