Chapter: JUDGE PYNCHEON, while his two relatives have fled away with such
ill-considered haste, still sits in the old parlor, keeping house, as
the familiar phrase is, in the absence of its ordinary occupants.  To
him, and to the venerable House of the Seven Gables, does our story now
betake itself, like an owl, bewildered in the daylight, and hastening
back to his hollow tree.

The Judge has not shifted his position for a long while now.  He has
not stirred hand or foot, nor withdrawn his eyes so much as a
hair's-breadth from their fixed gaze towards the corner of the room,
    since the footsteps of Hepzibah and Clifford creaked along the passage,
    and the outer door was closed cautiously behind their exit.  He holds
    his watch in his left hand, but clutched in such a manner that you
    cannot see the dial-plate.  How profound a fit of meditation! Or,
    supposing him asleep, how infantile a quietude of conscience, and what
    wholesome order in the gastric region, are betokened by slumber so
    entirely undisturbed with starts, cramp, twitches, muttered dreamtalk,
    trumpet-blasts through the nasal organ, or any slightest irregularity
    of breath!  You must hold your own breath, to satisfy yourself whether
    he breathes at all.  It is quite inaudible.  You hear the ticking of
    his watch; his breath you do not hear.  A most refreshing slumber,
    doubtless!  And yet, the Judge cannot be asleep.  His eyes are open! A
    veteran politician, such as he, would never fall asleep with wide-open
    eyes, lest some enemy or mischief-maker, taking him thus at unawares,
    should peep through these windows into his consciousness, and make
    strange discoveries among the reminiscences, projects, hopes,
    apprehensions, weaknesses, and strong points, which he has heretofore
    shared with nobody.  A cautious man is proverbially said to sleep with
    one eye open.  That may be wisdom.  But not with both; for this were
    heedlessness! No, no! Judge Pyncheon cannot be asleep.

    It is odd, however, that a gentleman so burdened with engagements,--and
    noted, too, for punctuality,--should linger thus in an old lonely
    mansion, which he has never seemed very fond of visiting.  The oaken
    chair, to be sure, may tempt him with its roominess.  It is, indeed, a
    spacious, and, allowing for the rude age that fashioned it, a
    moderately easy seat, with capacity enough, at all events, and offering
    no restraint to the Judge's breadth of beam.  A bigger man might find
    ample accommodation in it.  His ancestor, now pictured upon the wall,
    with all his English beef about him, used hardly to present a front
    extending from elbow to elbow of this chair, or a base that would cover
    its whole cushion.  But there are better chairs than this,--mahogany,
    black walnut, rosewood, spring-seated and damask-cushioned, with varied
    slopes, and innumerable artifices to make them easy, and obviate the
    irksomeness of too tame an ease,--a score of such might be at Judge
    Pyncheon's service.  Yes! in a score of drawing-rooms he would be more
    than welcome.  Mamma would advance to meet him, with outstretched hand;
    the virgin daughter, elderly as he has now got to be,--an old widower,
    as he smilingly describes himself,--would shake up the cushion for the
    Judge, and do her pretty utmost to make him comfortable.  For the Judge
    is a prosperous man.  He cherishes his schemes, moreover, like other
    people, and reasonably brighter than most others; or did so, at least,
    as he lay abed this morning, in an agreeable half-drowse, planning the
    business of the day, and speculating on the probabilities of the next
    fifteen years.  With his firm health, and the little inroad that age
    has made upon him, fifteen years or twenty--yes, or perhaps
    five-and-twenty!--are no more than he may fairly call his own.
    Five-and-twenty years for the enjoyment of his real estate in town and
    country, his railroad, bank, and insurance shares, his United States
    stock,--his wealth, in short, however invested, now in possession, or
    soon to be acquired; together with the public honors that have fallen
    upon him, and the weightier ones that are yet to fall! It is good! It
    is excellent! It is enough!

    Still lingering in the old chair! If the Judge has a little time to
    throw away, why does not he visit the insurance office, as is his
    frequent custom, and sit awhile in one of their leathern-cushioned
    arm-chairs, listening to the gossip of the day, and dropping some
    deeply designed chance-word, which will be certain to become the gossip
    of to-morrow.  And have not the bank directors a meeting at which it
    was the Judge's purpose to be present, and his office to preside?
    Indeed they have; and the hour is noted on a card, which is, or ought
    to be, in Judge Pyncheon's right vest-pocket.  Let him go thither, and
    loll at ease upon his moneybags! He has lounged long enough in the old
    chair!

    This was to have been such a busy day.  In the first place, the
    interview with Clifford.  Half an hour, by the Judge's reckoning, was
    to suffice for that; it would probably be less, but--taking into
    consideration that Hepzibah was first to be dealt with, and that these
    women are apt to make many words where a few would do much better--it
    might be safest to allow half an hour.  Half an hour? Why, Judge, it is
    already two hours, by your own undeviatingly accurate chronometer.
    Glance your eye down at it and see! Ah; he will not give himself the
    trouble either to bend his head, or elevate his hand, so as to bring
    the faithful time-keeper within his range of vision! Time, all at once,
    appears to have become a matter of no moment with the Judge!

    And has he forgotten all the other items of his memoranda?  Clifford's
    affair arranged, he was to meet a State Street broker, who has
    undertaken to procure a heavy percentage, and the best of paper, for a
    few loose thousands which the Judge happens to have by him, uninvested.
    The wrinkled note-shaver will have taken his railroad trip in vain.
    Half an hour later, in the street next to this, there was to be an
    auction of real estate, including a portion of the old Pyncheon
    property, originally belonging to Maule's garden ground.  It has been
    alienated from the Pyncheons these four-score years; but the Judge had
    kept it in his eye, and had set his heart on reannexing it to the small
    demesne still left around the Seven Gables; and now, during this odd
    fit of oblivion, the fatal hammer must have fallen, and transferred our
    ancient patrimony to some alien possessor.  Possibly, indeed, the sale
    may have been postponed till fairer weather.  If so, will the Judge
    make it convenient to be present, and favor the auctioneer with his
    bid, On the proximate occasion?

    The next affair was to buy a horse for his own driving.  The one
    heretofore his favorite stumbled, this very morning, on the road to
    town, and must be at once discarded.  Judge Pyncheon's neck is too
    precious to be risked on such a contingency as a stumbling steed.
    Should all the above business be seasonably got through with, he might
    attend the meeting of a charitable society; the very name of which,
    however, in the multiplicity of his benevolence, is quite forgotten; so
    that this engagement may pass unfulfilled, and no great harm done.  And
    if he have time, amid the press of more urgent matters, he must take
    measures for the renewal of Mrs. Pyncheon's tombstone, which, the
    sexton tells him, has fallen on its marble face, and is cracked quite
    in twain.  She was a praiseworthy woman enough, thinks the Judge, in
    spite of her nervousness, and the tears that she was so oozy with, and
    her foolish behavior about the coffee; and as she took her departure so
    seasonably, he will not grudge the second tombstone.  It is better, at
    least, than if she had never needed any! The next item on his list was
    to give orders for some fruit-trees, of a rare variety, to be
    deliverable at his country-seat in the ensuing autumn.  Yes, buy them,
    by all means; and may the peaches be luscious in your mouth, Judge
    Pyncheon! After this comes something more important.  A committee of
    his political party has besought him for a hundred or two of dollars,
    in addition to his previous disbursements, towards carrying on the fall
    campaign.  The Judge is a patriot; the fate of the country is staked on
    the November election; and besides, as will be shadowed forth in
    another paragraph, he has no trifling stake of his own in the same
    great game.  He will do what the committee asks; nay, he will be
    liberal beyond their expectations; they shall have a check for five
    hundred dollars, and more anon, if it be needed.  What next? A decayed
    widow, whose husband was Judge Pyncheon's early friend, has laid her
    case of destitution before him, in a very moving letter.  She and her
    fair daughter have scarcely bread to eat.  He partly intends to call on
    her to-day,--perhaps so--perhaps not,--accordingly as he may happen to
    have leisure, and a small bank-note.

    Another business, which, however, he puts no great weight on (it is
            well, you know, to be heedful, but not over-anxious, as respects one's
            personal health),--another business, then, was to consult his family
    physician.  About what, for Heaven's sake? Why, it is rather difficult
    to describe the symptoms.  A mere dimness of sight and dizziness of
    brain, was it?--or disagreeable choking, or stifling, or gurgling, or
    bubbling, in the region of the thorax, as the anatomists say?--or was
    it a pretty severe throbbing and kicking of the heart, rather
    creditable to him than otherwise, as showing that the organ had not
    been left out of the Judge's physical contrivance?  No matter what it
    was.  The doctor probably would smile at the statement of such trifles
    to his professional ear; the Judge would smile in his turn; and meeting
    one another's eyes, they would enjoy a hearty laugh together! But a fig
    for medical advice.  The Judge will never need it.

    Pray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch, Now! What--not a
    glance! It is within ten minutes of the dinner hour! It surely cannot
    have slipped your memory that the dinner of to-day is to be the most
    important, in its consequences, of all the dinners you ever ate.  Yes,
    precisely the most important; although, in the course of your somewhat
    eminent career, you have been placed high towards the head of the
    table, at splendid banquets, and have poured out your festive eloquence
    to ears yet echoing with Webster's mighty organ-tones.  No public
    dinner this, however.  It is merely a gathering of some dozen or so of
    friends from several districts of the State; men of distinguished
    character and influence, assembling, almost casually, at the house of a
    common friend, likewise distinguished, who will make them welcome to a
    little better than his ordinary fare.  Nothing in the way of French
    cookery, but an excellent dinner, nevertheless.  Real turtle, we
    understand, and salmon, tautog, canvas-backs, pig, English mutton, good
    roast beef, or dainties of that serious kind, fit for substantial
    country gentlemen, as these honorable persons mostly are.  The
    delicacies of the season, in short, and flavored by a brand of old
    Madeira which has been the pride of many seasons.  It is the Juno
    brand; a glorious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; a
    bottled-up happiness, put by for use; a golden liquid, worth more than
    liquid gold; so rare and admirable, that veteran wine-bibbers count it
    among their epochs to have tasted it!  It drives away the heart-ache,
    and substitutes no head-ache!  Could the Judge but quaff a glass, it
    might enable him to shake off the unaccountable lethargy which (for the
            ten intervening minutes, and five to boot, are already past) has made
    him such a laggard at this momentous dinner.  It would all but revive a
    dead man! Would you like to sip it now, Judge Pyncheon?

    Alas, this dinner.  Have you really forgotten its true object?  Then
    let us whisper it, that you may start at once out of the oaken chair,
    which really seems to be enchanted, like the one in Comus, or that in
    which Moll Pitcher imprisoned your own grandfather.  But ambition is a
    talisman more powerful than witchcraft.  Start up, then, and, hurrying
    through the streets, burst in upon the company, that they may begin
    before the fish is spoiled! They wait for you; and it is little for
    your interest that they should wait.  These gentlemen--need you be told
    it?--have assembled, not without purpose, from every quarter of the
    State.  They are practised politicians, every man of them, and skilled
    to adjust those preliminary measures which steal from the people,
    without its knowledge, the power of choosing its own rulers.  The
    popular voice, at the next gubernatorial election, though loud as
    thunder, will be really but an echo of what these gentlemen shall
    speak, under their breath, at your friend's festive board.  They meet
    to decide upon their candidate.  This little knot of subtle schemers
    will control the convention, and, through it, dictate to the party.
    And what worthier candidate,--more wise and learned, more noted for
    philanthropic liberality, truer to safe principles, tried oftener by
    public trusts, more spotless in private character, with a larger stake
    in the common welfare, and deeper grounded, by hereditary descent, in
    the faith and practice of the Puritans,--what man can be presented for
    the suffrage of the people, so eminently combining all these claims to
    the chief-rulership as Judge Pyncheon here before us?

    Make haste, then! Do your part! The meed for which you have toiled, and
    fought, and climbed, and crept, is ready for your grasp! Be present at
    this dinner!--drink a glass or two of that noble wine!--make your
    pledges in as low a whisper as you will!--and you rise up from table
    virtually governor of the glorious old State! Governor Pyncheon of
    Massachusetts!

    And is there no potent and exhilarating cordial in a certainty like
    this? It has been the grand purpose of half your lifetime to obtain it.
    Now, when there needs little more than to signify your acceptance, why
    do you sit so lumpishly in your great-great-grandfather's oaken chair,
    as if preferring it to the gubernatorial one? We have all heard of King
    Log; but, in these jostling times, one of that royal kindred will
    hardly win the race for an elective chief-magistracy.

    Well; it is absolutely too late for dinner! Turtle, salmon, tautog,
    woodcock, boiled turkey, South-Down mutton, pig, roast-beef, have
    vanished, or exist only in fragments, with lukewarm potatoes, and
    gravies crusted over with cold fat.  The Judge, had he done nothing
    else, would have achieved wonders with his knife and fork.  It was he,
    you know, of whom it used to be said, in reference to his ogre-like
    appetite, that his Creator made him a great animal, but that the
    dinner-hour made him a great beast.  Persons of his large sensual
    endowments must claim indulgence, at their feeding-time.  But, for
    once, the Judge is entirely too late for dinner! Too late, we fear,
    even to join the party at their wine! The guests are warm and merry;
they have given up the Judge; and, concluding that the Free-Soilers
have him, they will fix upon another candidate.  Were our friend now to
stalk in among them, with that wide-open stare, at once wild and
stolid, his ungenial presence would be apt to change their cheer.
Neither would it be seemly in Judge Pyncheon, generally so scrupulous
in his attire, to show himself at a dinner-table with that crimson
stain upon his shirt-bosom.  By the bye, how came it there? It is an
ugly sight, at any rate; and the wisest way for the Judge is to button
his coat closely over his breast, and, taking his horse and chaise from
the livery stable, to make all speed to his own house.  There, after a
glass of brandy and water, and a mutton-chop, a beefsteak, a broiled
fowl, or some such hasty little dinner and supper all in one, he had
better spend the evening by the fireside.  He must toast his slippers a
long while, in order to get rid of the chilliness which the air of this
vile old house has sent curdling through his veins.

Up, therefore, Judge Pyncheon, up! You have lost a day.  But to-morrow
will be here anon.  Will you rise, betimes, and make the most of it?
To-morrow.  To-morrow! To-morrow.  We, that are alive, may rise betimes
to-morrow.  As for him that has died to-day, his morrow will be the
resurrection morn.

Meanwhile the twilight is glooming upward out of the corners of the
room.  The shadows of the tall furniture grow deeper, and at first
become more definite; then, spreading wider, they lose their
distinctness of outline in the dark gray tide of oblivion, as it were,
             that creeps slowly over the various objects, and the one human figure
             sitting in the midst of them.  The gloom has not entered from without;
             it has brooded here all day, and now, taking its own inevitable time,
             will possess itself of everything.  The Judge's face, indeed, rigid and
             singularly white, refuses to melt into this universal solvent.  Fainter
             and fainter grows the light.  It is as if another double-handful of
             darkness had been scattered through the air.  Now it is no longer gray,
             but sable.  There is still a faint appearance at the window; neither a
             glow, nor a gleam, nor a glimmer,--any phrase of light would express
             something far brighter than this doubtful perception, or sense, rather,
             that there is a window there.  Has it yet vanished?  No!--yes!--not
             quite! And there is still the swarthy whiteness,--we shall venture to
             marry these ill-agreeing words,--the swarthy whiteness of Judge
             Pyncheon's face.  The features are all gone: there is only the paleness
             of them left.  And how looks it now?  There is no window! There is no
             face! An infinite, inscrutable blackness has annihilated sight! Where
             is our universe?  All crumbled away from us; and we, adrift in chaos,
             may hearken to the gusts of homeless wind, that go sighing and
             murmuring about in quest of what was once a world!

             Is there no other sound? One other, and a fearful one.  It is the
             ticking of the Judge's watch, which, ever since Hepzibah left the room
             in search of Clifford, he has been holding in his hand.  Be the cause
             what it may, this little, quiet, never-ceasing throb of Time's pulse,
             repeating its small strokes with such busy regularity, in Judge
             Pyncheon's motionless hand, has an effect of terror, which we do not
             find in any other accompaniment of the scene.

             But, listen! That puff of the breeze was louder.  It had a tone unlike
             the dreary and sullen one which has bemoaned itself, and afflicted all
             mankind with miserable sympathy, for five days past.  The wind has
             veered about! It now comes boisterously from the northwest, and, taking
             hold of the aged framework of the Seven Gables, gives it a shake, like
             a wrestler that would try strength with his antagonist.  Another and
             another sturdy tussle with the blast! The old house creaks again, and
             makes a vociferous but somewhat unintelligible bellowing in its sooty
             throat (the big flue, we mean, of its wide chimney), partly in
             complaint at the rude wind, but rather, as befits their century and a
             half of hostile intimacy, in tough defiance.  A rumbling kind of a
             bluster roars behind the fire-board.  A door has slammed above stairs.
             A window, perhaps, has been left open, or else is driven in by an
             unruly gust.  It is not to be conceived, before-hand, what wonderful
             wind-instruments are these old timber mansions, and how haunted with
             the strangest noises, which immediately begin to sing, and sigh, and
             sob, and shriek,--and to smite with sledge-hammers, airy but ponderous,
             in some distant chamber,--and to tread along the entries as with
             stately footsteps, and rustle up and down the staircase, as with silks
             miraculously stiff,--whenever the gale catches the house with a window
             open, and gets fairly into it.  Would that we were not an attendant
             spirit here! It is too awful! This clamor of the wind through the
             lonely house; the Judge's quietude, as he sits invisible; and that
             pertinacious ticking of his watch!

             As regards Judge Pyncheon's invisibility, however, that matter will
             soon be remedied.  The northwest wind has swept the sky clear.  The
             window is distinctly seen.  Through its panes, moreover, we dimly catch
             the sweep of the dark, clustering foliage outside, fluttering with a
             constant irregularity of movement, and letting in a peep of starlight,
             now here, now there.  Oftener than any other object, these glimpses
             illuminate the Judge's face.  But here comes more effectual light.
             Observe that silvery dance upon the upper branches of the pear-tree,
             and now a little lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while,
             through their shifting intricacies, the moonbeams fall aslant into the
             room.  They play over the Judge's figure and show that he has not
             stirred throughout the hours of darkness.  They follow the shadows, in
             changeful sport, across his unchanging features.  They gleam upon his
             watch.  His grasp conceals the dial-plate,--but we know that the
             faithful hands have met; for one of the city clocks tells midnight.

             A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon, cares no more for
             twelve o'clock at night than for the corresponding hour of noon.
             However just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding pages,
             between his Puritan ancestor and himself, it fails in this point.  The
             Pyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most of his
             contemporaries, professed his full belief in spiritual ministrations,
             although reckoning them chiefly of a malignant character.  The Pyncheon
             of to-night, who sits in yonder arm-chair, believes in no such
             nonsense.  Such, at least, was his creed, some few hours since.  His
             hair will not bristle, therefore, at the stories which--in times when
             chimney-corners had benches in them, where old people sat poking into
             the ashes of the past, and raking out traditions like live coals--used
             to be told about this very room of his ancestral house.  In fact, these
             tales are too absurd to bristle even childhood's hair.  What sense,
             meaning, or moral, for example, such as even ghost-stories should be
             susceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at
             midnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor?
             And, pray, for what? Why, to see whether the portrait of their ancestor
             still keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with his
             testamentary directions! Is it worth while to come out of their graves
             for that?

             We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea.  Ghost-stories are
             hardly to be treated seriously any longer.  The family-party of the
             defunct Pyncheons, we presume, goes off in this wise.

             First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak, steeple-hat, and
             trunk-breeches, girt about the waist with a leathern belt, in which
             hangs his steel-hilted sword; he has a long staff in his hand, such as
             gentlemen in advanced life used to carry, as much for the dignity of
             the thing as for the support to be derived from it.  He looks up at the
             portrait; a thing of no substance, gazing at its own painted image! All
             is safe.  The picture is still there.  The purpose of his brain has
             been kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up in
             graveyard grass.  See! he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the
             frame.  All safe! But is that a smile?--is it not, rather a frown of
             deadly import, that darkens over the shadow of his features? The stout
             Colonel is dissatisfied!  So decided is his look of discontent as to
             impart additional distinctness to his features; through which,
             nevertheless, the moonlight passes, and flickers on the wall beyond.
             Something has strangely vexed the ancestor! With a grim shake of the
             head, he turns away.  Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe, in
             their half a dozen generations, jostling and elbowing one another, to
             reach the picture.  We behold aged men and grandames, a clergyman with
             the Puritanic stiffness still in his garb and mien, and a red-coated
             officer of the old French war; and there comes the shop-keeping
             Pyncheon of a century ago, with the ruffles turned back from his
             wrists; and there the periwigged and brocaded gentleman of the artist's
             legend, with the beautiful and pensive Alice, who brings no pride out
             of her virgin grave.  All try the picture-frame.  What do these ghostly
             people seek? A mother lifts her child, that his little hands may touch
             it! There is evidently a mystery about the picture, that perplexes
             these poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest.  In a corner,
             meanwhile, stands the figure of an elderly man, in a leathern jerkin
             and breeches, with a carpenter's rule sticking out of his side pocket;
             he points his finger at the bearded Colonel and his descendants,
             nodding, jeering, mocking, and finally bursting into obstreperous,
             though inaudible laughter.

             Indulging our fancy in this freak, we have partly lost the power of
             restraint and guidance.  We distinguish an unlooked-for figure in our
             visionary scene.  Among those ancestral people there is a young man,
             dressed in the very fashion of to-day:  he wears a dark frock-coat,
             almost destitute of skirts, gray pantaloons, gaiter boots of patent
             leather, and has a finely wrought gold chain across his breast, and a
             little silver-headed whalebone stick in his hand.  Were we to meet this
             figure at noonday, we should greet him as young Jaffrey Pyncheon, the
             Judge's only surviving child, who has been spending the last two years
             in foreign travel.  If still in life, how comes his shadow hither?  If
             dead, what a misfortune! The old Pyncheon property, together with the
             great estate acquired by the young man's father, would devolve on whom?
             On poor, foolish Clifford, gaunt Hepzibah, and rustic little Phoebe!
             But another and a greater marvel greets us!  Can we believe our eyes? A
             stout, elderly gentleman has made his appearance; he has an aspect of
             eminent respectability, wears a black coat and pantaloons, of roomy
             width, and might be pronounced scrupulously neat in his attire, but for
             a broad crimson stain across his snowy neckcloth and down his
             shirt-bosom.  Is it the Judge, or no? How can it be Judge Pyncheon? We
             discern his figure, as plainly as the flickering moonbeams can show us
             anything, still seated in the oaken chair! Be the apparition whose it
             may, it advances to the picture, seems to seize the frame, tries to
             peep behind it, and turns away, with a frown as black as the ancestral
             one.

             The fantastic scene just hinted at must by no means be considered as
             forming an actual portion of our story.  We were betrayed into this
             brief extravagance by the quiver of the moonbeams; they dance
             hand-in-hand with shadows, and are reflected in the looking-glass,
             which, you are aware, is always a kind of window or doorway into the
             spiritual world.  We needed relief, moreover, from our too long and
             exclusive contemplation of that figure in the chair.  This wild wind,
             too, has tossed our thoughts into strange confusion, but without
             tearing them away from their one determined centre.  Yonder leaden
             Judge sits immovably upon our soul.  Will he never stir again? We shall
             go mad unless he stirs! You may the better estimate his quietude by the
             fearlessness of a little mouse, which sits on its hind legs, in a
             streak of moonlight, close by Judge Pyncheon's foot, and seems to
             meditate a journey of exploration over this great black bulk.  Ha! what
             has startled the nimble little mouse? It is the visage of grimalkin,
             outside of the window, where he appears to have posted himself for a
             deliberate watch.  This grimalkin has a very ugly look.  Is it a cat
             watching for a mouse, or the devil for a human soul? Would we could
             scare him from the window!

             Thank Heaven, the night is well-nigh past! The moonbeams have no longer
             so silvery a gleam, nor contrast so strongly with the blackness of the
             shadows among which they fall.  They are paler now; the shadows look
             gray, not black.  The boisterous wind is hushed.  What is the hour? Ah!
             the watch has at last ceased to tick; for the Judge's forgetful fingers
             neglected to wind it up, as usual, at ten o'clock, being half an hour
             or so before his ordinary bedtime,--and it has run down, for the first
             time in five years.  But the great world-clock of Time still keeps its
             beat.  The dreary night--for, oh, how dreary seems its haunted waste,
             behind us!--gives place to a fresh, transparent, cloudless morn.
             Blessed, blessed radiance! The daybeam--even what little of it finds
             its way into this always dusky parlor--seems part of the universal
             benediction, annulling evil, and rendering all goodness possible, and
             happiness attainable.  Will Judge Pyncheon now rise up from his chair?
             Will he go forth, and receive the early sunbeams on his brow? Will he
             begin this new day,--which God has smiled upon, and blessed, and given
             to mankind,--will he begin it with better purposes than the many that
             have been spent amiss? Or are all the deep-laid schemes of yesterday as
             stubborn in his heart, and as busy in his brain, as ever?

             In this latter case, there is much to do.  Will the Judge still insist
             with Hepzibah on the interview with Clifford? Will he buy a safe,
             elderly gentleman's horse? Will he persuade the purchaser of the old
             Pyncheon property to relinquish the bargain in his favor?  Will he see
             his family physician, and obtain a medicine that shall preserve him, to
             be an honor and blessing to his race, until the utmost term of
             patriarchal longevity? Will Judge Pyncheon, above all, make due
             apologies to that company of honorable friends, and satisfy them that
             his absence from the festive board was unavoidable, and so fully
             retrieve himself in their good opinion that he shall yet be Governor of
             Massachusetts?  And all these great purposes accomplished, will he walk
             the streets again, with that dog-day smile of elaborate benevolence,
             sultry enough to tempt flies to come and buzz in it? Or will he, after
             the tomb-like seclusion of the past day and night, go forth a humbled
             and repentant man, sorrowful, gentle, seeking no profit, shrinking from
             worldly honor, hardly daring to love God, but bold to love his fellow
             man, and to do him what good he may? Will he bear about with him,--no
             odious grin of feigned benignity, insolent in its pretence, and
             loathsome in its falsehood,--but the tender sadness of a contrite
             heart, broken, at last, beneath its own weight of sin? For it is our
             belief, whatever show of honor he may have piled upon it, that there
             was heavy sin at the base of this man's being.

             Rise up, Judge Pyncheon! The morning sunshine glimmers through the
             foliage, and, beautiful and holy as it is, shuns not to kindle up your
             face.  Rise up, thou subtle, worldly, selfish, iron-hearted hypocrite,
             and make thy choice whether still to be subtle, worldly, selfish,
             iron-hearted, and hypocritical, or to tear these sins out of thy
             nature, though they bring the lifeblood with them! The Avenger is upon
             thee! Rise up, before it be too late!

             What! Thou art not stirred by this last appeal? No, not a jot!  And
             there we see a fly,--one of your common house-flies, such as are always
             buzzing on the window-pane,--which has smelt out Governor Pyncheon, and
             alights, now on his forehead, now on his chin, and now, Heaven help us!
             is creeping over the bridge of his nose, towards the would-be
             chief-magistrate's wide-open eyes! Canst thou not brush the fly away?
             Art thou too sluggish? Thou man, that hadst so many busy projects
             yesterday! Art thou too weak, that wast so powerful?  Not brush away a
             fly? Nay, then, we give thee up!

             And hark! the shop-bell rings.  After hours like these latter ones,
             through which we have borne our heavy tale, it is good to be made
             sensible that there is a living world, and that even this old, lonely
             mansion retains some manner of connection with it.  We breathe more
             freely, emerging from Judge Pyncheon's presence into the street before
             the Seven Gables.

 Governor Pyncheon: Judge Pyncheon remains in the House of the Seven Gables, dead but with his eyes open. He continues to hold his watch, which continues to move without him. It was supposed to be a busy day for Jaffrey, and he currently is missing all that he had planned. He was to visit a family physician, whom the Judge would have told that he was experiencing dimness of sight and dizziness. That night, instead of sitting dead in the House of the Seven Gables, Jaffrey Pyncheon was to meet with members of his party and announce his candidacy for governor.

