bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--NEVERMORE!

LIII. DAVID SWAN--A FANTASY.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.--1804-1864.

_From_ "TWICE-TOLD TALES."

We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually
influence our course through life, and our final destiny. There are
innumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come close
upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their
near approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds.
Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too
full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a
single hour of true serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page
from the secret history of David Swan.

We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of
twenty, on the high road from his native place to the city of Boston,
where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him
behind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a native of New
Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary
school education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy.
After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's
day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in
the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach.
As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of
maples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling
spring, that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David
Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung
himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair
of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeams
could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road, after the
heavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man better
than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him; the
branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep,
perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we
are to relate events which he did