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Updated: May 7, 2025
The meum and tuum of blood were inextricably mixed; so they contented themselves with giving their children the old Christian names which were carved on the headstones, and which, in time, added a still more profound darkness to the anti-heraldic memory of the Morgesons.
Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands, assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar.
She sometimes lot these thread of his discourse, but argued also as if to convince herself that she could rightly distinguish between Truth and Illusion, but never discussed religious topics with father. Like all the Morgesons, he was Orthodox, accepting what had been provided by others for his spiritual accommodation. He thought it well that existing Institutions should not be disturbed.
I said, "but where is the family likeness?" Aunt Merce laughed. "There's the Morgesons," I continued, "I hate 'em all." "All?" she echoed; "you are like this new one." "And Grand'ther Warren" I continued. "Your talk," interrupted Aunt Merce, jumping up and walking about, "is enough to make him rise out of his grave."
There was no development of the sentiments, no betrayal of the fluctuations of the passions which must have existed. There was no accident to reveal, no coincidence to surprise us. Hidden among the Powers That Be, which rule New England, lurks the Deity of the Illicit. This Deity never obtained sovereignty in the atmosphere where the Morgesons lived.
She was singularly beautiful beautiful even to the day of her death; but she was poor, and without connection, for Philip Warren was the last of his name. What the Warrens might have been was nothing to the Morgesons; they themselves had no past, and only realized the present.
She had a habit of frightening us by hiding, and appearing from places where no one had thought of looking for her. People shook their heads when they observed her. The Morgesons smiled significantly when she was spoken of, and asked: "Do you think she is like her mother?" There was a conflict in mother's mind respecting Veronica.
"No, indeed, mother," and clapping my hands, "I like you too well." She laughed. "These Morgesons beat the dogs," I heard Temperance say, as we shut the door and went upstairs. I skipped over the shiny, lead-colored floor of the chamber in my stockings, while mother was taking from the bureau a clean suit for me, and singing "Bonny Doon," with the sweetest voice in the world.
Stoddard's novel "The Morgesons," a book which I am perpetually recommending to my friends, and they as perpetually refusing to read, returning my copy after a superficial perusal, with uncomplimentary comments upon my taste in fiction. Hawthorne's academic connections are of particular interest. It is wonderful that he and Longfellow should have been classmates at Bowdoin.
"We have an ancestor in common that makes a sufficient cousinship for a claim, Mrs. Morgeson." "Why not have looked us up before?" I asked. "Why," said Veronica, who had just come in, "there are six Charles Morgesons buried in our graveyard." "I supposed," he said, "that the name was extinct. I lately saw your father's in a State Committee List, and feeling curious regarding it, I came here."
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