University of Virginia Library

10. X.
A VISITER FROM TOWN.

Hollingsworth and I — we had been hoeing potatoes,
that forenoon, while the rest of the fraternity were
engaged in a distant quarter of the farm — sat under a
clump of maples, eating our eleven o'clock lunch, when
we saw a stranger approaching along the edge of the
field. He had admitted himself from the road-side
through a turnstile, and seemed to have a purpose of
speaking with us.

And, by the by, we were favored with many visits at
Blithedale, especially from people who sympathized with
our theories, and perhaps held themselves ready to unite
in our actual experiment as soon as there should appear
a reliable promise of its success. It was rather ludicrous,
indeed — (to me, at least, whose enthusiasm had
insensibly been exhaled, together with the perspiration
of many a hard day's toil), — it was absolutely funny,
therefore, to observe what a glory was shed about our
life and labors, in the imagination of these longing
proselytes. In their view, we were as poetical as
Arcadians, besides being as practical as the hardest-fisted
husbandmen in Massachusetts. We did not, it is
true, spend much time in piping to our sheep, or warbling
our innocent loves to the sisterhood. But they
gave us credit for imbuing the ordinary rustic occupations
with a kind of religious poetry, insomuch that our

very cow-yards and pig-sties were as delightfully fragrant
as a flower-garden. Nothing used to please me more
than to see one of these lay enthusiasts snatch up a hoe,
as they were very prone to do, and set to work with a
vigor that perhaps carried him through about a dozen
ill-directed strokes. Men are wonderfully soon satisfied,
in this day of shameful bodily enervation, when, from
one end of life to the other, such multitudes never taste
the sweet weariness that follows accustomed toil. I seldom
saw the new enthusiasm that did not grow as flimsy
and flaccid as the proselyte's moistened shirt-collar, with
a quarter of an hour's active labor under a July sun.

But the person now at hand had not at all the air of
one of these amiable visionaries. He was an elderly
man, dressed rather shabbily, yet decently enough, in a
gray frock-coat, faded towards a brown hue, and wore a
broad-brimmed white hat, of the fashion of several years
gone by. His hair was perfect silver, without a dark
thread in the whole of it; his nose, though it had a
scarlet tip, by no means indicated the jollity of which a
red nose is the generally admitted symbol. He was a
subdued, undemonstrative old man, who would doubtless
drink a glass of liquor, now and then, and probably more
than was good for him; — not, however, with a purpose
of undue exhilaration, but in the hope of bringing his
spirits up to the ordinary level of the world's cheerfulness.
Drawing nearer, there was a shy look about him,
as if he were ashamed of his poverty; or, at any rate,
for some reason or other, would rather have us glance
at him sidelong than take a full front view. He had
a queer appearance of hiding himself behind the patch
on his left eye.

“I know this old gentleman,” said I to Hollingsworth,
as we sat observing him; “that is, I have met him a
hundred times in town, and have often amused my fancy
with wondering what he was before he came to be what
he is. He haunts restaurants and such places, and has
an odd way of lurking in corners or getting behind a
door, whenever practicable, and holding out his hand,
with some little article in it which he wishes you to
buy. The eye of the world seems to trouble him, although
he necessarily lives so much in it. I never
expected to see him in an open field.”

“Have you learned anything of his history?” asked
Hollingsworth.

“Not a circumstance,” I answered; “but there must
be something curious in it. I take him to be a harmless
sort of a person, and a tolerably honest one; but his
manners, being so furtive, remind me of those of a rat,
— a rat without the mischief, the fierce eye, the teeth to
bite with, or the desire to bite. See, now! He means
to skulk along that fringe of bushes, and approach us
on the other side of our clump of maples.”

We soon heard the old man's velvet tread on the
grass, indicating that he had arrived within a few feet
of where we sat.

“Good-morning, Mr. Moodie,” said Hollingsworth,
addressing the stranger as an acquaintance; “you must
have had a hot and tiresome walk from the city. Sit
down, and take a morsel of our bread and cheese.”

The visiter made a grateful little murmur of acquiescence,
and sat down in a spot somewhat removed; so
that, glancing round, I could see his gray pantaloons and
dusty shoes, while his upper part was mostly hidden behind

the shrubbery. Nor did he come forth from this
retirement during the whole of the interview that followed.
We handed him such food as we had, together
with a brown jug of molasses and water (would that it
had been brandy, or something better, for the sake of his
chill old heart!), like priests offering dainty sacrifice to an
enshrined and invisible idol. I have no idea that he
really lacked sustenance; but it was quite touching,
nevertheless, to hear him nibbling away at our crusts.”

“Mr. Moodie,” said I, “do you remember selling me
one of those very pretty little silk purses, of which you
seem to have a monopoly in the market? I keep it to
this day, I can assure you.”

“Ah, thank you,” said our guest. “Yes, Mr. Coverdale,
I used to sell a good many of those little purses.”

He spoke languidly, and only those few words, like a
watch with an inelastic spring, that just ticks a moment
or two, and stops again. He seemed a very forlorn old
man. In the wantonness of youth, strength, and comfortable
condition, — making my prey of people's individualities,
as my custom was, — I tried to identify my
mind with the old fellow's, and take his view of the
world, as if looking through a smoke-blackened glass at
the sun. It robbed the landscape of all its life. Those
pleasantly swelling slopes of our farm, descending towards
the wide meadows, through which sluggishly circled the
brimful tide of the Charles, bathing the long sedges on
its hither and further shores; the broad, sunny gleam
over the winding water; that peculiar picturesqueness
of the scene where capes and headlands put themselves
boldly forth upon the perfect level of the meadow, as
into a green lake, with inlets between the promontories;

the shadowy woodland, with twinkling showers of light
falling into its depths; the sultry heat-vapor, which rose
everywhere like incense, and in which my soul delighted,
as indicating so rich a fervor in the passionate day, and
in the earth that was burning with its love; — I beheld
all these things as through old Moodie's eyes. When
my eyes are dimmer than they have yet come to be, I
will go thither again, and see if I did not catch the tone
of his mind aright, and if the cold and lifeless tint of
his perceptions be not then repeated in my own.

Yet it was unaccountable to myself, the interest that I
felt in him.

“Have you any objection,” said I, “to telling me who
made those little purses?”

“Gentlemen have often asked me that,” said Moodie,
slowly; “but I shake my head, and say little or nothing,
and creep out of the way as well as I can. I am a man
of few words; and if gentlemen were to be told one
thing, they would be very apt, I suppose, to ask me
another. But it happens, just now, Mr. Coverdale, that
you can tell me more about the maker of those little
purses than I can tell you.”

“Why do you trouble him with needless questions,
Coverdale?” interrupted Hollingsworth. “You must
have known, long ago, that it was Priscilla. And so,
my good friend, you have come to see her? Well, I
am glad of it. You will find her altered very much for
the better, since that winter evening when you put her
into my charge. Why, Priscilla has a bloom in her
cheeks, now!”

“Has my pale little girl a bloom?” repeated Moodie,
with a kind of slow wonder. “Priscilla with a bloom

in her cheeks! Ah, I am afraid I shall not know my
little girl. And is she happy?”

“Just as happy as a bird,” answered Hollingsworth.

“Then, gentlemen,” said our guest, apprehensively,
“I don't think it well for me to go any further. I crept
hitherward only to ask about Priscilla; and now that
you have told me such good news, perhaps I can do no
better than to creep back again. If she were to see this
old face of mine, the child would remember some very
sad times which we have spent together. Some very
sad times, indeed! She has forgotten them, I know, —
them and me, — else she could not be so happy, nor
have a bloom in her cheeks. Yes — yes — yes,” continued
he, still with the same torpid utterance; “with
many thanks to you, Mr. Hollingsworth, I will creep
back to town again.”

“You shall do no such thing, Mr. Moodie,” said Hollingsworth,
bluffly. “Priscilla often speaks of you; and
if there lacks anything to make her cheeks bloom like
two damask roses, I 'll venture to say it is just the sight
of your face. Come, — we will go and find her.”

“Mr. Hollingsworth!” said the old man, in his hesitating
way.

“Well,” answered Hollingsworth.

“Has there been any call for Priscilla?” asked
Moodie; and though his face was hidden from us, his
tone gave a sure indication of the mysterious nod and
wink with which he put the question. “You know, I
think, sir, what I mean.”

“I have not the remotest suspicion what you mean,
Mr. Moodie,” replied Hollingsworth; “nobody, to my
knowledge, has called for Priscilla, except yourself. But,

come; we are losing time, and I have several things to
say to you by the way.”

“And, Mr. Hollingsworth!” repeated Moodie.

“Well, again!” cried my friend, rather impatiently.
“What now?”

“There is a lady here,” said the old man; and his
voice lost some of its wearisome hesitation. “You will
account it a very strange matter for me to talk about;
but I chanced to know this lady when she was but a
little child. If I am rightly informed, she has grown to
be a very fine woman, and makes a brilliant figure in
the world, with her beauty, and her talents, and her
noble way of spending her riches. I should recognize
this lady, so people tell me, by a magnificent flower in
her hair.”

“What a rich tinge it gives to his colorless ideas,
when he speaks of Zenobia!” I whispered to Hollingsworth.
“But how can there possibly be any interest or
connecting link between him and her?”

“The old man, for years past,” whispered Hollingsworth,
“has been a little out of his right mind, as you
probably see.”

“What I would inquire,” resumed Moodie, “is,
whether this beautiful lady is kind to my poor Priscilla.”

“Very kind,” said Hollingsworth.

“Does she love her?” asked Moodie.

“It should seem so,” answered my friend. “They
are always together.”

“Like a gentlewoman and her maid-servant, I fancy?”
suggested the old man.

There was something so singular in his way of saying
this, that I could not resist the impulse to turn quite

round, so as to catch a glimpse of his face, almost
imagining that I should see another person than old
Moodie. But there he sat, with the patched side of his
face towards me.

“Like an elder and younger sister, rather,” replied
Hollingsworth.

“Ah!” said Moodie, more complacently, — for his
latter tones had harshness and acidity in them, — “it
would gladden my old heart to witness that. If one
thing would make me happier than another, Mr. Hollingsworth,
it would be to see that beautiful lady holding
my little girl by the hand.”

“Come along,” said Hollingsworth, “and perhaps
you may.”

After a little more delay on the part of our freakish
visiter, they set forth together, old Moodie keeping a
step or two behind Hollingsworth, so that the latter
could not very conveniently look him in the face. I
remained under the tuft of maples, doing my utmost to
draw an inference from the scene that had just passed.
In spite of Hollingsworth's off-hand explanation, it did
not strike me that our strange guest was really beside
himself, but only that his mind needed screwing up, like
an instrument long out of tune, the strings of which
have ceased to vibrate smartly and sharply. Methought
it would be profitable for us, projectors of a happy life,
to welcome this old gray shadow, and cherish him as
one of us, and let him creep about our domain, in order
that he might be a little merrier for our sakes, and we,
sometimes, a little sadder for his. Human destinies
look ominous without some perceptible intermixture of
the sable or the gray. And then, too, should any of our

fraternity grow feverish with an over-exulting sense of
prosperity, it would be a sort of cooling regimen to slink
off into the woods, and spend an hour, or a day, or as
many days as might be requisite to the cure, in uninterrupted
communion with this deplorable old Moodie!

Going homeward to dinner, I had a glimpse of him,
behind the trunk of a tree, gazing earnestly towards a
particular window of the farm-house; and, by and by,
Priscilla appeared at this window, playfully drawing
along Zenobia, who looked as bright as the very day
that was blazing down upon us, only not, by many
degrees, so well advanced towards her noon. I was
convinced that this pretty sight must have been purposely
arranged by Priscilla for the old man to see.
But either the girl held her too long, or her fondness
was resented as too great a freedom; for Zenobia suddenly
put Priscilla decidedly away, and gave her a
haughty look, as from a mistress to a dependant. Old
Moodie shook his head; and again and again I saw
him shake it, as he withdrew along the road; and, at
the last point whence the farm-house was visible, he
turned, and shook his uplifted staff.