By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Pleasant is a rainy winter’s day， within doors！ The beststudy for such a day， or the best amusement，—call it whichyou will，—is a book of travels， describing scenes the mostunlike that sombre one， which is mistily presented throughthe windows. I have experienced， that fancy is then mostsuccessful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to theobjects which the author has spread upon his page， and that hiswords become magic spells to summon up a thousand variedpictures. Strange landscapes glimmer through the familiar wallsof the room， and outlandish figures thrust themselves almostwithin the sacred precincts of the hearth. Small as my chamberis， it has space enough to contain the ocean-like circumferenceof an Arabian desert， its parched sands tracked by the long lineof a caravan， with the camels patiently journeying through theheavy sunshine. Though my ceiling be not lofty， yet I can pileup the mountains of Central Asia beneath it， till their summitsshine far above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And，with my humble means， a wealth that is not taxable， I cantransport hither the magnificent merchandise of an Orientalbazaar， and call a crowd of purchasers from distant countries，to pay a fair profit for the precious articles which are displayedon all sides. True it is， however， that amid the bustle of traffic，or whatever else may seem to be going on around me， the raindropswill occasionally be heard to patter against my windowpanes，which look forth upon one of the quietest streets in aNew England town. After a time， too， the visions vanish， andwill not appear again at my bidding. Then， it being nightfall， agloomy sense of unreality depresses my spirits， and impels meto venture out， before the clock shall strike bedtime， to satisfymyself that the world is not entirely made up of such shadowymaterials， as have busied me throughout the day. A dreamermay dwell so long among fantasies， that the things withouthim will seem as unreal as those within.
When eve has fairly set in， therefore， I sally forth， tightlybuttoning my shaggy overcoat， and hoisting my umbrella，the silken dome of which immediately resounds with theheavy drumming of the invisible rain-drops. Pausing on thelowest doorstep， I contrast the warmth and cheerfulness of mydeserted fireside with the drear obscurity and chill discomfortinto which I am about to plunge. Now come fearful auguries，innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not my manhood cryshame upon me， I should turn back within doors， resumemy elbow-chair， my slippers， and my book， pass such anevening of sluggish enjoyment as the day has been， and goto bed inglorious. The same shivering reluctance， no doubt，has quelled， for a moment， the adventurous spirit of many atraveller， when his feet， which were destined to measure theearth around， were leaving their last tracks in the home-paths.
In my own case， poor human nature may be allowed a fewmisgivings. I look upward， and discern no sky， not even anunfathomable void， but only a black， impenetrable nothingness，as though heaven and all its lights were blotted from thesystem of the universe. It is as if nature were dead， and theworld had put on black， and the clouds were weeping for her.
With their tears upon my cheek， I turn my eyes earthward， butfind little consolation here below. A lamp is burning dimlyat the distant corner， and throws just enough of light alongthe street， to show， and exaggerate by so faintly showing， theperils and difficulties which beset my path. Yonder dingilywhite remnant of a huge snow-bank，—which will yet cumberthe sidewalk till the latter days of March，—over or throughthat wintry waste I must stride onward. Beyond， lies a certainSlough of Despond， a concoction of mud and liquid filth，ankle-deep， leg-deep， neck-deep，—in a word， of unknownbottom， on which the lamplight does not even glimmer， butwhich I have occasionally watched， in the gradual growth ofits horrors， from morn till nightfall. Should I flounder intoits depths， farewell to upper earth！ And hark！ how roughlyresounds the roaring of a stream， the turbulent career of whichis partially reddened by the gleam of the lamp， but elsewherebrawls noisily through the densest gloom. O， should I beswept away in fording that impetuous and unclean torrent， thecoroner will have a job with an unfortunate gentleman， whowould fain end his troubles anywhere but in a mud-puddle！
Pshaw！ I will linger not another instant at arm’s length fromthese dim terrors， which grow more obscurely formidable， thelonger I delay to grapple with them. Now for the onset！ And to！
with little damage， save a dash of rain in the face and breast， asplash of mud high up the pantaloons， and the left boot full ofice-cold water， behold me at the corner of the street. The lampthrows down a circle of red light around me； and twinklingonward from corner to corner， I discern other beaconsmarshalling my way to a brighter scene. But this is alone someand dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to thestorm， with their blinds all closed， even as a man winks whenhe faces a spattering gust. How loudly tinkles the collectedrain down the tin spouts！ The puffs of wind are boisterous， andseem to assail me from various quarters at once. I have oftenobserved that this corner is a haunt and loitering-place forthose winds which have no work to do upon the deep， dashingships against our iron-bound shores； nor in the forest， tearingup the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at their vast roots.
Here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks of mischief.
