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The House Of The Seven Gables
The House Of The Seven Gables
The House Of The Seven Gables
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The House Of The Seven Gables

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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One hundred years after inheriting a seven-gabled house with a dark and cursed past, Clifford and Hepzibah are old and nearly destitute. Descendants of the cursed Colonel Pyncheon, they have resorted to taking in boarders and running a struggling cent store to support themselves. When a distant relative, untouched by Colonel Pyncheon’s curse, moves into the gabled house and takes over the cent store, her charm and disposition brings success to the shop and the Pyncheons’ situation improves. But it soon becomes clear the bad luck surrounding the house is not easily overcome.

The House of the Seven Gables was inspired by the gabled home of Hawthorne’s cousin, and his own family’s involvement in the Salem Witch Trials. The novel, claimed by Hawthorne to be a romance, has been re-categorized, controversially, several times as gothic horror, fiction, thriller, supernatural, and even fantasy. It has been adapted for the screen several times, and inspired H. P. Lovecraft’s work in horror fiction.

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LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateJan 28, 2014
ISBN9781443432863
Author

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864) was an American novelist, short-story writer, and biographer. His work centres on his New England home and often features moral allegories with Puritan inspiration, with themes revolving around inherent good and evil. His fiction works are considered part of the Romantic movement and, more specifically, Dark romanticism.

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Rating: 3.5309169283582094 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I found it a bit of a slog but still worth the read. Most interesting were details or expressions that I thought wouldn't have been around in 1851. A description of a Cunard ship bringing news from Europe brought a smile to my face.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    What an odd little story. Nathaniel Hawthorne's second fictional foray into Puritanical New England has the frame of a story — a family curse, an unsolved mystery, a pair of lovers, a properly solemn and hauntworthy mansion — but I find the plot recedes to secondary importance next to the character sketches. These are richly drawn, with whole chapters devoted to the examination of one person's inner workings. The story is an exploration of revenge, atonement, ghosts, mystery, and money. Far in the past, there was a dispute over the land on which the Pyncheon house was built. The harsh Puritan Colonel Pyncheon used his influence to have his opponent, Matthew Maule, executed for witchcraft. Maule cursed the Pyncheon family ("God will give you blood to drink!"), and Colonel Pyncheon died alone in his study the night of the housewarming — choking on his own blood. The present-day mystery comes in with the loss of the deeds to Indian territory that would make the Pyncheons rich again; did Maule's curse destroy them, too? The current descendants of the Pyncheon line are less imposing, but no less interesting. I'll never forget Hawthorne's opening portrait of Hepzibah Pyncheon, the quintessential old maid of an old family, with all the dignity and hidden torture of poverty. She is not beautiful, is Hepzibah, and her redeeming qualities of faithfulness and compassion are tempered by others less attractive, like querulousness, weakness, and lack of imagination. She is, quite simply, human.Clifford Pyncheon, Hepzibah's older brother, is finally home after a long imprisonment for the murder of his uncle many years before. His mind is broken and he is a pathetic aesthete, loving beautiful things but twisted by the ugliness of his life's realities. He is another facet of the mystery, because the reader doesn't learn why he was imprisoned (and whether or not he committed the crime) until the very end.Into this oppressive atmosphere comes the young and lovely Phoebe, a distant cousin in the Pyncheon family tree who soon becomes indispensable to her older relations. Of Phoebe I have less to say; she is quite a winning creature on the pages of the book, but Hepzibah is by far the more memorable. Holgrave, the lodger, is another interesting character, but he too recedes behind a more flamboyantly drawn character, Judge Jaffrey Pyncheon. In Jaffrey Pyncheon the harsh and unrelenting spirit of old Colonel Pyncheon lives again, but this time under a highly respectable guise. Hawthorne spends quite a bit of time on Jaffrey, turning him this way and that, trying to pierce the inequities and deficiencies of soul that could produce such a moral monster. I found these examinations to be some of the most riveting passages of the novel. But then, Hawthorne has always been able to fascinate me with his character studies... I've actually read The Scarlet Letter both for a college assignment and then again later for pleasure (strange, I know). There's just something magnetic about his prose and how he so easily navigates the inner lives of his characters. He makes me believe in them. I have a more charitable view of the Puritans than does Hawthorne, who counted among his ancestors some who played a role in the Salem Witch trials. The Puritans are people like anyone else, and the notorious members of their tribe always seem to overshadow the Puritan men and women of true godliness and spirituality. What I have read of the Puritans' religious writings has been sterling, despite the popular image they bear of self-righteous cruelty.I'm not sure I will revisit this book; for all its atmospheric settings and unforgettable characters, it hangs together oddly somehow. Not sure why.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human countenance, bearing the traces not merely of outward storm and sunshine, but expressive also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within.Anthropomorphic from the first page, a theme of that will be revisited and augmented throughout, this is how Nathaniel Hawthorne describes the structure that can be considered the title character in his 1851 novel The House of the Seven Gables. The opening chapter is so full of Gothic dread and supernatural nuance that readers attuned to weird fiction are immediately drawn in. Hawthorne spells out the accursed nature of the House, and the foreboding undercurrent in an eerie, ominous tone. And when Maule’s curse upon Colonel Pynchon is brought to bear so quickly upon the old family patriarch, we know that this is a most powerful curse indeed, to be carried across generations to come. But that level of intensity is not sustained throughout the novel. The plot is scant, and slow to develop. But Hawthorne shows his literary skills with illuminating characterizations, most notably the portrait of the old maid Hepzibah: a remarkable insight into the clockwork of misery and fear, insecurity and pain, anxiety and misgivings inside this tragic figure; and young Phoebe, who embodies sunshine, light, life, and hope, thereby standing in stark contrast to Hepzibah (and the house itself). Hawthorne’s writing is quite wordy, and while it sometimes enables that aforementioned depth of characterization, more often it seems unnecessarily labored. Recommended as an interesting, if flawed, early effort in the annals of supernatural literature.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Delightful and haunting gothic novel.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I read Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter a few years ago and loved it, this book not so much. It has a great premise - a family haunted by the past and striking characters, but it lacked a certain something that I found so compelling in the Scarlet Letter. Worth the read and very engaging for a nineteenth-century classic, but not Hawthorne's best work.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This is an artistic attempt at a horror story. The wording is laboriously detailed regarding pointless information. The story in some aspects is predictable. The characters are well developed and the story line is somewhat interesting. I mildly recommend this book.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A Gothic story by New England author Nathaniel Hawthorne features the house of seven gables which is a real home in New England that was in the Hawthorne family. The story is set in the 19th century but has flashbacks back to the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. The book is considered Gothic and a mild bit of horror with the dark house in disrepair and no sunlight with two old people who are as good as dead because they have no life outside of the home. The story also features death, eating blood and dying (a curse on the family) as well as ghosts, witchcraft and possible murder. There is also a bit of Gothic romance to be found. I found the flies to be quite disgusting. Interesting enough the family in this story is the Pyncheon family. The Pyncheon is a real family and were ancestors of American novelist Thomas Pynchon. Hawthorne did not mean to have this family be a real family so he did threaten to change the name but this never happened. And this from Wikipedia about the influence on Lovecraft who called Hawthorne and author of weird fiction. "The novel was an inspiration for horror fiction writer H. P. Lovecraft, who called it "New England's greatest contribution to weird literature" in his essay "Supernatural Horror in Literature". Seven Gables likely influenced Lovecraft's short stories "The Picture in the House", "The Shunned House" and novella The Case of Charles Dexter Ward."Rating 3.33
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I was surprised how much I enjoyed this book when my first impression was it was going to be dark and depressing. Somehow it was still dark but the depressing elements swifted into something like an early form of mystery novel and I was left with the feeling that I liked it. If you have to read a dark gloomy setting novel you could do a lot worst than this one I think :)
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A spooky classic for October. This reminds me of a Shirley Jackson's 'The Haunting of Hill House' but with more to say about the human mind and situation than I remember from Hill House. The psychology that Hawthorne presents here for his characters is most impressive. No matter who the character, Hawthorne can seamlessly create an inner life: what comes with Hepzibah's solitude. The prison of the mind that comes after the incarceration of Clifford. At times I could relate to Hepzibah, Clifford and Phoebe. The ending seems to wrap a little too conveniently and perfectly for everyone, but Hawthorne's delving into so many minds was worth it. So much more here than "the wrongdoing of one generation lives into the successive ones".
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This book is pretty tedious and pretentious, but it was readable, and had a plot and fairly well-developed characters, and not too much purple prose. It's not my favorite classic, by any estimate, but it's probably worth reading.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Sympathetic portrait of XIX Century US.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Still a classic.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    It's obvious from this book that Hawthorne was a damn good writer, but that doesn't necessarily make him an equally good storyteller. To my mind this novel should've been a novella or short story. Far too much time was spent developing the five characters in the story, at the expense of any kind of narrative drive. There's some really great stuff in here, starting with the first chapter detailing the origin of the house and the fate of its owner, but then the reader has to wait until he reaches the last third of the book to get to the rest of it,. Even then, he has to wade through lengthy passages and chapters that do nothing really to push the tale to its conclusion, a conclusion which left this reader less than satisfied. Two and a half stars out of five for great writing but not-so-great story structure.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Two venues for mud runs happen to bear the name of the author of The House of the Seven Gables: Hawthorne Racecourse in Cicero, IL, and Hawthorne, NJ. This is perhaps what induced one LT reviewer here to write: "I read somewhere that trying to read Hawthorne is like trying to run through mud."In a rather strange coincidence, John Updike once wrote that "Reading Pynchon is like reading a very long Popeye strip, without the spinach." (Life, 61, No. 19, November 4, 1966) When you know that Hawthorne decided to make the House of the Seven Gables the dwelling of the Pyncheon family, the ancestors of Thomas Pynchon, the similarity of the two analyses is striking. I even wonder if Updike is the author of the comment on Hawthorne in my opening paragraph. I too experienced falling asleep after 3 pages of The House of the Seven Gables; spending 3 weeks to read it; being interested in the last 3 chapters only; being bored to death by the circumlocutions and the long incised sentences.But perhaps will I, for all these reasons, remember this book longer than if I had loved it. Strange, isn't it?
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I liked Hepzibah. And Hawthorne's descriptions are vivid and pleasing to the mind's eye. Those are the only nice things I can think of to say about this book. Hawthorne's narrative is rambling and I still can't tell you what the hell the plot was of the book. Completely and utterly forgettable. This saddens me since I enjoyed The Scarlet Letter and love what short stories of his I've read.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Hawthorne wrote this book in the warm aura of his masterpiece The Scarlet Letter. This book dwells on the theme of whether a Puritan history - replete with its sad stories like the Salem Witch Trials - will haunt the New England culture forever or whether New England can overcome such sad austerity.

    The hope for the future lies in the characters of Phoebe and Hargrove, who end up getting married in this story. They are open to new ideas and open to learning from the past. They seek to experiment in new things like gardening while researching the past. They are Renaissance people for another era. They might not have the best education, but they are interested in learning and growing as people. They alone can free the New England mind (and mind you this book was written in the nineteenth century) from sterility and stagnation based on pride.

    It is interesting to read this classic in my current setting in the modern American South. The New England mind of the nineteenth century is a distant and foreign concept to me. A miniature picture of its norms before the Civil War is interesting. While the Southern mind was becoming more entrenched, the New England mind was figuring out new ways to grow and expand its virtue. Puritanical idealism still exists in the American South. Perhaps we need to listen to Hawthorne more to overcome our stagnation in our contemporary setting. Perhaps we need our own Hawthorne to overcome the horrors of slavery and Jim Crow in our history and so to embrace growth.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    It is often enlightening to read something once again after a few decades. I came across Merrill’s English Texts, The House of the Seven Gables, and was delighted to find more than just the original book. Published for use in schools, there are questions and topics for study after the main book as well as an amusing price list. Although we have more literature that has been added to our list of important works in the past 100 years, the questions for students show the depth of thought put into composition, style and other topics of discussion. One of my favorites is under Style where it asks the reader to state the moral of the story and to […Find the verse in the Bible and] Learn it.I particularly enjoyed the notes in the back explaining certain words and expressions, some of which may have been new ideas at the time but are obvious to anyone today. The explanation of “Jim Crow” had much more to be added in the years after 1907 but I was amazed to find that the term was once applied to gingerbread men. I found it enlightening in terms of history and in terms of understanding my own New England roots. We are often so taken with new works that we have forgotten the humor and beautiful writing of authors who create what are deservedly called classics. The style is not for everyone, since our fast-paced world today doesn’t allow for lengthy setting of scenes or taking in details. Even the lulls in the story are filled with interesting bits of historical and political observations that are relevant to current events.Since we seem to have some time at this moment in history, we could channel surf our days away, or we can take advantage of the online resources and finally get around to reading those books we have wanted to read for so long.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    This is the first book I ever read in highschool that I did not finish. I have been eyeing this book for awhile and decided to give it another shot, but this time in audio. Recently I've been enjoying relistening to the classics. The Count of Monte Cristo made by Best of 2009 list. This book, is not going to make it the Mediocre of 2010 awards. The plot was interesting, a bit of a ghost story combined with a view of colonial America. I just couldn't stomach Hawthorne's indirect style. I love the way Dickens goes off on a tangent. He throws in a subtle sense of humor with his long descriptions. But Hawthorne just seems to meander along. Am I missing something? I am proud that I finished the book - probably wouldn't have accomplished this without audio!
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The House of the Seven Gables is another one of those "must read" classics that has sat on my "to read" list for years. I actually read and enjoyed The Scarlet Letter in High School (and have read it a few times since then). I've read a few of Hawthorne's short stories and generally enjoyed them, though I can honestly admit to finding some of them exceedingly dry. Unfortunately, I also found Seven Gables to be a bit dry for my taste.The premise of the book sounded very promising to me. A centuries-old house haunted by ghosts of generations following greedy land grabbing and mysterious deaths/murders. An old spinster and a young girl/lady work together to try and revitalize the house and the family. The setting and the backstory work to bring the Gothic Horror genre to early America. In spite of the Gothic tone suggested by the synopsis, Hawthorne touts the story as a Romance. In fact, I found very little "Gothic Horror" or "romance" in the story. I suppose it could be deemed a "romance" in the more broad sense of romanticising an idea or an era. There were possibilities of conventional romance between the young Phoebe and the boarder staying at the house. In fact the book seemed like it tried to swing in that direction once or twice but was repressed by the situations.The book begins with the building of the home in colonial times by Colonel Pyncheon, a renown soldier who helped in the Salem witch trials and other similar events. The Colonel receives the property for his house in what some claim to be ill-founded circumstances and shortly after the home is completed, the Colonel is found dead in his study. Generations later, the story picks up with the spinster Hepzibah Pyncheon opening a penny store out of the side of the house. She has also taken on a boarder to try and bring in some income. The boarder is a mysterious daguerreotypist (a precursor/cousin vocation to photography) named Holgrave. It is suggested that Holgrave is a wizard or some other practitioner of "dark arts." A teenage cousin Phoebe Pyncheon shows up out of the blue to stay at the house and shortly afterwards Hepzibah's brother Clifford also shows up. Phoebe is naive, optimistic and innocent. Hepzibah is grizzly, reticent and gloomy. Clifford is eccentric and confusing...he seems to be mentally struggling due to some earlier trauma. Together, the three of them make for very interesting residents to the home. From the other end of town another cousin, the Judge Pyncheon, visits from time to time to try and convince Hepzibah to essentially give him the house and property and for the three of them to come and live with him. We're not told why, but Hepzibah vehemently abhors the suggestion and constantly throws the Judge out of the house with whatever insults she can come up with.The story progresses with some very wonderful descriptions of the town, the house and the inhabitants. We learn a lot of very intricate details about the furnishings of the house, the clothing of the people, the art and decorations of the area and the nearby vegetitation. We casually observe the rather mundane actions of the characters as they go through the commonplace motions of life. And yet the author keeps us at arm's length from any real action or information concerning the true tension between the characters. There are ongoing suggestions of a problematic and potentially violent history between the Judge and Clifford. There are numerous insinuations into the dark nature of Holgrave. But for page after page no action occurs to substantiate any of the rumors or bring any validity to the anxiety trying to be created.Near the end of the novel we finally do have a rather abrupt confrontation with dramatic results. The characters involved are immediately confused and unsure what to do and so the results are unexpected and impetuous. The action rambles on for a few pages more and then everything calmly resolves itself and life returns more or less to normal.Thinking about the book as coming from the mid 19th century, I can definitely appreciate the attention to detail and the very subtle nuances and slow investigation of life. As an English major, I can try to put all sorts of symbolism on the house and the characters in an effort to make the story more interesting. I do not doubt at all that Hawthorne may have had some secondary mode in mind as he laid out the characters and events of the story. I'm sure there are some compelling and valid close readings of the book. But in my initial reading I found the story overly dry thanks to a lot of heavily descriptive sequences that had some great poetic flourishes but didn't serve to create tension, action or advance any sort of plot that I found compelling. As a story, the book is bogged down with details and nuance. As a symbolic or poetic work, it feels a little too guarded or obtuse. Perhaps a second reading would help, most likely with the aid of a Hawthorne expert or some commentary. But for the time being, I'm not really interested in a second reading. The characters were slightly interesting but not compelling enough for me to want to return to them any time soon. As one of the "Greatest American Novels", I'm not entirely sure how this one meets the criteria. I can appreciate the artistry but am not compelled by the overall result.***2.5 out of 5 stars(NOTE: I will likely re-read this with a closer reading or some commentary to try and better appreciate what Hawthorne is doing here)
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Ok, I wanted to like this. I've never made it through a novel of Hawthorne, even though I really like his short stories. Usually I can forgive weak points in the story for the quality of writing, but this book left me cold. And it's not that it's a bad story or the writing is bad, but something about the juxtaposition of the two started making me impatient.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel HawthorneThis is the story of the Pyncheon family that is slowly becoming extinct. We meet Hepzibah Pyncheon, poor and old, who lives alone in the family mansion. This house was built with seven gables, thus the title. Without funds Hepzibah opens a penny shop to earn money to live on. Other characters in this tale are her brother Clifford, imprisoned because of the acts of Jaffrey Pyncheon, a wealthy judge who lives in his own country manor and is determined to find an ancient deed to other Pyncheon property.When the penny shop seems to be failing the young Phoebe Pyncheon appears. She is a lovely, vivacious, and enthusiastic young woman who lives in the country and has come to visit her cousins. She enjoys running the penny store and brightens the gloomy atmosphere in the house. When Clifford returns from prison she entertains him with her charms. In addition she meets Holgrave, a young boarder in the house and romance blossoms.This story is often considered a romance but I think it is more a story about the Pyncheon family and the curse it endured. Hawthorne sets the stage by giving us an overview of how the original Pyncheon obtained the property and built the house. His actions brought about a curse from the original land owner that is to last throughout the family's existence.There are ghosts and strange occurrences in the house and we are exposed to the lives of former residents. But life improves for the current residents when another tragedy strikes the Pyncheon family, particularly the judge. Hepzibah and Clifford temporarily leave their ancestral home. It all comes to a climax as the author weaves the tale into an ending that is unexpected but makes the reader smile. Many like to look at the symbolism used to represent aspects of the human condition. I have never been certain that Hawthorne chose to approach the novel in this manner. Nevertheless I like this tale more each time I read it.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    The introduction tells us Hawthorne valued The House of Seven Gables even over The Scarlet Letter. I still prefer The Scarlet Letter, because I so love the character of Hester Prynne. But this definitely has qualities that deserve it to be thought of as in the first rank of 19th century American literature, and I greatly enjoyed the read. And indeed this tale of a family curse is, believe it or not, a lot sunnier than The Scarlet Letter.There so much that's rich here. The vocabulary, the imagery and certain scenes are burned into my memory--particularly that of Judge Pynchon seated in a certain oak chair. It would take Hitchcock or Spielberg to do justice to that scene. And poor Hepzibah and Clifford are such vivid characters--even minor secondary characters like the small urchin Ned Higgins who provides some of the humor in the story. Phoebe alas is only the usual 19th century heroine, such an angel you expect birds to weave ribbons into her hair. I found the romance fairly predictable. But there's a lot more to the book than that. I especially found interesting the theme--touched upon by both Clifford and Holgrave--of how the weight of history, ancestry, heredity, even just the stones of an old manse can crush individuals and families beneath them.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    This is a classic I can say I read, but don't ask me to read it again. I listened to this book for an in-person book discussion. I struggled through the whole book. I always struggle with Hawthorne's books. I do not like Hawthorne's twisted way of telling a story. Hawthorne had many dead ends when he was telling the story and it frustrated me to jump from a dead end back to the main story. The characters did not feel like "real" people to me. I was happy to finish this book and move on to a different book.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Albeit a tedious read, I'm respecting the fact that is a classic reflecting thedark romanticism of the period.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I feel kind of silly reviewing a literary classic. Obviously, it's a great book. If you're looking for a description, it's a comic/tragic cautionary tale about how wealth corrupts even the most innocent and noble. Personally, I think it should be required reading for every single person in the world.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I listened to this book but it was a struggle because I really didn't like the narrator's voice. She seemed forced much of the time and it didn't help that the narrative, much of the time, seemed contrived.The premise of the family that owns the house, the Pyncheons, has been cursed by the original owner of the land, Mathew Maule, because he was accused of witchcraft by Colonel Pyncheon in order to get his hands on the property. The current owner, Hepzibah Pyncheon, has fallen on hard times and has had to open a shop in the house in order to earn some money. Hepzibah is not a very social woman and it is doubtful if she would have made a go of the shop if Phoebe, a distant relation, had not turned up. Phoebe helps with the shop. Then when Hepzibah's brother Clifford returns to the house from a long absence (possibly in jail) a broken man she helps with his care. She also spruces up the house and garden with some help from the lodger Holgrove who is a daguerrotypist. A cousin, Jaffrey Pyncheon, who has become quite wealthy and a judge shows up offering to help the family but he has an ulterior motive. When he is found dead, Clifford and Hepzibah flee the house making it look like Clifford has killed him. All comes right in the end but it seems to take a long time to do so.One more book to strike off the 1001 list but otherwise I didn't enjoy it.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I was bored to death. It felt like reading a journal, like a case study. Hawthorne really loves his adjectives, a lot of describing and less ACTION! (haha) Where's the ghosts? Where's the so-called "romance", not even a kiss! If the characters are trapped inside the HOUSE, the novel also had me trapped, it seemed to never end!!! It was too gloomy, sad, miserable and all of its synonyms!The last 3 chapters were actually bearable. Maybe because its nearing the end (hehe). Nice happy ending to a really really gloomy book.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I loved this book. Certainly it is wordy, heavy on description and detail, but still beautifully written.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    the American Gothic at its finest. Utterly finest.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The only reason I gave it three stars was the author's outstanding command of English prose. As a novel this book was insufferably boring. It took me two weeks to finish it. A work of this small size normally takes me a few days.

Book preview

The House Of The Seven Gables - Nathaniel Hawthorne

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THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES

Nathaniel Hawthorne

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CONTENTS

Author’s Preface

Chapter I—The Old Pyncheon Family

Chapter II—The Little Shop Window

Chapter III—The First Customer

Chapter IV—A Day Behind the Counter

Chapter V—May and November

Chapter VI—Maule’s Well

Chapter VII—The Guest

Chapter VIII—The Pyncheon of Today

Chapter IX—Clifford and Phoebe

Chapter X—The Pyncheon Garden

Chapter XI—The Arched Window

Chapter XII—The Daguerreotypist

Chapter XIII—Alice Pyncheon

Chapter XIV—Phoebe’s Good-Bye

Chapter XV—The Scowl and Smile

Chapter XVI—Clifford’s Chamber

Chapter XVII—The Flight of Two Owls

Chapter XVIII—Governor Pyncheon

Chapter XIX—Alice’s Posies

Chapter XX—The Flower of Eden

Chapter XXI—The Departure

About the Author

About the Series

Copyright

About the Publisher

Author’s Preface

When a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed that he wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion and material, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume had he professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form of composition is presumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible, but to the probable and ordinary course of man’s experience. The former—while, as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself to laws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve aside from the truth of the human heart—has fairly a right to present that truth under circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer’s own choosing or creation. If he think fit, also, he may so manage his atmospherical medium as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich the shadows of the picture. He will be wise, no doubt, to make a very moderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle the Marvelous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as any portion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the public. He can hardly be said, however, to commit a literary crime even if he disregard this caution.

In the present work, the author has proposed to himself—but with what success, fortunately, it is not for him to judge—to keep undeviatingly within his immunities. The point of view in which this tale comes under the Romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygone time with the very present that is flitting away from us. It is a legend prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance, down into our own broad daylight, and bringing along with it some of its legendary mist, which the reader, according to his pleasure, may either disregard, or allow it to float almost imperceptibly about the characters and events for the sake of a picturesque effect. The narrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture as to require this advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more difficult of attainment.

Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their works. Not to be deficient in this particular, the author has provided himself with a moral,—the truth, namely, that the wrongdoing of one generation lives into the successive ones, and, divesting itself of every temporary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief; and he would feel it a singular gratification if this romance might effectually convince mankind—or, indeed, any one man—of the folly of tumbling down an avalanche of ill-gotten gold, or real estate, on the heads of an unfortunate posterity, thereby to maim and crush them, until the accumulated mass shall be scattered abroad in its original atoms. In good faith, however, he is not sufficiently imaginative to flatter himself with the slightest hope of this kind. When romances do really teach anything, or produce any effective operation, it is usually through a far more subtle process than the ostensible one. The author has considered it hardly worth his while, therefore, relentlessly to impale the story with its moral as with an iron rod,—or, rather, as by sticking a pin through a butterfly,—thus at once depriving it of life, and causing it to stiffen in an ungainly and unnatural attitude. A high truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and skilfully wrought out, brightening at every step, and crowning the final development of a work of fiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer, and seldom any more evident, at the last page than at the first.

The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to the imaginary events of this narrative. If permitted by the historical connection,—which, though slight, was essential to his plan,—the author would very willingly have avoided anything of this nature. Not to speak of other objections, it exposes the romance to an inflexible and exceedingly dangerous species of criticism, by bringing his fancy-pictures almost into positive contact with the realities of the moment. It has been no part of his object, however, to describe local manners, nor in any way to meddle with the characteristics of a community for whom he cherishes a proper respect and a natural regard. He trusts not to be considered as unpardonably offending by laying out a street that infringes upon nobody’s private rights, and appropriating a lot of land which had no visible owner, and building a house of materials long in use for constructing castles in the air. The personages of the tale—though they give themselves out to be of ancient stability and considerable prominence—are really of the author’s own making, or at all events, of his own mixing; their virtues can shed no lustre, nor their defects redound, in the remotest degree, to the discredit of the venerable town of which they profess to be inhabitants. He would be glad, therefore, if—especially in the quarter to which he alludes—the book may be read strictly as a Romance, having a great deal more to do with the clouds overhead than with any portion of the actual soil of the County of Essex.

LENOX, January 27, 1851

Chapter I

The Old Pyncheon Family

Halfway down a bystreet of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. The street is Pyncheon Street; the house is the old Pyncheon House; and an elm tree, of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to every town-born child by the title of the Pyncheon Elm. On my occasional visits to the town aforesaid, I seldom failed to turn down Pyncheon Street, for the sake of passing through the shadow of these two antiquities,—the great elm tree and the weather-beaten edifice.

The aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human countenance, bearing the traces not merely of outward storm and sunshine, but expressive also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within. Were these to be worthily recounted, they would form a narrative of no small interest and instruction, and possessing, moreover, a certain remarkable unity, which might almost seem the result of artistic arrangement. But the story would include a chain of events extending over the better part of two centuries, and, written out with reasonable amplitude, would fill a bigger folio volume, or a longer series of duodecimos, than could prudently be appropriated to the annals of all New England during a similar period. It consequently becomes imperative to make short work with most of the traditionary lore of which the old Pyncheon House, otherwise known as the House of the Seven Gables, has been the theme. With a brief sketch, therefore, of the circumstances amid which the foundation of the house was laid, and a rapid glimpse at its quaint exterior, as it grew black in the prevalent east wind,—pointing, too, here and there, at some spot of more verdant mossiness on its roof and walls,—we shall commence the real action of our tale at an epoch not very remote from the present day. Still, there will be a connection with the long past—a reference to forgotten events and personages, and to manners, feelings, and opinions, almost or wholly obsolete—which, if adequately translated to the reader, would serve to illustrate how much of old material goes to make up the freshest novelty of human life. Hence, too, might be drawn a weighty lesson from the little-regarded truth, that the act of the passing generation is the germ which may and must produce good or evil fruit in a far-distant time; that, together with the seed of the merely temporary crop, which mortals term expediency, they inevitably sow the acorns of a more enduring growth, which may darkly overshadow their posterity.

The House of the Seven Gables, antique as it now looks, was not the first habitation erected by civilized man on precisely the same spot of ground. Pyncheon Street formerly bore the humbler appellation of Maule’s Lane, from the name of the original occupant of the soil, before whose cottage door it was a cow path. A natural spring of soft and pleasant water—a rare treasure on the sea-girt peninsula where the Puritan settlement was made—had early induced Matthew Maule to build a hut, shaggy with thatch, at this point, although somewhat too remote from what was then the centre of the village. In the growth of the town, however, after some thirty or forty years, the site covered by this rude hovel had become exceedingly desirable in the eyes of a prominent and powerful personage, who asserted plausible claims to the proprietorship of this and a large adjacent tract of land, on the strength of a grant from the legislature. Colonel Pyncheon, the claimant, as we gather from whatever traits of him are preserved, was characterized by an iron energy of purpose. Matthew Maule, on the other hand, though an obscure man, was stubborn in the defence of what he considered his right; and, for several years, he succeeded in protecting the acre or two of earth which, with his own toil, he had hewn out of the primeval forest, to be his garden ground and homestead. No written record of this dispute is known to be in existence. Our acquaintance with the whole subject is derived chiefly from tradition. It would be bold, therefore, and possibly unjust, to venture a decisive opinion as to its merits; although it appears to have been at least a matter of doubt, whether Colonel Pyncheon’s claim were not unduly stretched, in order to make it cover the small metes and bounds of Matthew Maule. What greatly strengthens such a suspicion is the fact that this controversy between two ill-matched antagonists—at a period, moreover, laud it as we may, when personal influence had far more weight than now—remained for years undecided, and came to a close only with the death of the party occupying the disputed soil. The mode of his death, too, affects the mind differently, in our day, from what it did a century and a half ago. It was a death that blasted with strange horror the humble name of the dweller in the cottage, and made it seem almost a religious act to drive the plough over the little area of his habitation, and obliterate his place and memory from among men.

Old Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for the crime of witchcraft. He was one of the martyrs to that terrible delusion, which should teach us, among its other morals, that the influential classes, and those who take upon themselves to be leaders of the people, are fully liable to all the passionate error that has ever characterized the maddest mob. Clergymen, judges, statesmen,—the wisest, calmest, holiest persons of their day stood in the inner circle round about the gallows, loudest to applaud the work of blood, latest to confess themselves miserably deceived. If any one part of their proceedings can be said to deserve less blame than another, it was the singular indiscrimination with which they persecuted, not merely the poor and aged, as in former judicial massacres, but people of all ranks; their own equals, brethren, and wives. Amid the disorder of such various ruin, it is not strange that a man of inconsiderable note, like Maule, should have trodden the martyr’s path to the hill of execution almost unremarked in the throng of his fellow sufferers. But, in after days, when the frenzy of that hideous epoch had subsided, it was remembered how loudly Colonel Pyncheon had joined in the general cry, to purge the land from witchcraft; nor did it fail to be whispered, that there was an invidious acrimony in the zeal with which he had sought the condemnation of Matthew Maule. It was well known that the victim had recognized the bitterness of personal enmity in his persecutor’s conduct towards him, and that he declared himself hunted to death for his spoil. At the moment of execution—with the halter about his neck, and while Colonel Pyncheon sat on horseback, grimly gazing at the scene Maule had addressed him from the scaffold, and uttered a prophecy, of which history, as well as fireside tradition, has preserved the very words. God, said the dying man, pointing his finger, with a ghastly look, at the undismayed countenance of his enemy,—God will give him blood to drink!

After the reputed wizard’s death, his humble homestead had fallen an easy spoil into Colonel Pyncheon’s grasp. When it was understood, however, that the Colonel intended to erect a family mansion—spacious, ponderously framed of oaken timber, and calculated to endure for many generations of his posterity over the spot first covered by the log-built hut of Matthew Maule, there was much shaking of the head among the village gossips. Without absolutely expressing a doubt whether the stalwart Puritan had acted as a man of conscience and integrity throughout the proceedings which have been sketched, they, nevertheless, hinted that he was about to build his house over an unquiet grave. His home would include the home of the dead and buried wizard, and would thus afford the ghost of the latter a kind of privilege to haunt its new apartments, and the chambers into which future bridegrooms were to lead their brides, and where children of the Pyncheon blood were to be born. The terror and ugliness of Maule’s crime, and the wretchedness of his punishment, would darken the freshly plastered walls, and infect them early with the scent of an old and melancholy house. Why, then,—while so much of the soil around him was bestrewn with the virgin forest leaves,—why should Colonel Pyncheon prefer a site that had already been accursed?

But the Puritan soldier and magistrate was not a man to be turned aside from his well-considered scheme, either by dread of the wizard’s ghost, or by flimsy sentimentalities of any kind, however specious. Had he been told of a bad air, it might have moved him somewhat; but he was ready to encounter an evil spirit on his own ground. Endowed with commonsense, as massive and hard as blocks of granite, fastened together by stern rigidity of purpose, as with iron clamps, he followed out his original design, probably without so much as imagining an objection to it. On the score of delicacy, or any scrupulousness which a finer sensibility might have taught him, the Colonel, like most of his breed and generation, was impenetrable. He therefore dug his cellar, and laid the deep foundations of his mansion, on the square of earth whence Matthew Maule, forty years before, had first swept away the fallen leaves. It was a curious, and, as some people thought, an ominous fact, that, very soon after the workmen began their operations, the spring of water, above mentioned, entirely lost the deliciousness of its pristine quality. Whether its sources were disturbed by the depth of the new cellar, or whatever subtler cause might lurk at the bottom, it is certain that the water of Maule’s Well, as it continued to be called, grew hard and brackish. Even such we find it now; and any old woman of the neighborhood will certify that it is productive of intestinal mischief to those who quench their thirst there.

The reader may deem it singular that the head carpenter of the new edifice was no other than the son of the very man from whose dead gripe the property of the soil had been wrested. Not improbably he was the best workman of his time; or, perhaps, the Colonel thought it expedient, or was impelled by some better feeling, thus openly to cast aside all animosity against the race of his fallen antagonist. Nor was it out of keeping with the general coarseness and matter-of-fact character of the age, that the son should be willing to earn an honest penny, or, rather, a weighty amount of sterling pounds, from the purse of his father’s deadly enemy. At all events, Thomas Maule became the architect of the House of the Seven Gables, and performed his duty so faithfully that the timber framework fastened by his hands still holds together.

Thus the great house was built. Familiar as it stands in the writer’s recollection,—for it has been an object of curiosity with him from boyhood, both as a specimen of the best and stateliest architecture of a long-past epoch, and as the scene of events more full of human interest, perhaps, than those of a gray feudal castle,—familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age, it is therefore only the more difficult to imagine the bright novelty with which it first caught the sunshine. The impression of its actual state, at this distance of a hundred and sixty years, darkens inevitably through the picture which we would fain give of its appearance on the morning when the Puritan magnate bade all the town to be his guests. A ceremony of consecration, festive as well as religious, was now to be performed. A prayer and discourse from the Rev. Mr. Higginson, and the outpouring of a psalm from the general throat of the community, was to be made acceptable to the grosser sense by ale, cider, wine, and brandy, in copious effusion, and, as some authorities aver, by an ox, roasted whole, or at least, by the weight and substance of an ox, in more manageable joints and sirloins. The carcass of a deer, shot within twenty miles, had supplied material for the vast circumference of a pasty. A codfish of sixty pounds, caught in the bay, had been dissolved into the rich liquid of a chowder. The chimney of the new house, in short, belching forth its kitchen smoke, impregnated the whole air with the scent of meats, fowls, and fishes, spicily concocted with odoriferous herbs, and onions in abundance. The mere smell of such festivity, making its way to everybody’s nostrils, was at once an invitation and an appetite.

Maule’s Lane, or Pyncheon Street, as it were now more decorous to call it, was thronged, at the appointed hour, as with a congregation on its way to church. All, as they approached, looked upward at the imposing edifice, which was henceforth to assume its rank among the habitations of mankind. There it rose, a little withdrawn from the line of the street, but in pride, not modesty. Its whole visible exterior was ornamented with quaint figures, conceived in the grotesqueness of a Gothic fancy, and drawn or stamped in the glittering plaster, composed of lime, pebbles, and bits of glass, with which the woodwork of the walls was overspread. On every side the seven gables pointed sharply towards the sky, and presented the aspect of a whole sisterhood of edifices, breathing through the spiracles of one great chimney. The many lattices, with their small, diamond-shaped panes, admitted the sunlight into hall and chamber, while, nevertheless, the second story, projecting far over the base, and itself retiring beneath the third, threw a shadowy and thoughtful gloom into the lower rooms. Carved globes of wood were affixed under the jutting stories. Little spiral rods of iron beautified each of the seven peaks. On the triangular portion of the gable, that fronted next the street, was a dial, put up that very morning, and on which the sun was still marking the passage of the first bright hour in a history that was not destined to be all so bright. All around were scattered shavings, chips, shingles, and broken halves of bricks; these, together with the lately turned earth, on which the grass had not begun to grow, contributed to the impression of strangeness and novelty proper to a house that had yet its place to make among men’s daily interests.

The principal entrance, which had almost the breadth of a church door, was in the angle between the two front gables, and was covered by an open porch, with benches beneath its shelter. Under this arched doorway, scraping their feet on the unworn threshold, now trod the clergymen, the elders, the magistrates, the deacons, and whatever of aristocracy there was in town or county. Thither, too, thronged the plebeian classes as freely as their betters, and in larger number. Just within the entrance, however, stood two serving men, pointing some of the guests to the neighborhood of the kitchen and ushering others into the statelier rooms,—hospitable alike to all, but still with a scrutinizing regard to the high or low degree of each. Velvet garments sombre but rich, stiffly plaited ruffs and bands, embroidered gloves, venerable beards, the mien and countenance of authority, made it easy to distinguish the gentleman of worship, at that period, from the tradesman, with his plodding air, or the laborer, in his leathern jerkin, stealing awestricken into the house which he had perhaps helped to build.

One inauspicious circumstance there was, which awakened a hardly concealed displeasure in the breasts of a few of the more punctilious visitors. The founder of this stately mansion—a gentleman noted for the square and ponderous courtesy of his demeanor, ought surely to have stood in his own hall, and to have offered the first welcome to so many eminent personages as here presented themselves in honor of his solemn festival. He was as yet invisible; the most favored of the guests had not beheld him. This sluggishness on Colonel Pyncheon’s part became still more unaccountable, when the second dignitary of the province made his appearance, and found no more ceremonious a reception. The lieutenant-governor, although his visit was one of the anticipated glories of the day, had alighted from his horse, and assisted his lady from her sidesaddle, and crossed the Colonel’s threshold, without other greeting than that of the principal domestic.

This person—a gray-headed man, of quiet and most respectful deportment—found it necessary to explain that his master still remained in his study, or private apartment; on entering which, an hour before, he had expressed a wish on no account to be disturbed.

Do not you see, fellow, said the high-sheriff of the county, taking the servant aside, that this is no less a man than the lieutenant-governor? Summon Colonel Pyncheon at once! I know that he received letters from England this morning; and, in the perusal and consideration of them, an hour may have passed away without his noticing it. But he will be ill-pleased, I judge, if you suffer him to neglect the courtesy due to one of our chief rulers, and who may be said to represent King William, in the absence of the governor himself. Call your master instantly.

Nay, please your worship, answered the man, in much perplexity, but with a backwardness that strikingly indicated the hard and severe character of Colonel Pyncheon’s domestic rule; my master’s orders were exceeding strict; and, as your worship knows, he permits of no discretion in the obedience of those who owe him service. Let who list open yonder door; I dare not, though the governor’s own voice should bid me do it!

Pooh, pooh, master high sheriff! cried the lieutenant-governor, who had overheard the foregoing discussion, and felt himself high enough in station to play a little with his dignity. I will take the matter into my own hands. It is time that the good Colonel came forth to greet his friends; else we shall be apt to suspect that he has taken a sip too much of his Canary wine, in his extreme deliberation which cask it were best to broach in honor of the day! But since he is so much behindhand, I will give him a remembrancer myself!

Accordingly, with such a tramp of his ponderous riding boots as might of itself have been audible in the remotest of the seven gables, he advanced to the door, which the servant pointed out, and made its new panels reecho with a loud, free knock. Then, looking round, with a smile, to the spectators, he awaited a response. As none came, however, he knocked again, but with the same unsatisfactory result as at first. And now, being a trifle choleric in his temperament, the lieutenant-governor uplifted the heavy hilt of his sword, wherewith he so beat and banged upon the door, that, as some of the bystanders whispered, the racket might have disturbed the dead. Be that as it might, it seemed to produce no awakening effect on Colonel Pyncheon. When the sound subsided, the silence through the house was deep, dreary, and oppressive, notwithstanding that the tongues of many of the guests had already been loosened by a surreptitious cup or two of wine or spirits.

Strange, forsooth!—very strange! cried the lieutenant-governor, whose smile was changed to a frown. But seeing that our host sets us the good example of forgetting ceremony, I shall likewise throw it aside, and make free to intrude on his privacy.

He tried the door, which yielded to his hand, and was flung wide open by a sudden gust of wind that passed, as with a loud sigh, from the outermost portal through all the passages and apartments of the new house. It rustled the silken garments of the ladies, and waved the long curls of the gentlemen’s wigs, and shook the window hangings and the curtains of the bedchambers; causing everywhere a singular stir, which yet was more like a hush. A shadow of awe and half-fearful anticipation—nobody knew wherefore, nor of what—had all at once fallen over the company.

They thronged, however, to the now open door, pressing the lieutenant-governor, in the eagerness of their curiosity, into the room in advance of them. At the first glimpse they beheld nothing extraordinary: a handsomely furnished room, of moderate size, somewhat darkened by curtains; books arranged on shelves; a large map on the wall, and likewise a portrait of Colonel Pyncheon, beneath which sat the original Colonel himself, in an oaken elbow-chair, with a pen in his hand. Letters, parchments, and blank sheets of paper were on the table before him. He appeared to gaze at the curious crowd, in front of which stood the lieutenant-governor; and there was a frown on his dark and massive countenance, as if sternly resentful of the boldness that had impelled them into his private retirement.

A little boy—the Colonel’s grandchild, and the only human being that ever dared to be familiar with him—now made his way among the guests, and ran towards the seated figure; then pausing halfway, he began to shriek with terror. The company, tremulous as the leaves of a tree, when all are shaking together, drew nearer, and perceived that there was an unnatural distortion in the fixedness of Colonel Pyncheon’s stare; that there was blood on his ruff, and that his hoary beard was saturated with it. It was too late to give assistance. The iron-hearted Puritan, the relentless persecutor, the grasping and strong-willed man was dead! Dead, in his new house! There is a tradition, only worth alluding to as lending a tinge of superstitious awe to a scene perhaps gloomy enough without it, that a voice spoke loudly among the guests, the tones of which were like those of old Matthew Maule, the executed wizard,—God hath given him blood to drink!

Thus early had that one guest,—the only guest who is certain, at one time or another, to find his way into every human dwelling,—thus early had Death stepped across the threshold of the House of the Seven Gables!

Colonel Pyncheon’s sudden and mysterious end made a vast deal of noise in its day. There were many rumors, some of which have vaguely drifted down to the present time, how that appearances indicated violence; that there were the marks of fingers on his throat, and the print of a bloody hand on his plaited ruff; and that his peaked beard was dishevelled, as if it had been fiercely clutched and pulled. It was averred, likewise, that the lattice window, near the Colonel’s chair, was open; and that, only a few minutes before the fatal occurrence, the figure of a man had been seen clambering over the garden fence, in the rear of the house. But it were folly to lay any stress on stories of this kind, which are sure to spring up around such an event as that now related, and which, as in the present case, sometimes prolong themselves for ages afterwards, like the toadstools that indicate where the fallen and buried trunk of a tree has long since mouldered into the earth. For our own part, we allow them just as little credence as to that other fable of the skeleton hand which the lieutenant-governor was said to have seen at the Colonel’s throat, but which vanished away, as he advanced farther into the room. Certain it is, however, that there was a great consultation and dispute of doctors over the dead body. One,—John Swinnerton by name,—who appears to have been a man of eminence, upheld it, if we have rightly understood his terms of art, to be a case of apoplexy. His professional brethren, each for himself, adopted various hypotheses, more or less plausible, but all dressed out in a perplexing mystery of phrase, which, if it do not show a bewilderment of mind in these erudite physicians, certainly causes it in the unlearned peruser of their opinions. The coroner’s jury sat upon the corpse, and, like sensible men, returned an unassailable verdict of Sudden Death!

It is indeed difficult to imagine that there could have been a serious suspicion of murder, or the slightest grounds for implicating any particular individual as the perpetrator. The rank, wealth, and eminent character of the deceased must have insured the strictest scrutiny into every ambiguous circumstance. As none such is on record, it is safe to assume that none existed. Tradition,—which sometimes brings down truth that history has let slip, but is oftener the wild babble of the time, such as was formerly spoken at the fireside and now congeals in newspapers,—tradition is responsible for all contrary averments. In Colonel Pyncheon’s funeral sermon, which

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