In the manuscript of “Doctor Grimshawe’s
Secret,” on the other hand, which was written
almost immediately after the other, but on unruled
paper, and when the writer’s imagination was
warm and eager, the chirography is for the most part
a compact mass of minute cramped hieroglyphics, hardly
to be deciphered save by flashes of inspiration.
The matter is not, in itself, of importance, and is
alluded to here only as having been brought forward
in connection with other insinuations, with the notice
of which it seems unnecessary to soil these pages.
Indeed, were I otherwise disposed, Doctor Grimshawe
himself would take the words out of my mouth; his speech
is far more poignant and eloquent than mine.
In dismissing this episode, I will take the liberty
to observe that it appears to indicate a spirit in
our age less sceptical than is commonly supposed,—belief
in miracles being still possible, provided only the
miracle be a scandalous one.
It remains to tell how this Romance came to be published.
It came into my possession (in the ordinary course
of events) about eight years ago. I had at that
time no intention of publishing it; and when, soon
after, I left England to travel on the Continent,
the manuscript, together with the bulk of my library,
was packed and stored at a London repository, and
was not again seen by me until last summer, when I
unpacked it in this city. I then finished the
perusal of it, and, finding it to be practically complete,
I re-resolved to print it in connection with a biography
of Mr. Hawthorne which I had in preparation.
But upon further consideration it was decided to publish
the Romance separately; and I herewith present it to
the public, with my best wishes for their edification.
JulianHawthorne.
New York, November 21, 1882.
A long time ago, [Endnote: 1] in a town with
which I used to be familiarly acquainted, there dwelt
an elderly person of grim aspect, known by the name
and title of Doctor Grimshawe,[Endnote: 2] whose
household consisted of a remarkably pretty and vivacious
boy, and a perfect rosebud of a girl, two or three
years younger than he, and an old maid-of-all-work,
of strangely mixed breed, crusty in temper and wonderfully
sluttish in attire. [Endnote: 3] It might be partly
owing to this handmaiden’s characteristic lack
of neatness (though primarily, no doubt, to the grim
Doctor’s antipathy to broom, brush, and dusting-cloths)
that the house—at least in such portions
of it as any casual visitor caught a glimpse of—was
so overlaid with dust, that, in lack of a visiting
card, you might write your name with your forefinger
upon the tables; and so hung with cobwebs that they
assumed the appearance of dusky upholstery.
