Heaven’s Light in an Earthly Spectrum

Ideal Head Of A Woman, Antonio Canova. Image is not for reproduction.

In the time of Ahasuerus which reigned from India unto Ethiopia, over an hundred & seven & twenty lands, what time as he sat on his seat royal in the castle of Shushan in the third year of his reign, he made a feast unto all his princes & servants, namely unto the mighty men of Persia & Media, to the captains & rulers of his countries, that he might shew the noble riches of his kingdom, and the glorious worship of his greatness, many days long, even an hundred and fourscore days.

And when these days were expired, the king made a feast unto all the people that were in the castle of Shushan, both unto great & small, seven days long in the court of the garden by the king’s palace: where there hanged white, red & yellow clothes, fastened to cords of linen & scarlet in silver rings, upon pillars of Marble stone.

The benches were of gold & silver made upon a pavement of green, with, Yellow & black Marble. And the drink was carried in vessels of gold, & there was ever change of vessel. And the king’s wine was much according to the power of the king. And no man was appointed what he should drink: for the king had commanded all the officers of his house, that everyone should do as it liked him. And the queen Vashti made a feast also for the women in the palace of Ahasuerus. And on the seventh day when the king was merry of the wine, he commanded Mehuman, Biztha, Harbona, Bigtha, Abagtha, Zethar and Carcas, the seven chamberlains (that did service in the presence of king Ahasuerus) to fetch the queen Vashti with the crown regal, that he might shew the people & princes her fairness: for she was beautiful. But the queen Vashti would not come at the king’s word by his chamberlains. Then was the king very wroth, & his indignation kindled in him.

And the king spoke to the wise men that had understanding in the ordinances of the land for the king’s matters must be handled before all such as have knowledge of the law and judgment: and the next unto him were, Carshena, Shethar, Admatha, Tarshish, Meres, Marsena & Memucan, the seven princes of the Persians, & Medes, which saw the king’s face, and sat above in the kingdom, & What law should be execute upon the queen Vashti, because she did not according to the word of the king by his chamberlains. Then said Memucan before the king & the princes: the queen Vashti hath not only done evil against the king but also against all the princes & all the people in all the lands of king Ahasuerus for this deed of the queen shall come abroad unto all women, so then they shall despise their husbands before their eyes, and shall say: the king Ahasuerus commanded Vashti the queen to come before him, but she would not. And so shall the princesses in Persia & Media say likewise unto all the king’s princes, when they hear of this deed of the queen, thus shall there arise despitefulness and wrath enough. If it please the king, let there go a commandment from him, and let it be written according to the law of the Persians & Medians (& not to be transgressed) that Vashti come no more before king Ahasuerus, & let the king give the kingdom unto another that is better than she.

And that this writing of the king which shall be made, be published throughout all his empire (which is great) that all wives may hold their husbands in honour, both among great and small.

This pleased the king and the princes, and the king did according to the word of Memucan. Then were there letters sent forth into all the king’s lands, into every land according to the writing thereof, and to every people after their language, that every man should be lord in his own house. And this caused he be spoken after the language of his people.

After these acts when the displeasure of king Ahasuerus was allayed he thought upon Vashti, what she had done, and what was concluded concerning her. Then said the king’s servants: Let there be fair young virgins sought for the king, and let the king appoint overseers in all the lands of his empire, that they may bring together all fair young virgins unto the castle of Shushan to the women’s building, under the hand of Hegai the king’s chamberlain, that keepeth the Women, and let him give them their apparel. And look which damsel pleaseth the king, let her be queen in Vashti’s stead. This pleased the king, and he did so.

In the castle of Shushan there was a Jew, whose name was Mordecai, the son of Jair, the son of Shimei, the son of Kish the son of Jemini, which was carried away from Jerusalem, when Jeconiah the king of Judah was led away, (whom Nebuchadnezzar the king of Babylon carried away) and he nourished Hadasah (that is Esther) his uncle’s daughter: for she had neither father nor mother, and she was a fair and beautiful damsel. And when her father and mother died, Mordecai received her as his own daughter.

Now when the king’s commandment and commission was published, & many damsels were brought together unto the castle of Shushan under the hand of Hegai, Esther was taken also unto the king’s house under the hand of Hegai the keeper of the women, & the damsel pleased him, & she found grace in his sight. And he caused her ointment to be given her, and her gifts, & gave her vii. notable gentle women of the king’s house, & arrayed both her & her gentle women very richly in the house of the women. But Esther shewed not her people nor her kindred: for Mordecai had charged her, that she should not tell it. And Mordecai walked every day before the court of the women’s building, that he might know how Esther did, and what should become of her.

And when the appointed time of every damsel came that she should come to the king Ahasuerus, after that she had been twelve months in the decking of the women (for their decking must have so much time, namely six months with Balm & Myrrh, & six months with good spices, so were the women beautified) then went there one damsel unto the king, & whatsoever she required, that must be given her to go with her out of the women’s building unto the king’s palace. And when one came in the evening, the same went from him on the morrow into the second house of women, under the hand of Shaasgaz the king’s chamberlain, which kept the concubines. And she must come unto the king no more, except it pleased the king, and that he caused her to be called by name.

Now when the time came of Esther the daughter of Abihail, Mordecai’s uncle (whom he had received as his own daughter) that she should come to the king, she desired nothing but what Hegai the king’s chamberlain the keeper of the women said.

And Esther found favour in the sight of all them that looked upon her. And Esther was taken unto king Ahasuerus into the house royal, in the tenth month which is called Tebeth, in the seventh year of his reign.

And the king loved Esther above all the women, and she found grace and mercy in his sight before all the virgins: and he set: the queen’s crown upon her head, and made her queen instead of Vashti. And the king made a great feast unto all his princes and servants (which feast was because of Esther) and let the lands be in quietness, and gave royal gifts.

And when the virgins were gathered together the second time, Mordecai sat in the king’s gate. And as yet had not Esther shewed her kindred and her people, according as Mordecai had bidden her: for Esther did after the word of Mordecai, like as when he was her tutor. At the same time while Mordecai sat in the king’s gate, two of the king’s chamberlains Bigthan and Teresh which kept the door, were wroth, & sought to lay their hands on the king Ahasuerus: whereof Mordecai gat knowledge, and told it unto queen Esther, & Esther certified the king thereof in Mordecai’s name. And when inquisition was made, it was found so. And they were both hanged on tree: and it was written in the Chronicles before the king.

After these acts did the king promote Haman the son of Hammedatha the Agagite, and set him high, & set his seat above all the princes that were with him. And all the king’s servants that were in the gate, bowed their knees, and did reverence unto Haman: for the king had so commanded. But Mordecai bowed not the knee, and worshipped him not. Then the king’s servants which were in the king’s gate, said unto Mordecai: why transgressest thou the king’s commandment? And when they spoke this daily unto him, & he followed them not, they told Haman, that they might see whether Mordecai’ matters would endure: for he had told them, that he was a Jew. And when Haman saw, that Mordecai bowed not the knee unto him, nor worshipped him, he was full of indignation & thought it too little to lay hands only on Mordecai: for they had shewed him the nation of Mordecai, but he sought to destroy all the Jews the nation of Mordecai, that were in the whole empire of Ahasuerus.

In the first month (that is the month Nisan) in the twelfth year of king Ahasuerus they cast Pur (that is a lot) before Haman, on what day & what month this should be done: & it went out the twelfth month that is the month Adar. And Haman said unto king Ahasuerus: There is a people scattered abroad and dispersed among all people in all the lands of thine empire, & their law is contrary unto all people, & they do not after the king’s laws, neither is it the king’s profit to suffer them after this manner. If it please the king, let him write, that they may be destroyed, & so will I weigh down ten thousand talents of silver, under the hands of the workmen, to be brought into the king’s chamber. Then took the king his ring from his hand, & gave it unto Haman the son of Hammedatha the Agagite the Jew’s enemy. And the king said unto Haman: Let the silver be given thee, and that people also, to do with all what pleaseth thee.

Then were the kings scribes called on the thirteenth day of the first month, and there was written (according as Haman commanded) unto the king’s princes and to the captives everywhere in the lands, and to the rulers of every people in the countries on every side, according to the writing of every nation, and after their language in the name of king Ahasuerus, and sealed with the king’s ring. And the writings were sent by posts into all the king’s lands, to root out, to kill, and to destroy all Jews, both young and old, children and women in one day (namely upon the thirteenth day of the twelfth month, which is the month Adar) and to spoil their goods.

This was the sum of the writing, that there should be a commandment given in all lands, to be published unto all people, that they should be ready against the same day. And the posts went in all the haste according to the king’s commandment. And in the castle of Shushan was the commandment devised. And the king and Haman sat and drank. But the city of Shushan was disquieted.

When Mordecai perceived all that was done, he rent his clothes and put on sackcloth, and ashes, and went out into the midst of the city, and cried loud and lamentably, and came before the king’s gate: for there might no man enter within the king’s gate, that had sackcloth on. And in all lands and places, as far as the king’s word and commandment extended, there was great lamentation among the Jews and many fasted, wept, mourned, and lay in sack clothes and in ashes. So Esther’s damsels, and her chamberlains, came and told it her. Then was the queen exceedingly astonied. And she sent raiment, that Mordecai should put them on, and lay the sackcloth from him. But Mordecai would not take them. Then called Esther Hatach one of the king’s chamberlains (which stood before her) and gave him a commandment unto Mordecai, that he might know what it were, and wherefore he did so. So Hatach went forth to Mordecai unto the street of the city, which was before the king’s gate.

And Mordecai told him of all that had happened unto him, and of the sum of silver that Haman had promised to weigh down in the king’s chamber because of the Jews for to destroy them (and he gave him the copy of the commandment, that was devised at Shushan to destroy them, that he might shew it unto Esther, and to speak to her & charge her, that she should go in to the king and make her prayer and supplication unto him for her people.

And when Hatach came in, & told Esther the words of Mordecai, Esther spake unto Hatach, and commanded him to say unto Mordecai: all the kings servants, and the people in the lands of the king know, that whosoever cometh within the court unto the king, whether it be man or woman, which is not called, the commandment is that the same shall die immediately, except the king hold out the golden scepter unto him, that he may live. As for me, I have not been called to come in to the king now this thirty days.

And when Mordecai was certified of Esther’s words, Mordecai bade say again unto Esther: think not to save thine own life, while thou art in the king’s house before all Jews: for if thou holdest thy peace at this time, then shall the Jews have help and deliverance out of another place, and thou and thy father’s house shall be destroyed. And who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom, for this time’s sake? Esther bade give Mordecai this answer: Go thou thy way then, & gather together all the Jews that are found at Shushan, and fast ye for me, that ye eat not & drink not in three days, neither day nor night. I and my damsels will fast likewise, & so will I go in to the king contrary to the commandment: if I perish, I perish. So Mordecai went his way, & did all that Esther had commanded him.

And on the third day put Esther on her royal apparel, & stood in the court of the king’s palace within over against the king’s house. And the king sat upon his royal seat in the king’s palace over against the gate of the house. And when the king saw Esther the queen standing in the court, she found grace in his sight. And the king held out the golden scepter in his hand toward Esther. So Esther stept forth, & touched the top of the scepter. Then said the king unto her: & what wilt thou queen Esther? and what requirest thou? ask even the half of the empire, & it shall be given thee. Esther said, If it please the king, let the king & Haman come this day unto the banquet that I have prepared. The king said: cause Haman to make haste, that he may do as Esther hath said.

Now when the king & Haman came to the banquet that Esther had prepared, the king said unto Esther at the banquet of wine, Esther, what is thy petition? and it shall be given thee. And what requirest thou? If it be even the half of the empire, it shall be done.

Then answered Esther and said: my petition & desire is, if I have found grace in the sight of the king, & if it please the king to give me my petition, and to fulfill my request, then let the king & Haman come to the banquet that I shall prepare for them, and so will I do tomorrow as the king hath said.

Then went Haman forth the same day joyful and merry in his mind. And when he saw Mordecai in the king’s gate, that he stood not up and kneeled before him, he was full of indignation at Mordecai. Nevertheless he refrained himself: and when he came home, he sent, and called for his friends, and Zeresh his wife, & told them of the glory of his riches, & the multitude of his children altogether how the king had promoted him so greatly, and how that he was taken above the princes and servants of the king. Haman said moreover: Yea & Esther the queen let no man come with the king unto the banquet that she had prepared, except me, & tomorrow am I bidden unto her also with the king. But in all this am I not satisfied as long as I see Mordecai the Jew sitting at the king’s gate. Then said Zeresh his wife & all his friends unto him: Let them make a gallows of fifty cubits high, and tomorrow speak thou unto the king, that Mordecai may be hanged thereon, if thou comest merely with the king unto the banquet. Haman was well content withal, and caused a gallows to be prepared.

Hawthorne’s story contains within it a measure of the theme that all persons are capable of individually achieving a momentous work of perfection. This theme is affirmed in the writings of wise Solomon where he says, “Lo, this only have I found, that God made man just and right.” Therefore, it is only a matter of bringing into reality the foundational thoughts of goodness that God has put there. Look about you at the various people in so many diverse walks of life. Know that each one is capable, along with intense dedication, of a perfect achievement.

Here, in “Drowne’s Wooden Image” that perfection concerns the work of a striving and talented artist. Over, and over again Hawthorne describes the genius that is required in the workmanship brought about by artistic abilities. The sum of all these ways of artistic genius is that by putting his spirit and soul into the work, a highly gifted artist can bring his own work with inanimate natural material (or pen) to have both spirit and life, giving a spiritual aura surrounding an image of art or the resultant thoughts of truth and perception from what is written. Characteristically this requires that an artist be capable of transcending the rules of art that limit the potential of perfection. The artist of this design must be a complete ruler over what is taken into hand for the matter of artwork. As a result of the perfection, there is also the possibility that the artist may be swept away by one’s own work, e.g. Pygmalion, who carved an ivory statue of a maiden and fell in love with it. Then, too, there is the possibility of one losing one’s own soul in sacrificing everything (including that which is illegal to make a sacrifice of) for the most desirable achievement.

Just how far Drowne was able to go in bringing the inanimate to life is seen in the expression of the people on that final morning. His figure-head seemed the prototype for the beautiful fashion and appearance of the foreign maiden. Her dress, jewelry and appearance matched exactly the wooden carving and it was even believed, by some, that she was the expression of the wooden figure come to life. This way of thinking was brought about, first by seeing the maiden in paint and carved oak.

And behold, there came a man of God out of Judah with the word of God, to Bethel, as Jeroboam stood by the altar to offer; & cried against the altar at the commandment of the Lord and said: Altar, altar, thus saith: the Lord. Behold a child shall be born of the house of David, Josiah by name, which upon thee shall offer the priests of the hill altars that sacrifice upon thee & shall burn men’s bones upon thee. And he gave them the same time a sign saying: This is the sign of that the Lord hath promised. Behold the altar shall rent and the ashes that are in it shall fall out.

And when the king heard the saying of the man of God which he cried against the altar in Bethel, he stretched out his hand from the altar saying: Hold him. And his hand which he put forth toward him, dried up, that he could not pull it in again to him & the altar clave and the ashes ran out of the altar according to the token which the man of God had given at the commandment of the Lord. And the king answered & said unto the man of God: Oh pray unto the Lord thy God & make intercession for me, that my hand may be restored me again. And the man of God besought the Lord & his hand came to him again as well as before.

Then said the king unto the man of God: Come home with me and refresh thyself & I will give thee a reward. But the man of God answered the king, If thou wouldest give me half thine house I would not go with thee neither would I eat meat or drink water in this place. For so was it charged me through the word of God & said to me: eat no bread nor drink water nor turn again by the same way thou sentest. And so he went another way and returned not by the way he came to Bethel. And there dwelt an old prophet in Bethel, whose sons came and told him all the works that the man of God had done that day in Bethel; and the words which he spoke unto the king they told their father also. And their father said to them: What way went he? for his sons had seen what way the man of God went which came from Judah. Then said he to his sons: Saddle mine ass. And they saddled him an ass. And he gat him up thereon and went after the man of God and found him sitting under an Oak & said unto him: Art thou the man of God that camst from Judah? And he said, Yea.

Then he said to him: Come home with me and eat bread. And the other said again I may not return with thee, to go with thee; neither may I eat bread or drink water with thee in this place. For it was said to me by the commandment of the Lord, eat no bread nor drink water in this place, nor turn again by the way thou wentest. And the old prophet said unto him: I am a prophet as well as thou & an Angel spoke unto me with the word of the Lord saying: bring him again with thee to thine house and let him eat bread and drink water & yet lied unto him. And so the other went again with him & ate bread in his house & drank water.

And as they sat at the table, the word of the Lord came unto the prophet that brought him again. And he cried unto the man of God that came from Judah, saying: Thus saith the Lord: because thou hast disobeyed thee the mouth of the Lord & hast not kept the commandment which the Lord thy God commanded thee; but camest back again & hast eaten Bread and drunk water in the place in which he bade thee thou shouldest eat no Bread nor drink water: therefore thy carcass shall not come unto the sepulcher of thy fathers.

And when he had eaten bread & drunk, he saddled an ass for the prophet which he had brought again. And as he journeyed a lion met him by the way and slew him; & his carcass lay along in the way & the ass stood thereby; & the lion stood by the corpse also. And men that passed by saw the carcass cast along in the way and the lion standing thereby; and went and told it in the town where the old prophet dwelt. And when the prophet that brought him back again from the way heard thereof, he said: It is the man of God which disobeyed the mouth of the Lord. And therefore the Lord hath delivered him unto the lion which hath rent him & slain him, according to the word of the Lord, which he said to him. And he said to his sons: Saddle me an ass: & so they did. And he went & found the body cast along in the way and the ass and the lion standing thereby. And the lion had not eaten the carcass nor hurt the ass. And he took up the body of the man of God & put it upon the ass & brought it again & came to the city of the old prophet to lament him and to bury him. And he laid his body in his own grave & lamented over him, Oh my brother. And when he had buried him, he spoke to his sons saying: When I am dead, see that ye bury me in the sepulchre wherein the man of God is buried and lay my bones by his. For the saying which he cried at the bidding of the Lord against the altar in Bethel, and against all the houses of hill altars which are in the cities of Samaria, shall come to pass.

Howbeit for all that, Jeroboam turned not from his wicked way: but turned away & made of the lowest of the people priests of the hill altars. Whosoever would, he filled their hands & they became priests of the hill altars. And this doing was sin unto the house of Jeroboam, even to destroy it and to put it away from the face of the earth.

The same night could not the king sleep, and he commanded to bring the Chronicles and stories: which when they were read before the king they happened on the place where it was written, how Mordecai had told, that the king’s two chamberlains (which kept the thresholds) sought: to lay hands on king Ahasuerus. And the king said: what worship agood have we done to Mordecai therefore? Then said the king’s servants that ministered unto him. There is nothing done for him. And the king said: Who is in the court? (for Haman was gone into the court without before the king’s house, that he might speak unto the king to hang Mordecai on the tree, that he had prepared for him.) And the king’s servants said unto him: behold, Haman standeth in the court. The king said: let him come in. And when Haman came in, the king said unto him: what shall be done unto the man, whom the king would fain bring unto worship? But Haman thought in his heart: Whom should the king else be glad to bring unto worship, but me? And Haman said unto the king: Let the man unto whom the king would be glad to do worship, be brought hither, that he may be arrayed with the royal garments which the king useth to wear: and the horse that the king rideth upon, and that the crown royal may be set upon his head. And let this raiment and horse be delivered under the hand of one of the king’s princes, that he may array the man withal (whom the king would fain honour) and carry him upon the horse through the street of the city, & cause it to be proclaimed before him: thus shall it be done to every man, whom the king would fain honour.

The king said: make haste, and take as thou hast said, the raiment and the horse: & do even so with Mordecai the Jew that sitteth before the king’s gate, & let nothing fail of all that thou hast spoken. Then took Haman the raiment and the horse, & arrayed him, and brought him on horseback through the street of the city, and proclaimed before him: Even thus shall it be done unto every man whom the king is disposed to honour. And Mordecai came again to the king’s gate, but Haman gat him home in all the haste mourning with bare head, and told Zeresh his wife & all his friends, everything that had happened him. Then said his wise men & Zeresh his wife unto him: If it be Mordecai of the seed of the Jews, before whom thou hast begun to fall, thou canst do nothing unto him, but shalt fall before him. While they were yet talking with him, came the king’s chamberlains, and caused Haman to make haste to come unto the banquet that Esther had prepared.

And when the king and Haman came to the banquet that queen Esther had prepared, the king said unto Esther on the second day at the banquet of wine: what is thy petition queen Esther, that it may be given thee? And what requirest thou? Yea, ask even half of the empire, & it shall be done. Esther the queen answered and said: If I have found grace in thy sight (O king) & if it please the king then grant me my life at my desire & my people for my petition’s sake: for we are sold I & my people both to be destroyed, to be slain & to perish. And would God we were sold to be bondmen and bondwomen, then would I hold my tongue, so should not the enemy be so high to the king’s harm. The king Ahasuerus spake and said unto queen Esther: what is he that? Or where is he that dare presume in his mind to do such a thing after that manner? Esther said: the enemy and adversary is this wicked Haman.

As for Haman, he was exceedingly afraid before the king & the queen. And the king arose from the banquet and from the wine in his displeasure and went into the palace garden. And Haman stood up, and besought queen Esther for his life: for he saw that there was a mischief prepared for him of the king already.

And when the king came again out of the palace garden into the parlor where they had eaten, Haman had laid him upon the bed that Esther sat upon. Then said the king will he force the queen also beside me in the house? As soon as that word went out of the king’s mouth, they covered Haman’s face. And Harbonah one of the chamberlains that stood before the king, said. Behold, there standeth a gallows in Haman’s house fifty cubits high, which he had made for Mordecai, that spake good for the king. The king said: hang him thereon. So they hanged Haman on the gallows that he had made for Mordecai. Then was the king’s wrath pacified.

The same day did king Ahasuerus give the house of Haman the Jew’s enemy, unto queen Esther. And Mordecai came before the king: for Esther told how that he belonged unto her. And the king put off his finger ring, which he had taken from Haman, and gave it unto Mordecai. And Esther set Mordecai over the house of Haman. And Esther spake yet more before the king, and fell down at his feet, & besought him, that he would put away the wickedness of Haman the Agagite, and his device that he had imagined against the Jews. And the king held out the golden scepter unto Esther. Then rose Esther, & stood before the king, and said: if it please the king, & if I have found grace in his sight, & if it be convenient for the king, & if it be accepted in his sight then let it be written, that the letters of the device of Haman the son of Hamadatha the Agagite, may be called again: which letters he wrote, to destroy the Jews in all the king’s lands. For how can I see the evil that shall happen unto my people? & how can I look upon the destruction of my kindred?

Then said the king Ahasuerus unto queen Esther, and to Mordecai the Jew: Behold, I have given Esther the house of Haman, and him have they hanged upon a tree, because he laid hand upon the Jews. Write ye now therefore for the Jews, as it liketh you in the king’s name, & seal it with the king’s ring (for the writings that were written in the king’s name, and sealed with the king’s ring, durst no man disannul.) Then were the king’s scribes called at the same time in the third month, that is the month Sivan, on the three and twentieth day.

And it was written (as Mordecai commanded) unto the Jews and to the princes, to the Deputies and captains in the lands from India until Ethiopia, namely an hundred and seven and twenty lands, unto every one according to the writing thereof, unto every people after their speech, and to the Jews according to their writing and language.

And it was written in the king Ahasuerus’ name, and sealed with the king’s ring. And by posts that rode upon swift young Mules, sent he the writings, wherein the king granted the Jews (in what cities so ever they were) to gather themselves together, and to stand for their life, and for to root out, to slay, and to destroy all the power of the people & land that would trouble them, with children and women, and to spoil their good upon one day in all the lands of king Ahasuerus namely upon the thirteenth day of the twelfth month, which is the month Adar.

The sum of the writing was, how there was a commandment given in all lands to be published unto all the people, that the Jews should be ready against that day to avenge themselves on their enemies. And the posts that rode upon the Mules, made haste with all speed, according to the king’s word: and the commandment was devised in the castle of Shushan.

As for Mordecai, he went out from the king in royal apparel of yellow & white, and with a great crown of gold, being arrayed with a garment of linen and purple, and the city of Shushan rejoiced & was glad: but unto the Jews there was come light & gladness, and joy & worship. And in all lands and cities, into what places soever the king’s word and commandment reached, there was joy and mirth, prosperity & good days among the Jews: insomuch that many of the people in the land became of the Jews belief, for the fear of the Jews came upon them.

In the twelfth month, that is the month Adar, upon the thirteenth day, which the king’s word and commandment had appointed, that it should be done, even upon the same day that the enemies should have destroyed the Jews to have oppressed them, it turned contrariwise, even that the Jews should subdue their enemies. Then gathered the Jews together in their cities within all the lands of king Ahasuerus, to lay hand on such as would do them evil, and no man could withstand them: for the fear of them was come over all people. And all the rulers in the lands, and princes and Deputies, and officers of the king promoted the Jews: for the fear of Mordecai came upon them. For Mordecai was great in the king’s house, & the report of him was noised in all lands, how he increased & grew.

Thus the Jews smote all their enemies with a sore slaughter, and slew & destroyed, and did after their will unto such as were their adversaries. And at the castle of Shushan slew the Jews and destroyed five hundred men: & slew Parshandatha, Dalphon, Aspatha, Poratha, Adalia, Aridatha, Parmasta, Arisai, Aridai, Vajezatha, the ten sons of Haman the son of Hammedatha the enemy of the Jews: but on his goods they laid no hands. At the same time was the king certified of the number of those that were slain at the castle of Shushan. And the king said unto queen Esther: The Jews have slain & destroyed five hundred men at the castle of Shushan, & the ten sons of Haman: What shall they do in the other lands of the king? What is thy petition, that it may be given thee? & what requirest thou more to be done? Esther said: If it please the king, let him suffer the Jews tomorrow also to do according unto this day’s commandment, that they may hang Haman’s ten sons upon the tree. And the king charged to do so, & the commandment was devised at Shushan, & Haman’s ten sons were hanged. And the Jews gathered themselves together at Shushan, upon the fourteenth day of the month Adar, and slew three hundred men at Shushan, but on their goods they laid no hands.

As for the other Jews in the king’s lands, they came together, & stood for their lives, & gat rest from their enemies: and slew of their enemies five & seventy thousand, howbeit they laid no hands on their goods. This was done on the thirteenth day of the month Adar, & on the fourteenth day of the same month rested they, which day they ordained to be a day of feasting & gladness. But the Jews at Shushan were come together both on the thirteenth day & on the fourteenth, & on the fifteenth day they rested, and the same day ordained they to be a day of feasting & gladness. Therefore the Jews that dwelt in the villages and unwalled towns, ordained the fourteenth day of the month Adar, to be a day of feasting and gladness, and one sent gifts unto another.

And Mordecai wrote these acts, and sent the writings unto all the Jews that were in all the lands of king Ahasuerus, both nigh & far, that they should yearly receive & hold the fourteenth & fifteenth day of the month Adar, as the days wherein the Jews came to rest from their enemies, & as a month wherein their pain was turned to joy, and their sorrow into prosperity: that they should observe the same as days of wealth & gladness, and one to send gifts unto another, & to distribute unto the poor.

And the Jews received it that they had begun to do, and that Mordecai wrote unto them: how that Haman the son of Hammedatha all the Jew’s enemy, had devised to destroy all the Jews, & caused to cast Pur (that is Lot) for to put them in fear, & to bring them to naught: and how Esther went and spake to the king, that through letters his wicked device (which he imagined against the Jews) might be turned upon his own head, and how he & his sons were hanged on the tree. For the which cause they called this day Purim after the name of Pur, according to all the words of this writing: and what they themselves had seen, and what had happened unto them.

And the Jews set it up, and took it upon them and their seed, & upon all such as joined themselves unto them, that they would not miss to observe these two days yearly, according as they were written and appointed, how that these days are not to be forgotten, but to be kept of children’s children among all kindreds in all lands & cities. They are the days of Purim, which are not to be overslipt among the Jews, & the memorial of them ought not to perish from their seed.

And queen Esther the daughter of Abihail & Mordecai the Jew wrote with all authority, to confirm this second writing of Purim, and sent the letters unto all the Jews in the hundred & seven & twenty lands of the empire of Ahasuerus, with friendly and faithful words, to confirm these days of Purim, in their time appointed, according and Mordecai the Jew and Esther the queen had ordained concerning them: like as they upon their soul and upon their seed had confirmed the acts of the fastings and of her complaint. And Esther commanded to stablish these acts of this Purim, and to write them in a book.

And the king Ahasuerus laid tribute upon the land, and upon the Iles of the sea. As for all the work of his power and authority, & the great worship of Mordecai, which the king gave him, behold, it is written in the Chronicles of the kings of Media and Persia. For Mordecai the Jew was the second next unto king Ahasuerus, and great among the Jews, & accepted among the multitude of his brethren, as one that seeketh the wealth of his people, and speaketh the best for all his seed.

I am a rose of Sharon, A lily of the valleys. —Song of Solomon

She turned ninety years old just yesterday. As her son sat next to her during the Sunday morning worship service a somewhat distant glance from the side made it apparent that the profile of their faces had the exact same lines. Their resemblance in this respect was striking though she was elderly and he was middle aged. A slanted straight line composed the outline of both their profiles, sloping out from the forehead and downward. The line was interrupted by another line that peaked at the nose. Then the slanted straight line resumed and continued on to the bottom of the chin where it ended.

In the neighborhood next to her neighborhood lived a family of four sons, with their parents. They were all members of the same church family. After she became a widow, the oldest son mowed her lawn for her. When he moved away the second oldest son mowed her lawn. And when he moved away the dad mowed the widow’s lawn. Years later, after she had passed away the second oldest son inquired of his mother the facts about her prayers for the people at church. She told the dad of her conversation with their son. It was then that the dad learned that this kind, beautiful (in a certain way) woman prayed every day for each member of the church congregation by naming them one by one as they were listed in the church directory.

Many years ago, even way before her husband passed away, she lost one of her sons who died as a soldier in the war. Her husband died a few years ago. Long before he died they had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. In his elderly years there was a time when he became ill and homebound. Then something most extraordinary happened that brought about a significant change in health and attitude. It was the same as if he had been healed. Furthermore, the extraordinary event that brought about the change also resulted in the recognition that he had become one of the few people in these days to tell of having seen a vision. It was this vision that made the difference in his entire attitude and outlook.

He was at home laying in his bed feeling miserable, as usual, when his vision brought him to see another man beside him there. Particularly in the matter of health the man he saw beside him was even much worse off than himself. Throughout most of that other man’s life, because of his paralysis, the only way he could get around was by wheelchair. His body had grown all bent and twisted and when he spoke it was hard to understand what he said. And yet by his devotion and faithful commitment to the Lord he was an example of someone in the finest spiritual health. To the elderly man seeing him there he was the epitome both of illness and spiritual health: illness because of his paralytic disease; and, spiritual health by his unwavering faithfulness to Christ. Thus he made him his own example of fortitude and faith for righteousness, declaring to the Lord also present there with him in his vision that if this one so broken in health could be so faithful to the Lord in the way he lived and an example to others then certainly he could be too.

 

Visions of Darkness

There was a young boy whose nightmare was so vivid that his memory of it remained still fresh enough to recall even after he grew to be an adult. For some reason the sight of tiny buildings, made incomprehensibly formidable, also made him uncomfortable. In the city where he grew up there was a small shed built like a fortress. It had thick walls of cement white washed on the outside with a thick steel door and slotted vents along top portions of the walls. It stood near the border of a lush green lawn in a park where it eventually ended at the banks of a river flowing through the center of the city. The parks department kept their lawn tools there.

Then there was an insurance company headquarters building in another of the neighborhoods where this child grew up, located near the foothills that bordered just outside of the growing town. The multi-storied brick building was large enough to take up a quarter of the block. Its property possessed a boundless treasure for the children of the neighborhood with its steep sloping, manicured and unfenced back yard lawn. It was there during those delightful summer evenings that he and a multitude of his friends immensely enjoyed playing King-of-Bunker-Hill or, once in a while, some variety of football. Here too, under that sloping lawn they had a partial cellar with thick cement walls and a locked heavy door that swung open like a garage-door as it opened out into the alley-way. It, too, was used for keeping lawn equipment.

A small building also appeared in the indelible images of his nightmare. Although the small edifice was lightly constructed it had an elevated opening (like a stage) and was similar to the high and extended doorway of a loading dock just down the alley and across from his home. It was there where he so often played and even as a small toddler climbed on so many times with his little friends at an hour when the doors were shut and the business was closed and they could play there on the outside. The small building of his nightmare was situated at the center of an empty lot wedged between that same alley-way as his home and the same river. It was a half block the other way from his home. His home was part of a duplex and his mother’s bedroom was elevated over the banks of the river on beams where the little boy also played and disobeyed his mom by wading in the river sometimes. The empty lot also bordered the banks of that same river, as mentioned above, that runs through the center of town; along with his first home a half-a-block away; with the park further down from the home a few blocks distant from that neighborhood where he first lived. There in that wedged-in empty lot, in an elevated doorway, were the chained and frightening monsters that confronted him in the images of his unforgettable nightmare. There he was irrestibly compelled (maybe by fate) to enter. The chained monster on the left with jaws like a bull dog but more huge took the head of the small tender boy within them to enclose upon him.

 

In the old times of religious gloom and intolerance, lived Richard Digby, the gloomiest and most intolerant of a stern brotherhood. His plan of salvation was so narrow, that, like a plank in a tempestuous sea, it could avail no sinner but himself, who bestrode it triumphantly, and hurled anathemas against the wretches whom he saw struggling with the billows of eternal death. In his view of the matter, it was a most abominable crime—as, indeed, it is a great folly—for men to trust to their own strength, or even to grapple to any other fragment of the wreck, save this narrow plank, which, moreover, he took special care to keep out of their reach. In other words, as his creed was like no man’s else, and being well pleased that Providence had entrusted him, alone of mortals, with the treasure of a true faith, Richard Digby determined to seclude himself to the sole and constant enjoyment of his happy fortune.

‘And verily,’ thought he, ‘I deem it a chief condition of Heaven’s mercy to myself, that I hold no communion with those abominable myriads which it hath cast off to perish, Peradventure, were I to tarry longer in the tents of Kedar, the gracious boon would be revoked, and I also be swallowed up in the deluge of wrath, or consumed in the storm of fire and brimstone, or involved in whatever new kind of ruin is ordained for the horrible perversity of the generation.’

So Richard Digby took an axe, to hew space enough for a tabernacle in the wilderness, and some few other necessaries, especially a sword and gun, to smite and slay any intruder upon his hallowed seclusion; and plunged into the dreariest depths of the forest. On its verge, however, he paused a moment, to shake off the dust of his feet against the village where he had dwelt, and to invoke a curse on the meeting-house, which he regarded as a temple of heathen idolatry. He felt a curiosity, also, to see whether the fire and brimstone would not rush down from Heaven at once, now that the one righteous man had provided for his own safety. But, as the sunshine continued to fall peacefully on the cottages and fields, and the husbandmen labored and children played, and as there were many tokens of present happiness, and nothing ominous of a speedy judgment, he turned away, somewhat disappointed. The further he went, however, and the lonelier he felt himself, and the thicker the trees stood along his path, and the darker the shadow overhead, so much the more did Richard Digby exult. He talked to himself, as he strode onward; he read his Bible to himself, as he sat beneath the trees; and, as the gloom of the forest hid the blessed sky, I had almost added, that, at morning, noon, and eventide, he prayed to himself. So congenial was this mode of life to his disposition, that he often laughed to himself, but was displeased when an echo tossed him back the long, loud roar.

In this manner, he journeyed onward three days and two nights, and came, on the third evening, to the mouth of a cave, which, at first sight, reminded him of Elijah’s cave at Horeb, though perhaps it more resembled Abraham’s sepulchral cave, at Machpelah. It entered into the heart of a rocky hill. There was so dense a veil of tangled foliage about it, that none but a sworn lover of gloomy recesses would have discovered the low arch of its entrance, or have dared to step within its vaulted chamber, where the burning eyes of a panther might encounter him. If Nature meant this remote and dismal cavern for the use of man, it could only be, to bury in its gloom the victims of a pestilence, and then to block up its mouth with stones, and avoid the spot forever after. There was nothing bright nor cheerful near it, except a bubbling fountain, some twenty paces off, at which Richard Digby hardly threw away a glance. But he thrust his head into the cave, shivered, and congratulated himself.

‘The finger of Providence hath pointed my way!’ cried he, aloud, while the tomb-like den returned a strange echo, as if some one within were mocking him. ‘Here my soul will be at peace; for the wicked will not find me. Here I can read the Scriptures, and be no more provoked with lying interpretations. Here I can offer up acceptable prayers, because my voice will not be mingled with the sinful supplications of the multitude. Of a truth, the only way to Heaven leadeth through the narrow entrance of this cave—and I alone have found it!’

In regard to this cave, it was observable that the roof, so far as the imperfect light permitted it to be seen, was hung with substances resembling opaque icicles; for the damps of unknown centuries, dripping down continually, had become as hard as adamant; and wherever that moisture fell, it seemed to possess the power of converting what it bathed to stone. The fallen leaves and sprigs of foliage, which the wind had swept into the cave, and the little feathery shrubs, rooted near the threshold, were not wet with a natural dew, but had been embalmed by this wondrous process. And here I am put in mind, that Richard Digby, before he withdrew himself from the world, was supposed by skilful physicians to have contracted a disease, for which no remedy was written in their medical books. It was a deposition of calculus particles within his heart, caused by an obstructed circulation of the blood, and unless a miracle should be wrought for him, there was danger that the malady might act on the entire substance of the organ, and change his fleshly heart to stone. Many, indeed, affirmed that the process was already near its consummation. Richard Digby, however, could never be convinced that any such direful work was going on within him; nor when he saw the sprigs of marble foliage, did his heart even throb the quicker, at the similitude suggested by these once tender herbs. It may be, that this same insensibility was a symptom of the disease.

Be that as it might, Richard Digby was well contented with his sepulchral cave. So dearly did he love this congenial spot, that, instead of going a few paces to the bubbling spring for water, he allayed his thirst with now and then a drop of moisture from the roof, which, had it fallen any where but on his tongue, would have been congealed into a pebble. For a man predisposed to stoniness of the heart, this surely was unwholesome liquor. But there he dwelt, for three days more, eating herbs and roots, drinking his own destruction, sleeping, as it were, in a tomb, and awaking to the solitude of death, yet esteeming this horrible mode of life as hardly inferior to celestial bliss. Perhaps superior; for, above the sky, there would be angels to disturb him. At the close of the third day, he sat in the portal of his mansion, reading the Bible aloud, because no other ear could profit by it, and reading it amiss, because the rays of the setting sun did not penetrate the dismal depth of shadow roundabout him, nor fall upon the sacred page. Suddenly, however, a faint gleam of light was thrown over the volume, and raising his eyes, Richard Digby saw that a young woman stood before the mouth of the cave, and that the sunbeams bathed her white garment, which thus seemed to possess a radiance of its own.

‘Good evening, Richard,’ said the girl, ‘I have come from afar to find thee.’

The slender grace and gentle loveliness of this young woman…

The slender grace and gentle loveliness of this young woman were at once recognized by Richard Digby. Her name was Mary Goffe. She had been a convert to his preaching of the word in England, before he yielded himself to that exclusive bigotry, which now enfolded him with such an iron grasp, that no other sentiment could reach his bosom. When he came a pilgrim to America, she had remained in her father’s hall, but now, as it appeared, had crossed the ocean after him, impelled by the same faith that led other exiles hither, and perhaps by love almost as holy. What else but faith and love united could have sustained so delicate a creature, wandering thus far into the forest, with her golden hair disheveled by the boughs, and her feet wounded by the thorns! Yet, weary and faint though she must have been, and affrighted at the dreariness of the cave, she looked on the lonely man with a mild and pitying expression, such as might beam from an angels eyes, towards an afflicted mortal. But the recluse, frowning sternly upon her, and keeping his finger between the leaves of his half closed Bible, motioned her away with his hand.

‘Off!’ cried he. ‘I am sanctified, and thou art sinful. Away!’

‘Oh, Richard,’ said she, earnestly, ‘I have come this weary way, because I heard that a grievous distemper had seized upon thy heart; and a great Physician hath given me the skill to cure it. There is no other remedy than this which I have brought thee. Turn me not away, therefore, nor refuse my medicine; for then must this dismal cave be thy sepulchre.’

‘Away!’ replied Richard Digby, still with a dark frown. ‘My heart is in better condition than thine own. Leave me, earthly one; for the sun is almost set; and when no light reaches the door of the cave, then is my prayer time!’

Now, great as was her need, Mary Goffe did not plead with this stony hearted man for shelter and protection, nor ask any thing whatever for her own sake. All her zeal was for his welfare.

‘Come back with me!’ she exclaimed, clasping her hands—‘Come back to thy fellow men; for they need thee, Richard; and thou hast tenfold need of them. Stay not in this evil den; for the air is chill, and the damps are fatal; nor will any, that perish within it, ever find the path to Heaven. Hasten hence, I entreat thee, for thine own soul’s sake; for either the roof will fall upon thy head, or some other speedy destruction is at hand.’

‘Perverse woman!’ answered Richard Digby, laughing aloud; for he was moved to bitter mirth by her foolish vehemence. ‘I tell thee that the path to Heaven leadeth straight through this narrow portal, where I sit. And, moreover, the destruction thou speakest of, is ordained, not for this blessed cave, but for all other habitations of mankind, throughout the earth. Get thee hence speedily, that thou may’st have thy share!’

So saying, he opened his Bible again, and fixed his eyes intently on the page, being resolved to withdraw his thoughts from this child of sin and wrath, and to waste no more of his holy breath upon her. The shadow had now grown so deep, where he was sitting, that he made continual mistakes in what he read, converting all that was gracious and merciful, to denunciations of vengeance and unutterable woe, on every created being but himself. Mary Goffe, meanwhile, was leaning against a tree, beside the sepulchral cave, very sad, yet with something heavenly and ethereal in her unselfish sorrow. The light from the setting sun still glorified her form, and was reflected a little way within the darksome den, discovering so terrible a gloom, that the maiden shuddered for its self-doomed inhabitant. Espying the bright fountain near at hand, she hastened thither, and scooped up a portioin of its water, in a cup of birchen bark. A few tears mingled with the draught, and perhaps gave it all its efficacy. She then returned to the mouth of the cave, and knelt down at Richard Digby’s feet.

‘Richard,’ she said, with passionate fervor, yet a gentleness in all her passion, ‘I pray thee, by thy hope of Heaven, and as thou wouldst not dwell in this tomb forever, drink of this hallowed water, be it but a single drop! Then, make room for me by thy side, and let us read together one page of that blessed volume—and, lastly, kneel down with me and pray! Do this; and thy stony heart shall become softer than a babe’s, and all be well.’

But Richard Digby, in utter abhorrence of the proposal, cast the Bible at his feet, and eyed her with such a fixed and evil frown, that he looked less like a living man than a marble statue, wrought by some dark imagined sculptor to express the most repulsive mood that human features could assume. And, as his look grew even devilish, so, with an equal change, did Mary Goffe become more sad, more mild, more pitiful, more like a sorrowing angel. But, the more heavenly she was the more hateful did she seem to Richard Digby, who at length raised his hand, and smote down the cup of hallowed water upon the threshold of the cave, thus rejecting the only medicine that could have cured his stony heart. A sweet perfume lingered in the air for a moment, and then was gone.

‘Tempt me no more, accursed woman,’ exclaimed he, still with his marble frown, ‘lest I smite thee down also! What hast thou to do with my Bible?—what with my prayers?—what with my Heaven’

No sooner had he spoken these dreadful words, than Richard Digby’s heart ceased to beat; while—so the legend says—the form of Mary Goffe melted into the last sunbeams, and returned from the sepulchral cave to Heaven. For Mary Goffe had been buried in an English churchyard, months before; and either it was her ghost that haunted the wild forest, or else a dreamlike spirit, typifying pure Religion.

Road sign, Rainbow Lake 7 miles

Above a century afterwards, when the trackless forest of Richard Digby’s day had long been interspersed with settlements, the children of a neighboring farmer were playing at the foot of a hill. The trees, on account of the rude and broken surface of this acclivity, had never been felled, and were crowded so densely together, as to hide all but a few rocky prominences, wherever their roots could grapple with the soil. A little boy and girl, to conceal themselves from their playmates, had crept into the deepest shade, where not only the darksome pines, but a thick veil of creeping plants suspended from an overhanging rock, combined to make a twilight at noonday, and almost a midnight at all other seasons. There the children hid themselves, and shouted, repeating the cry at intervals, till the whole party of pursuers were drawn thither, and pulling aside the matted foliage, let in a doubtful glimpse of daylight. But scarcely was this accomplished, when the little group uttered a simultaneous shriek and tumbled headlong down the hill, making the best of their way homeward, without a second glance into the gloomy recess. Their father, unable to comprehend what had so startled them, took his axe, and by felling one or two trees, and tearing away the creeping plants, laid the mystery open to the day. He had discovered the entrance of a cave, closely resembling the mouth of a sepulchre, within which sat the figure of a man, whose gesture and attitude warned the father and children to stand back, while his visage wore a most forbidding frown. This repulsive personage seemed to have been carved in the same gray stone that formed the walls and portal of the cave. On minuter inspection, indeed, such blemishes were observed, as made it doubtful whether the figure were really a statue, chiselled by human art, and somewhat worn and defaced by the lapse of ages, or a freak of Nature, who might have chosen to imitate, in stone, her usual handiwork of flesh. Perhaps it was the least unreasonable idea, suggested by this strange spectacle, that the moisture of the cave possessed a petrifying quality, which had thus awfully embalmed a human corpse.

There was something so frightful in the aspect of this Man of Adamant, that the farmer, the moment that he recovered from the fascination of his first gaze, began to heap stones into the mouth of the cavern. His wife, who had followed him to the hill, assisted her husband’s efforts. The children, also, approached as near as they durst, with their little hands full of pebbles, and cast them on the pile. Earth was then thrown into the crevices, and the whole fabric overlaid with sods. Thus all traces of the discovery were obliterated, leaving only a marvelous legend, which grew wilder from one generation to another, as the children told it to their grandchildren, and they to their posterity, till few believed that there had ever been a cavern or a statue, where now they saw but a grassy patch on the shadowy hill-side. Yet, grown people avoid the spot, nor do children play there. Friendship, and Love, and Piety, all human and celestial sympathies, should keep aloof from the hidden cave; for there still sits, and, unless an earthquake crumble down the roof upon his head, shall sit forever, the shape of Richard Digby, in the attitude of repelling the whole race of mortals—not from Heaven—but from the horrible loneliness of his dark, cold sepulchre.

In Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short story, entitled “Drowne’s Wooden Image,” he writes of how an artist’s own intense creativity achieves a wonder of fulfillment in one specific object of his work. However, his inspiration for greatness lasts only this once due to its most precarious source. It is derived from the artist’s own intense affection, having, as its object, the unattainable love of a beautiful princess who comes to visit the city of his New England home from a far distant shore. She poses for him while dressed in the shimmering fashion of royalty. When the love he wishes for, kindled by the closeness of her presence, is lost with her departure across the sea, the coming disappointment drowns his creativity.

A lesson can also be made from this story. To created glory and its magnificence is given a powerful source of inspiration.

One sunshiny morning, in the good old times of the town of Boston, a young carver in wood, well known by the name of Drowne, stood contemplating a large oaken log, which it was his purpose to convert into the figure-head of a vessel. And while he discussed within his own mind what sort of shape or similitude it were well to bestow upon this excellent piece of timber, there came into Drowne’s workshop a certain Captain Hunnewell, owner and commander of the good brig called the Cynosure, which had just returned from her first voyage to Fayal.

Portrait of a Woman, Gian Cristoforo Romano. Image is not for reproduction

“Ah! that will do, Drowne, that will do!” cried the jolly captain, taping the log with his rattan. “I bespeak this very piece of oak for the figure-head of the Cynosure. She has shown herself the sweetest craft that ever floated, and I mean to decorate her prow with the handsomest image that the skill of man can cut out of timber. And, Drowne, you are the fellow to execute it.”

“You give me more credit than I deserve, Captain Hunnewell,” said the carver, modestly, yet as one conscious of eminence in his art. “But, for the sake of the good brig, I stand ready to do my best. And which of these designs would you prefer? Here—” pointing to a staring, half length figure, in a white wig and scarlet coat— “here is an excellent model, the likeness of our gracious king. Here is the valiant Admiral Vernon. Or, if you prefer a female figure, what say you to Britannia with the trident?”

“All very fine, Drowne; all very fine,” answered the mariner. “But as nothing like the brig ever swam the ocean, so I am determined she shall have such a figure-head as old Neptune never saw in his life. And what is more, as there is a secret in the matter, you must pledge your credit not to betray it.”

“Certainly,” said Drowne, marvelling, however, what possible mystery there could be in reference to an affair so open, of necessity, to the inspection of all the world, as the figure-head of a vessel. “You may depend, captain, on my being as secret as the nature of the case will permit.”

Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the button, and communicated his wishes in so low a tone, that it would be unmannerly to repeat what was evidently intended for the carver’s private ear. We shall, therefore, take the opportunity to give the reader a few desirable particulars about Drowne himself.

He was the first American who is known to have attempted,—in a very humble line, it is true,—that art in which we can now reckon so many names already distinguished, or rising to distinction. From his earliest boyhood, he had exhibited a knack—for it would be too proud a word to call it genius—a knack, therefore, for the imitation of the human figure, in whatever material came most readily to hand. The snows of a New England winter had often supplied him with a species of marble as dazzling white, at least, as the Parian or the Carrara, and if less durable, yet sufficiently so to correspond with any claims to permanent existence possessed by the boy’s frozen statues. Yet they won admiration from maturer judges than his schoolfellows, and were, indeed, remarkably clever, though destitute of the native warmth that might have made the snow melt beneath his hand. As he advanced in life, the young man adopted pine and oak as eligible materials for the display of his skill, which now began to bring him a return of solid silver, as well as the empty praise that had been an apt reward enough for his productions of evanescent snow. He became noted for carving ornamental pump-heads, and wooden urns for gate-posts, and decorations, more grotesque than fanciful, for mantelpieces. No apothecary would have deemed himself in the way of obtaining custom, without setting up a gilded mortar, if not a head of Galen or Hippocrates, from the skilful hand of Drowne. But the great scope of his business lay in the manufacture of figure-heads for vessels. Whether it were the monarch himself, or some famous British admiral or general, or the governor of the province, or perchance the favourite daughter of the ship-owner, there the image stood above the prow, decked out in gorgeous colours, magnificently gilded, and staring the whole world out of countenance, as if from an innate consciousness of its own superiority. These specimens of native sculpture had crossed the sea in all directions, and been not ignobly noticed among the crowded shipping of the Thames, and wherever else the hardy mariners of New England had pushed their adventures. It must be confessed, that a family likeness pervaded these respectable progeny of Drowne’s skill—that the benign countenance of the king resembled those of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart, the merchant’s daughter, bore a remarkable similitude to Britannia, Victory, and other ladies of the allegoric sisterhood; and, finally, that they had all had a kind of wooden aspect, which proved an intimate relationship with the unshaped blocks of timber in the carver’s workshop. But, at least, there was no inconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any attribute to render them really works of art, except that deep quality, be it of soul or intellect, which bestows life upon the lifeless, and warmth upon the cold, and which, had it been present, would have made Drowne’s wooden image instinct with spirit.

The captain of the Cynosure had now finished his instructions.

“And Drowne,” said he, impressively, “you must lay aside all other business, and set about this forthwith. And as to the price, only do the job in first rate style, and you shall settle that point yourself.”

“Very well, captain,” answered the carver, who looked grave and somewhat perplexed, yet had a sort of smile upon his visage. “Depend upon it, I’ll do my utmost to satisfy you.”

From that morning, the men of taste about Long Wharf and the Town Dock, who were wont to show their love for the arts by frequent visits to Drowne’s workshop, and admiration of his wooden images, began to be sensible of a mystery in the carver’s conduct. Often he was absent in the day-time. Sometimes, as might be judged by gleams of light from the shop windows, he was at work until a late hour of the evening; although neither knock nor voice, on such occasions could gain admittance for a visitor, or elicit any word of response. Nothing remarkable, however, was observed in the shop at those hours when it was thrown open. A fine piece of timber, indeed, which Drowne was known to have reserved for some work of especial dignity, was seen to be gradually assuming shape. What shape it was destined ultimately to take, was a problem to his friends, and a point on which the carver preserved a rigid silence. But day after day, though Drowne was seldom noticed in the act of working upon it, this rude form began to be developed, until it became evident to all observers, that a female figure was growing into mimic life. At each new visit they beheld a larger pile of wooden chips, and a nearer approximation to something beautiful. It seemed as if the hamadryad of the oak had sheltered herself from the unimaginative world within the heart of her native tree, and that it was only necessary to remove the strange shapelessness that had incrusted her, and reveal the grace and loveliness of a divinity. Imperfect as the design, the attitude, the costume, and especially the face of the image, still remained, there was already an effect that drew the eye from the wooden cleverness of Drowne’s earlier productions, and fixed it upon the tantalizing mystery of this new project.

Copley, the celebrated painter, then a young man, and a resident of Boston, came one day to visit Drowne; for he had recognized so much of moderate ability in the carver as to induce him, in the dearth of any professional sympathy, to cultivate his acquaintance. On entering the shop, the artist glanced at the inflexible images of king, commander, dame, and allegory, that stood around; on the best of which might have been bestowed the questionable praise, that it looked as if a living man had here been changed to wood, and that not only the physical, but the intellectual and spiritual part, partook of the stolid transformation. But in not a single instance did it seem as if the wood were imbibing the ethereal essence of humanity. What a wide distinction is here, and how far would the slightest portion of the latter merit have outvalued the utmost degree of the former!

“My friend Drowne,” said Copley, smiling to himself, but alluding to the mechanical and wooden cleverness that so invariably distinguished the images, “you are really a remarkable person! I have seldom met with a man, in your line of business, that could do so much; for one other touch might make this figure of General Wolfe, for instance, a breathing and intelligent human creature.”

“You would have me think that you are praising me highly, Mr. Copley,” answered Drowne, turning his back upon Wolfe’s image in apparent disgust. “But there has come a light into my mind. I know, what you know as well, that the one touch, which you speak of as deficient, is the only one that would be truly valuable, and that, without it, these works of mine are no better than worthless abortions. There is the same difference between them and the works of an inspired artist, as between a sign post daub and one of your best pictures.”

“This is strange!” cried Copley, looking him in the face, which now, as the painter fancied, had a singular depth of intelligence, though, hitherto, it had not given him greatly the advantage over his own family of wooden images. “What has come over you? How is it that, possessing the idea which you have now uttered, you should produce only such works as these?”

The carver smiled, but made no reply. Copley turned again to the images, conceiving that the sense of deficiency which Drowne had just expressed, and which is so rare in a merely mechanical character, must surely imply a genius, the tokens of which had heretofore been overlooked. But no; there was not a trace of it. He was about to withdraw, when his eyes chanced to fall upon a half-developed figure which lay in a corner of the workshop, surrounded by scattered chips of oak. It arrested him at once.

“What is here? Who has done this?” he broke out, after contemplating it in speechless astonishment for an instant. “Here is the divine, the life-giving touch! What inspired hand is beckoning this wood to arise and live? Whose work is this?”

“No man’s work,” replied Drowne. “The figure lies within that block of oak, and it is my business to find it.”

“Drowne,” said the true artist, grasping the carver fervently by the hand, “you are a man of genius!”

As Copley departed, happening to glance backward from the threshold, he beheld Drowne bending over the half created shape, and stretching forth his arms as if he would have embraced and drawn it to his heart; while, had such a miracle been possible, his countenance expressed passion enough to communicate warmth and sensibility to the lifeless oak.

“Strange enough!” said the artist to himself. “Who would have looked for a modern Pygmalion in the person of a Yankee mechanic!”

As yet, the image was but vague in its outward presentment; so that, as in the cloud-shapes around the western sun, the observer rather felt, or was led to imagine, than really saw what was intended by it. Day by day, however, the work assumed greater precision, and settled its irregular and misty outline into distincter grace and beauty. The general design was now obvious to the common eye. It was a female figure, in what appeared to be a foreign dress; the gown being laced over the bosom, and opening in front, so as to disclose a skirt or petticoat, the folds and inequalities of which were admirably represented in the oaken substance. She wore a hat of singular gracefulness, and abundantly laden with flowers, such as never grew in the rude soil of New England, but which, with all their fanciful luxuriance, had a natural truth that it seemed impossible for the most fertile imagination to have attained without copying from real prototypes. There were several little appendages to this dress, such as a fan, a pair of ear-rings, a chain about the neck, a watch in the bosom, and a ring upon the finger, all of which would have been deemed beneath the dignity of sculpture. They were put on, however, with as much taste as a lovely woman might have shown in her attire, and could therefore have shocked none but a judgment spoiled by artistic rules.

The face was still imperfect; but, gradually, by a magic touch, intelligence and sensibility brightened through the features, with all the effect of light gleaming forth from within the solid oak. The face became alive. It was a beautiful, though not precisely regular, and somewhat haughty aspect, but with a certain piquancy about the eyes and mouth which of all expressions, would have seemed the most impossible to throw over a wooden countenance. And now, so far as carving went, this wonderful production was complete.

“Drowne,” said Copley, who had hardly missed a single day in his visits to the carver’s workshop “if this work were in marble, it would make you famous at once; nay, I would almost affirm that it would make an era in the art. It is as ideal as an antique stature, and yet as real as any lovely woman whom one meets at a fireside or in the street. But I trust you do not mean to desecrate this exquisite creature with paint, like those staring kings and admirals yonder?”

“Not paint her?” exclaimed Captain Hunnewell, who stood by;— “not paint the figure-head of the Cynosure! And what sort of a figure should I cut in a foreign port, with such an unpainted oaken stick as this over my prow? She must, and she shall, be painted to the life, from the topmost flower in her hat down to the silver spangles on her slippers.”

“Mr. Copley,” said Drowne, quietly, “I know nothing of marble statuary, and nothing of a sculptor’s rules of art. But of this wooden image—this work of my hands—this creature of my heart—” and here his voice faltered and choked, in a very singular manner— “of this—of her—I may say that I know something. A well-spring of inward wisdom gushed within me, as I wrought upon the oak with my whole strength, and soul, and faith! Let others do what they may with marble, and adopt what rules they choose. If I can produce my desired effect by painted wood, those rules are not for me, and I have a right to disregard them.”

“The very spirit of genius!” muttered Copley to himself. “How otherwise should this carver feel himself entitled to transcend all rules, and make me ashamed of quoting them.”

He looked earnestly at Drowne, and again saw that expression of human love which, in a spiritual sense, as the artist could not help imagining, was the secret of the life that had been breathed into this block of wood.

The carver, still in the same secrecy that marked all his operations upon this mysterious image, proceeded to paint the habiliments in their proper colours, and the countenance with nature’s red and white. When all was finished, he threw open his workshop, and admitted the townspeople to behold what he had done. Most persons, at their first entrance, felt impelled to remove their hats, and pay such reverence as was due to the richly dressed and beautiful young lady, who seemed to stand in a corner of the room, with oaken chips and shavings scattered at her feet. Then came a sensation of fear; as if, not being actually human, yet so like humanity, she must therefore be something preternatural. There was, in truth, an indefinable air and expression that might reasonably induce the query—who and from what sphere this daughter of the oak should be. The strange rich flowers of Eden on her head; the complexion, so much deeper and more brilliant than those of our native beauties; the foreign, as it seemed, and fantastic garb, yet not too fantastic to be worn decorously in the street; the delicately wrought embroidery of the skirt; the broad gold chain about her neck; the curious ring upon her finger; the fan, so exquisitely sculptured in open work, and painted to resemble pearl and ebony;—where could Drowne, in his sober walk of life, have beheld the vision here so matchlessly embodied! And then her face! In the dark eyes, and around the voluptuous mouth, there played a look made up of pride, coquetry, and a gleam of mirthfulness, which impressed Copley with the idea that the image was secretly enjoying the perplexed admiration of himself and all other beholders.

“And will you,” said he to the carver, “permit this masterpiece to become the figure-head of a vessel? Give the honest captain yonder figure of Britannia—it will answer his purpose far better,—and send this fairy queen to England, where, for aught I know, it may bring you a thousand pounds.”

“I have not wrought it for money,” said Drowne.

“What sort of a fellow is this!” thought Copley. “A Yankee, and throw away the chance of making his fortune! He has gone mad; and thence has come this gleam of genius.”

There was still further proof of Drowne’s lunacy, if credit were due to the rumour that he had been seen kneeling at the feet of the oaken lady, and gazing with a lover’s passionate ardour into the face that his own hands had created. The bigots of the day hinted that it would be no matter of surprise if an evil spirit were allowed to enter this beautiful form, and seduce the carver to destruction.

The fame of the image spread far and wide. The inhabitants visited it so universally, that, after a few days of exhibition, there was hardly an old man or a child who had not become minutely familiar with its aspect. Even had the story of Drowne’s wooden image ended here, its celebrity might have been prolonged for many years, by the reminiscences of those who looked upon it in their childhood, and saw nothing else so beautiful in after life. But the town was now astounded by an event, the narrative of which has formed itself into one of the most singular legends that are yet to be met with in the traditionary chimney-corners of the New England metropolis, where old men and women sit dreaming of the past, and wag their heads at the dreamers of the present and the future.

Sunrise, Jackson Hole

One fine morning, just before the departure of the Cynosure on her second voyage to Fayal, the commander of that gallant vessel was seen to issue from his residence in Hanover street. He was stylishly dressed in a blue broadcloth coat, with gold lace at the seams and button-holes, an embroidered scarlet waistcoat, a triangular hat, with a loop and broad binding of gold, and wore a silver-hilted hanger at his side. But the good captain might have been arrayed in the robes of a prince or the rags of a beggar, without in either case attracting notice, while obscured by such a companion as now leaned on his arm. The people in the street started, rubbed their eyes, and either leaped aside from their path, or stood as if transfixed to wood or marble in astonishment.

“Do you see it?—do you see it?” cried one, with tremulous eagerness. “It is the very same!”

“The same?” answered another, who had arrived in town only the night before. “What do you mean? I see only a sea-captain in his shore-going clothes, and a young lady in a foreign habit, with a bunch of beautiful flowers in her hat. On my word, she is as fair and bright a damsel as my eyes have looked on this many a day!”

“Yes; the same!—the very same!” repeated the other. “Drowne’s wooden image has come to life!”

Here was a miracle indeed! Yet, illuminated by the sunshine, or darkened by the alternate shade of the houses, and with its garments fluttering lightly in the morning breeze, there passed the image along the street. It was exactly and minutely the shape, the garb, and the face, which the towns-people had so recently thronged to see and admire. Not a rich flower upon her head not a single leaf, but had had its prototype in Drowne’s wooden workmanship, although now their fragile grace had become flexible, and was shaken by every footstep that the wearer made. The broad gold chain upon the neck was identical with the one represented on the image, and glistened with the motion imparted by the rise and fall of the bosom which it decorated. A real diamond sparkled on her finger. In her right hand she bore a pearl and ebony fan, which she flourished with a fantastic and bewitching coquetry, that was likewise expressed in all her movements, as well as in the style of her beauty and the attire that so well harmonized with it. The face, with its brilliant depth of complexion, had the same piquancy of mirthful mischief that was fixed upon the countenance of the image, but which was here varied and continually shifting, yet always essentially the same, like the sunny gleam upon a bubbling fountain. On the whole, there was something so airy and yet so real in the figure, and withal so perfectly did it represent Drowne’s image, that people knew not whether to suppose the magic wood etherealized into a spirit, or warmed and softened into an actual woman.

Ruby Rose

“One thing is certain,” muttered a Puritan of the old stamp. “Drowne has sold himself to the devil; and doubtless this gay Captain Hunnewell is a party to the bargain.”

“And I,” said a young man who overheard him, “would almost consent to be the third victim, for the liberty of saluting those lovely lips.”

“And so would I,” said Copley, the painter, “for the privilege of taking her picture.”

The image, or the apparition, whichever it might be, still escorted by the bold captain, proceeded from Hanover street through some of the cross-lanes that make this portion of the town so intricate, to Ann street, thence into Dock-square, and so downward to Drowne’s shop, which stood just on the water’s edge. The crowd still followed, gathering volume as it rolled along. Never had a modern miracle occurred in such broad daylight, nor in the presence of such a multitude of witnesses. The airy image, as if conscious that she was the object of the murmurs and disturbance that swelled behind her, appeared slightly vexed and flustered, yet still in a manner consistent with the light vivacity and sportive mischief that were written in her countenance. She was observed to flutter her fan with such vehement rapidity, that the elaborate delicacy of its workmanship gave way, and it remained broken in her hand.

Arriving at Drowne’s door, while the captain threw it open, the marvellous apparition paused an instant on the threshold, assuming the very attitude of the image, and casting over the crowd that glance of sunny coquetry which all remembered on the face of the oaken lady. She and her cavalier then disappeared.

“Ah!” murmured the crowd, drawing a deep breath, as with one vast pair of lungs.

“The world looks darker, now that she has vanished,” said some of the young men.

But the aged, whose recollections dated as far back as witch-times, shook their heads, and hinted that our forefathers would have thought it a pious deed to burn the daughter of the oak with fire.

“If she be other than a bubble of the elements,” exclaimed Copley, “I must look upon her face again!”

He accordingly entered the shop; and there, in her usual corner, stood the image, gazing at him, as it might seem, with the very same expression of mirthful mischief that had been the farewell look of the apparition when, but a moment before, she turned her face towards the crowd. The carver stood beside his creation, mending the beautiful fan, which by some accident was broken in her hand. But there was no longer any motion in the life-like image, nor any real woman in the workshop, nor even the witchcraft of a sunny shadow, that might have deluded people’s eyes as it flitted along the street. Captain Hunnewell, too, had vanished. His hoarse, sea-breezy tones, however, were audible on the other side of a door that opened upon the water.

“Sit down in the stern sheets, my lady,” said the gallant captain. “Come, bear a hand, you lubbers, and set us on board in the turning of a minute-glass.”

And then was heard the stroke of oars.

“Drowne,” said Copely, with a smile of intelligence, “you have been a truly fortunate man. What painter or statuary ever had such a subject! No wonder that she inspired a genius into you, and first created the artist who afterwards created her image.

Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore the traces of tears, but from which the light of imagination and sensibility, so recently illuminating it, had departed. He was again the mechanical carver that he had been known to be all his lifetime.

“I hardly understand what you mean, Mr. Copley,” said he, putting his hand to his brow. “This image! Can it have been my work? Well—I have wrought it in a kind of dream; and now that I am broad awake, I must set about finishing yonder figure of Admiral Vernon.”

And forthwith he employed himself on the stolid countenance of one of his wooden progeny, and completed it in his own mechanical style, from which he was never known afterwards to deviate. He followed his business industriously for many years, acquired a competence, and, in the latter part of his life, attained to a dignified station in the church, being remembered in records and traditions as Deacon Drowne, the carver. One of his productions, an Indian chief, gilded all over, stood during the better part of a century on the cupola of the Province House bedazzling the eyes of those who looked upward, like an angel of the sun. Another work of the good deacon’s hand—a reduced likeness of his friend Captain Hunnewell, holding a telescope and quadrant—may be seen, to this day, at the corner of Broad and State streets, serving in the useful capacity of sign to the shop of a nautical instrument maker. We know not how to account for the inferiority of this quaint old figure, as compared with the recorded excellence of the Oaken Lady, unless on the supposition, that in every human spirit there is imagination, sensibility, creative power, genius, which, according to circumstances, may either be developed in this world, or shrouded in a mask of dulness until another state of being. To our friend Drowne, there came a brief season of excitement, kindled by love. It rendered him a genius for that one occasion, but, quenched in disappointment, left him again the mechanical carver in wood, without the power even of appreciating the work that his own hands had wrought. Yet who can doubt, that the very highest state to which a human spirit can attain, in its loftiest aspirations, is its truest and most natural state, and that Drowne was more consistent with himself when he wrought the admirable figure of the mysterious lady, than when he perpetrated a whole progeny of blockheads?

There was a rumor in Boston, about this period, that a young Portuguese lady of rank, on some occasion of political or domestic disquietude, had fled from her home in Fayal, and put herself under the protection of Captain Hunnewell, on board of whose vessel, and at whose residence, she was sheltered until a change of affairs. This fair stranger must have been the original of Drowne’s Wooden Image.