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

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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.