



Produced by David Widger.  HTML version by Al Haines.









                     MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE

                      By Nathaniel Hawthorne

                        MONSIEUR DU MIROIR



Than the gentleman above named, there is nobody, in the whole circle
of my acquaintance, whom I have more attentively studied, yet of
whom I have less real knowledge, beneath the surface which it
pleases him to present.  Being anxious to discover who and what he
really is, and how connected with me, and what are to be the results
to him and to myself of the joint interest which, without any choice
on my part, seems to be permanently established between us, and
incited, furthermore, by the propensities of a student of human
nature, though doubtful whether Monsieur du Miroir have aught of
humanity but the figure,--I have determined to place a few of his
remarkable points before the public, hoping to be favored with some
clew to the explanation of his character.  Nor let the reader
condemn any part of the narrative as frivolous, since a subject of
such grave reflection diffuses its importance through the minutest
particulars; and there is no judging beforehand what odd little
circumstance may do the office of a blind man's dog among the
perplexities of this dark investigation; and however extraordinary,
marvellous, preternatural, and utterly incredible some of the
meditated disclosures may appear, I pledge my honor to maintain as
sacred a regard to fact as if my testimony were given on oath and
involved the dearest interests of the personage in question.  Not
that there is matter for a criminal accusation against Monsieur du
Miroir, nor am I the man to bring it forward if there were.  The
chief that I complain of is his impenetrable mystery, which is no
better than nonsense if it conceal anything good, and much worse in
the contrary case.

But, if undue partialities could be supposed to influence me,
Monsieur du Miroir might hope to profit rather than to suffer by
them, for in the whole of our long intercourse we have seldom had
the slightest disagreement; and, moreover, there are reasons for
supposing him a near relative of mine, and consequently entitled to
the best word that I can give him.  He bears indisputably a strong
personal resemblance to myself, and generally puts on mourning at
the funerals of the family.  On the other hand, his name would
indicate a French descent; in which case, infinitely preferring that
my blood should flow from a bold British and pure Puritan source, I
beg leave to disclaim all kindred with Monsieur du Miroir.  Some
genealogists trace his origin to Spain, and dub him a knight of the
order of the CABALLEROS DE LOS ESPEJOZ, one of whom was overthrown
by Don Quixote.  But what says Monsieur du Miroir himself of his
paternity and his fatherland?  Not a word did he ever say about the
matter; and herein, perhaps, lies one of his most especial reasons
for maintaining such a vexatious mystery, that he lacks the faculty
of speech to expound it.  His lips are sometimes seen to move; his
eyes and countenance are alive with shifting expression, as if
corresponding by visible hieroglyphics to his modulated breath; and
anon he will seem to pause with as satisfied an air as if he had
been talking excellent sense.  Good sense or bad, Monsieur du Miroir
is the sole judge of his own conversational powers, never having
whispered so much as a syllable that reached the ears of any other
auditor.  Is he really dumb? or is all the world deaf? or is it
merely a piece of my friend's waggery, meant for nothing but to make
fools of us?  If so, he has the joke all to himself.

This dumb devil which possesses Monsieur do Miroir is, I am
persuaded, the sole reason that he does not make me the most
flattering protestations of friendship.  In many particulars--indeed,
as to all his cognizable and not preternatural points,
except that, once in a great while, I speak a word or two--there
exists the greatest apparent sympathy between us.  Such is his
confidence in my taste that he goes astray from the general fashion
and copies all his dresses after mine.  I never try on a new garment
without expecting to meet, Monsieur du Miroir in one of the same
pattern.  He has duplicates of all my waistcoats and cravats,
shirt-bosoms of precisely a similar plait, and an old coat for private
wear, manufactured, I suspect, by