



Produced by David Widger.  HTML version by Al Haines










                        THE SNOW-IMAGE

                             AND

                     OTHER TWICE-TOLD TALES



                      THE MAN OF ADAMANT

                              By

                      Nathaniel Hawthorne



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 intrusted 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 this 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 farther 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