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,
t