"Poor? Nay, richest! Happiest! Most favored!" exclaimed he. "Mypeerless bride, it is successful! You are perfect!""My poor Aylmer!" she repeated, with a more than humantenderness. "You have aimed loftily! you have done nobly! Do notrepent, that, with so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected thebest the earth could offer. Aylmer- dearest Aylmer, I am dying!"Alas, it was too true! The fatal Hand had grappled with the mysteryof life, and was the bond by which an angelic spirit kept itself inunion with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the birthmark-that sole token of human imperfection- faded from her cheek, theparting breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere,and her soul, lingering a moment near her husband, took its heavenwardflight. Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus ever doesthe gross Fatality of Earth exult in its invariable triumph over theimmortal essence, which, in this dim sphere of half-development,demands the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had Aylmer reached aprofounder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happiness,which would have woven his mortal life of the self-same texture withthe celestial. The momentary circumstance was too strong for him; hefailed to look beyond the shadowy scope of Time, and living once forall in Eternity, to find the perfect Future in the present.
THE END
.
1843
TWICE-TOLD TALES
THE CELESTIAL RAILROAD
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
NOT A GREAT WHILE AGO, passing through the gate of dreams, Ivisited that region of the earth in which lies the famous city ofDestruction. It interested me much to learn that, by the public spiritof some of the inhabitants, a railroad has recently been establishedbetween this populous and flourishing town, and the Celestial City.
Having a little time upon my hands, I resolved to gratify a liberalcuriosity to make a trip thither. Accordingly, one fine morning, afterpaying my bill at the hotel, and directing the porter to stow myluggage behind a coach, I took my seat in the vehicle and set outfor the Station- house. It was my good fortune to enjoy the company ofa gentleman- one Mr. Smooth-it-away- who, though he had never actuallyvisited the Celestial City, yet seemed as well acquainted with itslaws, customs, policy, and statistics, as with those of the city ofDestruction, of which he was a native townsman. Being, moreover, aDirector of the railroad corporation, and one of its largeststockholders, he had it in his power to give me all desirableinformation respecting that praiseworthy enterprise.
Our coach rattled out of the city, and, at a short distance fromits outskirts, passed over a bridge, of elegant construction, butsomewhat too slight, as I imagined, to sustain any considerableweight. On both sides lay an extensive quagmire, which could nothave been more disagreeable either to sight or smell, had all thekennels of the earth emptied their pollution there.
"This," remarked Mr. Smooth-it-away, "is the famous Slough ofDespond- a disgrace to all the neighborhood; and the greater, thatit might so easily be converted into firm ground.""I have understood, said I, "that efforts have been made for thatpurpose, from time immemorial. Bunyan mentions that above twentythousand cart-loads of wholesome instructions had been thrown in here,without effect.""Very probably! and what effect could be anticipated from suchunsubstantial stuff?" cried Mr. Smooth-it-away. "You observe thisconvenient bridge. We obtained a sufficient foundation for it bythrowing into the Slough some editions of books of morality, volumesof French philosophy and German rationalism, tracts, sermons, andessays of modern clergymen, extracts from Plato, Confucius, andvarious Hindoo sages, together with a few ingenious commentariesupon texts of Scripture- all of which, by some scientific process,have been converted into a mass like granite. The whole bog might befilled up with similar matter."It really seemed to me, however, that the bridge vibrated andheaved up and down in a very formidable manner; and, spite of Mr.
Smooth-it-away's testimony to the solidity of its foundation, I shouldbe loth to cross it in a crowded omnibus; especially, if eachpassenger were encumbered with as heavy luggage as that gentlemanand myself. Nevertheless, we got over without accident, and soon foundourselves at the Station-house. This very neat and spacious edifice iserected on the site of the little Wicket-Gate, which formerly, asall old pilgrims will recollect, stood directly across the highway,and, by its inconvenient narrowness, was a great obstruction to thetraveller of liberal mind and expansive stomach. The reader of JohnBunyan will be glad to know, that Christian's old friend Evangelist,who was accustomed to supply each pilgrim with a mystic roll, nowpresides at the ticket office. Some malicious persons, it is true,deny the identity of this reputable character with the Evangelist ofold times, and even pretend to bring competent evidence of animposture. Without involving myself in a dispute, I shall merelyobserve, that, so far as my experience goes, the square pieces ofpasteboard, now delivered to passengers, are much more convenientand useful along the road, than the antique roll of parchment. Whetherthey will be as readily received at the gate of the Celestial City,I decline giving an opinion.
A large number of passengers were already at the Station-house,awaiting the departure of the cars. By the aspect and demeanor ofthese persons, it was easy to judge that the feelings of the communityhad undergone a very favorable change, in reference to the celestialpilgrimage. It would have done Bunyan's heart good to see it.
