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The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams · English · Gutenberg #15328 · 817,344 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The lost hunter: A tale of early times

Author: John Turvill Adams


        
Release date: March 11, 2005 [eBook #15328]
                Most recently updated: December 14, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15328

Credits: Produced by Robert Shimmin, S.R.Ellison and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST HUNTER: A TALE OF EARLY TIMES ***




Produced by Robert Shimmin, S.R.Ellison and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.






                 THE LOST HUNTER.

              A Tale of Early Times.


  "And still her grey rocks tower above the sea
     That murmurs at their feet, a conquered wave;
  'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
     Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;
  Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands, are bold and free,
     And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;
  And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray,
  Nor even then, unless in their own way."
                                            HALLECK


               NEW YORK:

   DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.
        CINCINNATI:--H.W. DERBY.

                 1856.


ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

J.C. DERBY,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.

W.H. TINSON, Stereotyper.

PUDNEY & RUSSELL Printers.




APOLOGY


As one might justly be considered a clown, or, at least, not well
bred, who, without tapping at the door, or making a bow, or saying "By
your leave," or some other token of respect, should burst in upon
a company of persons unknown to him, and instead of a welcome would
deserve an unceremonious invitation to betake himself elsewhere
forthwith; so, I suppose, in presenting myself before you, my
honored Public, it is no more than civil to say something by way of
introduction. At least, I have observed from my obscure retreat in the
quiet village of Addlebrains, that the fashion in this respect, which
has prevailed, certainly, since the time of St. Luke, who commences
his Gospel with a preface to Theophilus, has come down to the present
day, differing therein from other fashions, which, for the most part,
are as transitory as the flowers of the field, and commending itself
thereby to the thoughtful consideration of the judicious; for it
cannot be deemed there is no value in that which has received the
sanction of centuries. Influenced by reflections of this description
and the like, I sat down one day in the little retreat, which the
indulgent partiality of my friends is accustomed to dignify with the
title of my "study," to endeavor to write a preface, and introduce
myself in a becoming manner to my readers. I was the more anxious
to do this properly, because, although a mere countryman, a sort of
cowhide shoe, as I may say, and therefore lacking that gloss, which,
like the polish on a well-brushed boot, distinguishes and illustrates
the denizens of our metropolis in an eminent degree, as I know from
personal experience, having been twice in New York, and, as I am told,
also, the citizens of Boston and Philadelphia, and other provincial
towns, with a milder lustre, I would not like to be supposed entirely
destitute of refinement. It would be strange if I were, inasmuch as I
enjoyed in my youth, the privilege of two terms and a half instruction
in the dancing school of that incomparable professor of the
Terpsichorean science, the accomplished Monsieur St. Leger Pied. It
is in consequence of this early training, perhaps, that I am always
pained when there is any deflection or turning aside from, or neglect
of, the graceful, the becoming, and the proper.

It will be observed that my last quarter was cut short in the middle;
which untoward event arose from no arrogance or supercilious conceit
on my part, as though I had perfected myself in the mysteries of
pigeon-wing and balancez, but from the abrupt departure of
the professor himself, who, true to the name indicative of his
constitutional levity, found it convenient to disappear betwixt two
days, with the advance pay of my whole term in his pocket, and
without stopping to make even one of his uncommonly genteel bows. The
circumstance was peculiarly disagreeable to me, in consequence of the
school being assembled when our loss was discovered, and of my having
succeeded in engaging, for the greater part of the evening, the hand
of a young lady, whose charms had made a deep (though, as subsequent
events proved, not a durable) impression on my susceptible heart.
Monsieur was our only musician, and, of course, with his violin
went the dancing. The cause of his evasion or flight was variously
accounted for, some ascribing it to a debt he had contracted for
kid gloves and pumps, and others to dread of the wrath of a young
gentleman, whose sister he had been so imprudent as to kiss in the
presence of another girl, not remarkable for personal attractions, to
whom he had never paid the same compliment. As was to be expected, she
was scandalized at the impropriety and want of taste, and immediately
made it known, in spite of the entreaties of the blushing beauty and
the "pardons" of Monsieur. As Virgilius has it,

    "Manet altã mente i epõstum,
  Judicium Paridis spretæque injuria formæ."

In my opinion, it was the kiss that cost poor Monsieur Pied his
school, and me a dollar and a half, three dollars being the price
for a term's instruction. Not, I beg to be understood, that I care
anything about the money, but in relating an event I like to be
circumstantial and strictly accurate. But I find that, wiled away by
the painfully pleasing reminiscences of my youth, I am wandering
from my undertaking, which is, not to narrate the misadventures of a
dancing-master, but to compose a preface.

I had seated myself, as I was saying, in my little den or confugium,
where, as in a haven of rest, I love to hide myself from the
distractions of the world, and concentrate my thoughts, and which has
been to me the scene of many sad as well as pleasant hours, and dipped
my goose quill (anathema maranatha on steel pens, which I cannot help
fancying, impart a portion of their own rigidity to style, for if the
stylus be made of steel is it not natural that the style by derivation
and propinquity should be hard?) into the ink-stand, after first
casting my eyes on the busts of Shakespeare and Milton, which, cast
in plaster, adorn my retirement, half imploring them to assist in so
important an enterprise, when the door opened, and who should enter
but my dear friend, the Rev. Increase Grace? But here let me remark
parenthetically, the habit of dealing in parentheses being one I
especially dislike, only necessity compelling me thereto, and before I
proceed further, that the word "confugium," which, both on account of
its terse expressiveness, as well as its _curiosa felicitas_ in the
present application, I have chosen in order to define my den, has not,
I hope, escaped the notice of the discriminating scholar. Moreover,
I trust that I shall not incur the imputation of vanity if I take to
myself some little credit for the selection. It will be observed that
it is a compound term, the latter part, "fugium" (from fuga, flight),
characterizing the purpose to which my secluded nook is applied as
a refuge, whither I fly from the unmeaning noise and vanity of the
world; and the prefix, "con" (equivalent to cum, with), conveying
the idea of its social designation. For I should be loth to have it
thought that, like Charles Lamb's rat, who, by good luck, happening to
find a Cheshire cheese, kept the discovery a profound secret from
the rest of the rats, in order to monopolize the delicious dainty,
pretending all the while that his long and frequent absences at a
certain hole were purely for purposes of heavenly contemplation, his
mind having of late become seriously impressed, and, therefore, he
could not bear interruption, I am in the habit of ensconcing myself
with a selfish exclusion therein. Far from it: the door is never
barred against admission, and my confugium rather means (though the
dictionaries with their usual vagueness so much to be lamented, have
not succeeded in eviscerating its full signification) a common place
of retirement for myself and intimate friends. Hence it was not as an
intrusion, but, on the contrary, as an acceptable call, that I greeted
the arrival of Increase. There must have been an unusual degree of
gravity in my countenance corresponding with the importance of the
work I was about to undertake, for the reverend gentleman had hardly
taken a seat before he observed it, and inquired into its cause. We
are upon that footing of intimacy, that there was no impropriety in
the question, and I unhesitatingly acquainted him with my purpose.

"I should as soon think," said the Rev. Increase, "of building a
verandah before a wood-house, or putting mahogany doors into my old
toppling down church."

The remark was not very complimentary, but great freedom of speech
prevails between us, and I took no offence; especially as I knew that
the Rev. gentleman was smarting under a disappointment in the sale
of a volume of sermons, whence he had expected great things, from
the publication of which I had vainly endeavored to dissuade him, and
whose meagre proceeds fully justified my forebodings. The mention of
my work naturally recalled this afflictive dispensation, and _hinc
illæ lacrimæ_. Reading his mind, I answered, therefore, as gently as
a slight tremor in my voice would allow, that there was no accounting
for tastes, and that as trifling a thing as a song had been known to
outlive a sermon.

I declare I meant no harm, but his reverence (one of the best men in
the world, but who, in every sense of the word, belongs to the "church
militant,") instantly blazed up--

"I dare say," he said, bitterly, "that you understand the frippery
taste of this trivial age better than I. A capability to appreciate
solid reading, reading that cultivates the understanding while it
amends the heart, seems to be with the forgotten learning before the
flood. They who pander to this diseased appetite have much to answer
for; not," he was pleased to add--his indignation cooling off like a
steam-boiler which has found vent, "that the trifle on which for the
last few months you have been wasting your time has not a certain kind
of merit, but it seems a pity, that one, capable of better things,
should so miserably misapply his powers."

These sentiments were not entirely new to me, else I might have become
a little excited; for, during the whole time while I was engaged in
the composition of the work, my friend, who is, also, in the habit
of communicating his literary enterprises to me, would insist upon my
reading him the chapters, as fast as they came along, manifesting no
little curiosity in the manner in which I should disengage myself from
difficulties in which he supposed me from time to time involved,
and exuberant delight at the ingenious contrivances, as, in a
complimentary mood, he once said, by which I eluded them. It is true,
all this betrayal of interest was accompanied by various pishes and
pshaws, and lamentations over the trifling character of my pursuits;
but, like too many others, both in his cloth and out of it, his
conduct contradicted his language, and I was encouraged by the former,
while I only smiled at the latter.

"If such be your opinion," said I, suddenly seizing the manuscript,
which lay before me, and making a motion to throw it into the fire;
"if such be your candid opinion, I had better destroy the nonsense at
once."

"Hold!" cried the Rev. Increase, arresting my hand, "you are
shockingly touchy and precipitate; how often have I cautioned you
against this trait of your character. Because your workling does not
deserve to be mentioned in the same category with works of solid and
acknowledged merit, like, for instance, Rollin's Ancient History
or Prideaux' Connexion, and can, at best, enjoy but an ephemeral
existence, does it deserve to have no existence at all? On your
principle, we should have no butterflies, because their careless lives
last but a day."

"Well, Increase," said I, "if, like the butterfly, whose short and
erratic presence imparts another beauty to green fields and blue
skies, and blossoms, and songs of birds, my little book shall be able
to seduce a smile to the lips, or cheat away a pain from the bosom
of one of those whom you are so fond of calling 'pilgrims through a
dreary wilderness,' I shall feel amply compensated for the waste of my
time."

"If your expectations are so moderate, I see no harm in your indulging
them," said my friend; "but I cannot help wishing you had oftener
taken my advice in its composition."

"I have great respect for your opinion," I answered, "but I find it
impossible to pass the ideas of another through the crucible of my
mind and do them justice. Somehow or other, when I am expecting a
stream of gold, it turns out a _caput mortuum_ of lead. No, my better
course is to coin my copper in my own way. But, tell me frankly, what
offends you."

My Rev. friend had, by this time, forgotten his unfortunate volume of
sermons, and resumed his good nature.

"Offends me? my dear friend, and half-parishoner (for I notice a bad
habit you have got into, of late, of attending church only in the
morning--pray reform it), you use a very harsh term. There is nothing
in the book that offends me; although," he added, cautiously, "I
do not mean to say that I sanction entirely either your religious,
philosophical, or political speculations. I am no flatterer, and claim
the privilege of a friend to speak my mind."

"My dear Increase," said I, pressing his hand, "I love you all the
more for your sincerity; but why do you call them my speculations? I
have expressed no opinions. They are the opinions of the characters,
and not mine. I wish you and all the world distinctly to understand
that."

"And yet the world will hold you to account for them. If a man fires
a gun into a crowd, is he not responsible for any mischief that may be
the consequence?"

"I do not expect to make so loud a report," said I, smiling; "but I
protest against your doctrine. Why, according to that, an author is
accountable for all the opinions of his dramatis personæ, however
absurd and contradictory they may be."

"I do not go so far as that. I hold that the author is only
responsible for the effect produced: if that effect be favorable to
virtue, he deserves praise; if the contrary, censure."

"I admit the justice of the view you take, with that limitation; and I
trust it is with a sense of such accountability I have written," said
I. "May I, then, flatter myself with the hope that you will grant me
your imprimatur?"

"You have it," said he; "and may no critic regard your book with less
indulgent eyes than mine. But what name do you give the bantling?"

"Oh," said I, "I have not concluded, I fancy that one name is nearly
as good as another."

"I don't know about that," said the Rev. Increase. "A couple who
brought their child lately to me to be baptized did not think so,
at any rate. I inquired what was the name chosen, when, to my
astonishment, I heard sounds which resembled very much one of the
titles bestowed upon the arch enemy of mankind. Supposing that my ears
deceived me, I inquired again, when the same word, to my horror, was
more distinctly repeated. 'Lucifer!' said I, to myself, 'impossible!
I cannot baptize a child by such a name.' I bent over once more, and
a third time asked the question. The answer was the same, and repeated
louder and with an emphasis, as if the parents were determined to have
that name or none. By this time my situation had become embarrassing,
for there was I, in the presence of the whole waiting congregation,
standing up with the baby in my arms, which, to add to my
consternation, set up a squall as if to convince me that he was
entitled to the name. My bachelor modesty could stand the scene no
longer; so, hastily dipping my fingers in the font, and resolving he
should have a good name, as opposite as possible to the diabolical
one so strangely selected, I baptized the infant George Washington.
I thought the parents looked queerly at the time, but the rite was
performed, the baby had got an excellent name, and I was relieved. But
conceive, if you can, my confusion, when, after service, the father
and mother came into the vestry, and the latter bursting into tears,
exclaimed: 'Oh, thir, what have you done? Ith a girl, ith a girl! and
you've called her George Wathington! My poor little Luthy, my dear
little Luthy!' Alas! the mother lisped, and when I asked for the
name, meaning to be very polite, and to say, Lucy, sir, in reply to
my question, she had said, 'Luthy, thir,' which I mistook for Lucifer.
What was to be done? I consoled the afflicted parents as well as I was
able, and promised to enter the name in the parish registry and town
records as Lucy, which I did; but for all that, the girl's genuine,
orthodox name is George Washington!"

"I see," said I, paying him for his joke with the expected laugh,
"there is something in a name, and we must be cautious in its choice."
The result was, that I followed my friend's advice in adopting the one
which was finally selected. Soon after the Rev. gentleman took his hat
and left me to my meditations. Thereupon I resumed my pen, and vainly
endeavored to write a preface. At last, in despair, I could hit
upon no better expedient than to explain to you, my dear Public, the
circumstances which prevent my doing it now. You will sympathize with
my mortification, and forgive my failure for the sake of the honest
effort, and no more think of condemning me, than you would the
aforesaid rustic, alluded to in the beginning of this my apology,
should he, instead of boisterously rushing in upon the company,
endeavor (his sense of the becoming overcoming his bashfulness) to
twist his body into the likeness of a bow, thereby only illustrating
and confirming the profound wisdom of the maxim, _non omnia possumus
omnes_. Should our awkward attempts be classed together, I shall
nevertheless indulge the hope, that better acquaintance with you will
increase my facility of saying nothing with grace, and improve my
manners, even as I doubt not that under the tuition of Monsieur Pied,
the aforesaid countryman might, in time, be taught to make a passable
bow.

For ever, _vive_, my dear Public, and, until we meet again (which,
whether we ever do, will depend upon how we are pleased with each
other), _vale_.

THE AUTHOR.




CHAPTER I.

  At last the golden orientall gate
    Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre,
  And Phoebus fresh as brydegrome to his mate,
    Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre,
  And hurld his glistening beams through gloomy ayre.

    SPENSER'S FAERY QUEENE.

It was a lovely morning in the autumn of the year of grace 18--. The
beams of the sun had not yet fallen upon the light veil of mist that
hovered over the tranquil bosom of the river Severn, and rose and
gathered itself into folds, as if preparing for departure at the
approach of an enemy it were in vain to resist. With a murmur, so soft
it was almost imperceptible, glided the stream, blue as the heaven it
mirrored, between banks now green and gently shelving away, crowned
with a growth of oak, hickory, pine, hemlock and savin, now rising
into irregular masses of grey rocks, overgrown with moss, with here
and there a stunted bush struggling out of a fissure, and seeming to
derive a starved existence from the rock itself; and now, in strong
contrast, presenting almost perpendicular elevations of barren sand.
Occasionally the sharp cry of a king-fisher, from a withered bough
near the margin, or the fluttering of the wings of a wild duck,
skimming over the surface, might be heard, but besides these there
were no sounds, and _they_ served only to make the silence deeper.
It is at this hour, and upon an island in the river that our story
commences.

The island itself is of an irregular shape and very small, being
hardly an acre in extent, and its shore covered with pebbles and
boulders of granite. Near the centre, and fronting the east, stands an
unpainted wood cabin of the humblest appearance, the shape and size
of which is an oblong of some thirty by fifteen feet. One rude door
furnishes the only means of entrance, and light is admitted through
two small windows, one on the east and the other on the west side.
Straggling patches of grass, a few neglected currant-bushes behind
the hut, and a tall holly-hock or two by the door are all the signs of
vegetation that meet the eye.

At the door of this cabin, and at the time we are describing, stood
a solitary figure. He was a gaunt, thin man, whose stature rather
exceeded than fell below six feet. The object about his person which
first arrested attention was a dark grizzled beard, that fell half-way
down his breast, in strong contrast with a high white forehead,
beneath which glowed large dreamy eyes. The hair of his head, like his
beard, was long, and fell loosely over his shoulders. His dress was of
the coarsest description, consisting of a cloth of a dusky grey color,
the upper garment being a loose sort of surtout, falling almost to the
knees, and secured round the waist by a dark woollen sash. His age
it was difficult to determine. It might have been anywhere between
forty-five and fifty-five years.

The attitude and appearance of the man, were that of devotion and
expectancy. His body was bent forward, his hands clasped, and his
eyes intently fastened on the eastern sky, along the horizon of which
layers of clouds, a moment before of a leaden hue were now assuming
deeper and deeper crimson tints. As the clouds flushed up into
brighter colors his countenance kindled with excitement. His form
seemed to dilate, his eyes to flash, his hands unclasped themselves,
and he stretched out his arms, as if to welcome a long expected
friend. But presently the rays of the sun began to stream over the
swelling upland and light up the surface of the river, and fainter and
fainter shone the clouds, until they gradually melted into the blue
depth away. It was then a shade of disappointment, as it seemed,
passed over the face of the man. Its rapt expression faded, he cast
a look almost of reproach to heaven, and his feelings found vent in
words.

"Hast Thou not said, 'Behold, I come quickly?' Why then delay the
wheels of Thy chariot? O, Lord, I have waited for Thy salvation. In
the night-watches, at midnight, at cock-crowing, and in the morning,
have I been mindful of Thee. But chiefly at the dawn hath my soul gone
forth to meet Thee, for then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man
in Heaven, and they shall see him coming in the clouds of Heaven, with
power and great glory. And he shall send His angels with a great sound
of a trumpet, and they shall gather together His elect from one end of
Heaven to the other."

His eyes glared wildly round, then fell and fastened on the ground,
and for a few moments he remained immovable as a statue, after which,
with an air of dejection, he turned as if about to enter the hut. At
that moment the report of a gun from the shore close by was heard, and
looking, up he saw a man fall from the sloping bank upon the beach.

If there had been any appearance of weakness or infirmity before in
the Recluse, it now vanished. Nothing could exceed the promptitude and
energy of his movements. To rush to the water, to throw himself into
a boat, to unfasten it from the stake to which it was tied, and with a
vigorous push to send it half-way across the channel, was the work of
but an instant. A few dextrous and strong strokes of the paddle soon
sent it grating on the pebbled shore, and with a bound he was by the
side of the prostrate man. He lay with his face to the ground, with
one arm stretched out, and the other cramped up beneath his body. Near
him the leaves and grass were stained with drops of blood, and at a
short distance a gun was lying.

The old man passed his arm around the stranger, to raise him from his
recumbent position. The motion must have occasioned pain, for a low
groan was heard. But it, at least, attested the presence of life,
and there was consolation in even those sad sounds. With all the
tenderness of a mother he raised the wounded man in his arms, and
endeavored to discover the place and character of the wound, in order
to staunch, if possible, the bleeding. But it was soon apparent that
all such attempts would be useless, and only tend to aggravate the
pain without leading to any desirable result, so long as the clothing
was allowed to remain on. The better course seemed to be to remove him
immediately to the hut. As gently, therefore, as possible, the old man
bore him to the boat, and deposited him upon its bottom. A few strokes
of the paddle sent it back again to the island, and soon the wounded
stranger was lying on a rude, but welcome bed. Here the first thing to
be done was to divest him of his coat and such other clothing as hid
the wound. Having performed this duty, which was done by cutting off
the coat and tearing the under garments, the next care of the old man
was, in the best manner in his power, to apply bandages to stop the
blood, which trickled from the right side and shoulder. This was done
with no little skill, as by one who did not then see a gun-shot wound
for the first time. The process was accompanied by an occasional
groan, when the bandages pressed the wounded parts too closely, which
the sufferer seemed to try to suppress, appearing, at the same time,
to endeavor to express his thanks, by a smile and the soft glances of
his eyes. Any attempt at exertion was instantly repressed by his kind
nurse, who never failed, when it occurred, to enjoin quiet.

"Thou art weak from loss of blood, young man," he said, "but I am
mistaken if there is much danger. Yet, a narrow escape hast thou had.
Be thankful to that Providence, by whom the hairs of thy head are all
numbered, and who permitteth not a sparrow to fall without notice to
the ground, for so directing the shot that they only tore the outer
flesh, without reaching a vital part. And so, hereafter, when the
evils of life shall assail thee, may they penetrate no deeper than the
surface, nor affect thy immortal soul."

Here the young man made a motion, as if about to speak, but he was
interrupted by the other.

"Nay," said the Recluse, "thou must obey me for thy own good, and I
have forbid all speech. It will start the blood, and weaken thee still
more. Compose thyself, now, while I leave thee but for an instant, to
discover, if I can, a boat going to Hillsdale."

We will avail ourselves of the absence of the Recluse to describe the
interior of the hut and its occupant. And to begin with the latter--he
was a dark-haired youth, of twenty-one or two years of age, the
natural paleness of whose complexion was enhanced as well by the raven
color of his hair as by the loss of blood. His features were quite
regular, and surmounted by a brow rather high than broad. The eyes
were the most remarkable, and commanded instant attention. They were
large, black and flashing, and, in spite of the injunctions of the old
man, wide open and roving round the apartment. By the manner in which
he had been addressed, it was evident he was unknown.

The chamber itself was a square of about fifteen feet, or one-half
of the hut, with a fire-place made of large stones and bricks, and
lighted by one window, and was lathed and plastered. Its furniture
consisted of the bed above mentioned, lying on a low pine frame,
originally painted red, but now somewhat defaced and worn; of a couple
of basket-bottomed chairs; a stone jar, to contain water; a rifle
and powder-horn, supported by two nails driven into the wall; a pine
table, and a set of shelves filled with books. This was the back-room,
and opened into another of the same size, differing from the former
in having no fire-place and being not lathed. This latter room was
destitute of furniture, unless a work-bench, on which were a few
tools; a chopping-block, made of the segment of the body of a
large tree; a cooper's horse; a couple of oyster rakes and some
fishing-rods, could be called such. In two of the corners stood
bundles of hickory poles, and on the floor were scattered a quantity
of withes, designed, apparently, for basket-making. These articles
had, probably, some connection with the pursuits of the tenant of the
hut. On the walls, on pegs, hung a number of baskets, of different
sizes--some finished, and some in an unfinished condition.

The Recluse, upon leaving his guest, proceeded to the west side of
the little island, and cast a searching glance in every direction,
to ascertain if any one were in sight. No boat was visible, and he
immediately retraced his steps.

Noiselessly he stole back to the couch of his guest, whom he found
apparently asleep, though, in truth, the slumber was simulated out
of deference to the anxieties of the old man. Several times he passed
backwards and forwards from the chamber to the door before he had the
satisfaction to find the object of his search. At length, a canoe was
discovered coming up the river, containing two persons, who, on nearer
approach, were seen to be Indians, a man and a woman, belonging to
the remnant of a tribe, lingering about their ancient hunting-grounds
along the banks of the river. The game, indeed, that once abounded in
the woods, had disappeared, and the blue stream and swelling hills,
and green plains, and intrusive industry and increasing villages of
the whites, but reminded them of present weakness and former power.
But, the sensibility to degradation was blunted. They had, gradually,
become assimilated to their condition; the river abounded in shell and
other fish; they could maintain existence, scanty and mean though
it was, and they preferred this certainty to the nobler, but more
precarious life of the Western tribes. As the canoe approached, the
Recluse beckoned with his hand, and the bow was turned towards the
islet.

"Welcome, Esther," he said, "goest thou to the town?"

A silent nod of the head was the reply.

"Wilt thou carry me a message?"

A nod of acquiescence answered as before.

"Go, then, quickly, and tell John Elmer, that a man, wounded by a gun,
is lying in my hut, and I desire him to come instantly."

The squaw again nodded, and, without making an inquiry, with the
natural apathy of her race, she said--

"What Father Holden say, I do."

The Indian, who, until now, had been silent, here addressed her in his
own tongue.

"Can the Partridge," he said, "use her wings to no better purpose than
to fly upon the errands of her white master?"

"Ohquamehud," said the squaw, "is a wise warrior, and his eyes are
sharp, but they see not into the heart of a woman. If the sunshine and
the rain fall upon the ground, shall it bring forth no fruit?"

"It is well," said the Indian, in a sarcastic tone; "Peéna is well
named; and the Partridge, though the daughter of a Sachem, shall
flutter through the air to do the bidding of the white man."

The eyes of Peéna, or the Partridge, flashed, and she was about to
return an angry reply, when she was prevented by the man whom she had
called Father Holden.

"Hasten!" he said, in the same language, forgetting himself, in the
excitement of the moment, and unconsciously using the same figurative
diction, "or the fountain of the red stream may be dried up before
the medicine-man comes. Hasten! It is noble to do good, and the Great
Spirit shall bless the deed."

Great was the astonishment of the Indians at discovering they had been
understood, and hearing themselves addressed in their own tongue.
But only an expressive hugh! and an involuntary stroke of the paddle,
which sent the canoe dancing over the water, betrayed their surprise.
Holden stood for a moment gazing after them, then turning, directed
his steps towards the hut. We will not follow him, but pursue the
departing Indians.

For five minutes, perhaps, they paddled on in silence, each apparently
unwilling to betray any curiosity about a circumstance that engrossed
the thoughts of both. At last the woman spoke.

"The Great Spirit has taught the words of the wigwam to the man with
the Long Beard."

A shrug of the shoulders and another hugh! were the only notice taken
by her companion of the observation. Again a silence followed, which
was broken this time by the man. As if to express his dissent from the
conjecture of the squaw, he said,

"The Long Beard has drunk of the streams that run towards the setting
sun, and there he learned the speech of warriors. Did he charm
the ears of Peéna with their sounds when he taught her to run his
errands?"

The blood crimsoned deeper into the cheeks of the woman, but with
an effort she subdued the rising feeling of resentment, while she
answered,

"Let Ohquamehud listen, and the darkness shall depart from his path.
The sun has eaten the snows of fifteen winters, and fifteen times the
song of the summer birds have been silent since the Long Beard came
to the river of the Pequots. And the pale faces desired his
companionship, but he turned away his steps from theirs, and built his
wigwam on the Salmon Isle, for the heart of the Long Beard was lonely.
There he speaks to the Great Spirit in the morning clouds. The young
cub that sprung from the loins of Huttamoiden had already put on his
moccasins for the Spirit land, and the tears of Peéna were falling
fast when the Long Beard came to her wigwam. And he stretched his arms
over the boy and asked of the Great Spirit that he might stay to lead
his mother by the hand when she should be old and blind, and to pluck
the thorns from her feet. And the Great Spirit listened, for he loves
the Long Beard, and unloosed the moccasins from the feet of the boy,
and the fire in his breath went out, and he slept, and was well.
Therefore is Peéna a bird to fly with the messages of the Long Beard.
But this is the first time she has heard from white lips the language
of the red man."

The Indian could now comprehend the conduct of the woman. It was
natural she should be grateful to the savior of her child's life, and
ready to show the feeling by the little means in her power. Could he
have looked into her heart, he would have seen that there was more
than mere gratitude there. Holden's conduct, so different from that
of other white men; the disinterested nature of his character showing
itself in acts of kindness to all; his seclusion; his gravity,
which seldom admitted of a smile; his imposing appearance, and his
mysterious communings with some unseen power--for she had often seen
him as he stood to watch for the rising sun, and heard his wild bursts
of devotion--had made a deep impression on the squaw, and invested
him with the attributes of a superior being; a feeling which was
participated in by many of the Indians.

But if Ohquamehud could have seen all this, it would have served
only to aggravate the suspicions he begun to entertain about the
Long Beard, as he and the woman called Holden. As an Indian, he was
suspicious of even the kindness of the white man, lest some evil
design might lurk beneath. What wonder, when we consider the relation
of one to the other? How much of our history is that of the wolf, who
charged the lamb, who drank below him, with muddying the stream?

Ohquamehud, a Pequot by birth, was a stranger who, but a few days
before, had come from a Western tribe, into which he had been adopted,
either to visit the graves of his fathers, or for some of those
thousand causes of relationship, or friendship, or policy, which will
induce the North American Indian to journey hundreds of miles, and saw
the Recluse, for the first time, that morning. If the gratitude of the
squaw was explained, which, he doubted not, was undeserved, the Long
Beard's knowledge of the Indian tongue was not. How it was that he
should be thus familiar with and speak it with a grace and fluency
beyond the power of the few scattered members of the tribe in the
neighborhood, the most of whom had almost lost all remembrance of
it, was to him an interesting mystery. He mused in silence over his
thoughts, occasionally stopping the paddle and passing his hand over
his brow, as if to recall some circumstance or idea that constantly
eluded his grasp. In this manner they proceeded until, on turning a
high point of land, the little village of Hillsdale appeared in sight.

Those who see now that handsome town, for the first time, can have but
little idea of its appearance then. But, though the large brick
stores that line its wharves, and the costly mansions of modern
times, clustering one above the other on the hill-sides, and its fine
churches of granite and Portland stone, were not to be seen, yet, it
was even then a place that could not fail to attract attention.

The situation is one of exceeding beauty. Two bright streams--the
Wootúppocut, whose name indicates its character, its meaning being
"clear water," and the Yaupáae, or "margin of a river," which, why it
should be so called it is not as easy to explain, unite their waters
to form the noble Severn. It is a pity that the good taste which
preserved the original names of the two first, had not also retained
the title of the last--the Sakimau, or Sachem, or chief, by which it
was known to the Indians. It is possible the first settlers in the
country thought, that allowing two rivers to retain their aboriginal
appellations was a sufficient tribute to good taste, while they made
the change of name of the third an offering to affection, many of them
having drawn their first breath on the pleasant banks of the English
river Severn. It was on the tongue of land, or promontory, formed by
the confluence of the two rivers that composed the Severn, that the
principal part of the town was situated.

On the promontory facing the south, and rising boldly from the water,
the white-painted village ascended half-way up its sides, its two
principal streets sweeping away, in curving lines, round the base,
upward to a piece of level land, into which the north side of the
hill gently declined. At the most northern part of this level, the
two streets united, at a distance of a mile from the wharves, into one
which thence winded a devious course two or three miles further along
the Yaupáae. Above the highest roofs and steeples, towered the green
summit of the hill, whose thick-growing evergreens presented, at all
seasons, a coronal of verdure. One who stood on the top could see come
rushing in from the east, through a narrow throat, and between
banks that rose in height as they approached the town, the swift
Wootúppocut, soon to lose both its hurry and its name in the deeper
and more tranquil Severn, of which it is the principal tributary,
while on the west he beheld, gliding like a silver snake through green
meadows, the gentle Yaupáae, lingering, as if it loved the fields
through which it wandered, until suddenly quickening its pace, with a
roar as of angry vexation, it precipitated itself in eddies of boiling
foam, whose mist rose high into the air, down a deep gorge, between
overhanging rocks, through which it had forced a passage. Thence
the stream, subsiding into sudden tranquillity, expanded into a cove
dotted with two or three little islands, and flowing round the base of
the hill which declined gradually towards the west, united itself with
the Wootúppocut. Far beneath his feet he saw the roofs of the houses,
and steeples of churches, and masts of sloops, employed in the
coasting business, and of brigs engaged in the West India trade, and
noticed a communication, partly bridge and partly causey, thrown over
the mouth of the Yaupáae and uniting the opposite banks; for, on the
western side, along the margin and up the hill, houses were thickly
scattered.

The canoe soon glided alongside of one of the wharves, and the Indians
disappeared in the streets.




CHAPTER II.

  With us there was a Doctor of Physic:
  In all this world ne was there none him like,
  To speak of physic and of surgery.

         *       *       *       *       *

  He knew the cause of every malady,
  Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry,
  And where engendered, and of what humor:
  He was a very perfect practiser.
  The cause y know, and of his harm the root,
  Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.

  CHAUCER.


The first care of the faithful Peéna or Esther, was to seek the
doctor. She found him at home, and was instantly admitted to his
presence.

"Queen Esther," he exclaimed, the moment he saw her, "is it thou?
Welcome, descendant of a line of kings. Would'st like some cider?" He
spoke the word "cider" like the Indians, with a rising inflection on
the last syllable. It was an offer no Indian could resist, and the
squaw answered simply in the affirmative. From a pitcher of the
grateful beverage, which shortly before had been brought into the
room, and which, indeed, suggested the offer, the doctor filled a
foaming glass, and the squaw was not long in draining its contents,
after which she delivered herself of her errand.

"Esther," exclaimed the doctor, rising and hastening to collect his
instruments and medicine pouch, "thou hast circumvented me. Why did
you not tell me before? Here have I been pouring cider into your
royal gullet, when I should have hastened to take a bullet out of some
plebeian carcass. Can you tell me the name of the wounded man?"

The squaw shook her head, and only said, "Esther not know."

By this time his preparations were completed, which he had not allowed
the conversation to interrupt, and closely followed by the woman, he
hastened to the wharf. Here casting an eye to the flys that waved from
the masts of some of the vessels, and observing the wind was fair, he
rejected her offer to take him in the canoe, and throwing himself
into a little sail-boat, was soon busily engaged in untying the sails.
While thus employed a voice saluted his ears:

"Why, doctor, what is in the wind now?"

The person who thus addressed him was a young man of probably not more
than twenty-five years of age. His dress indicated that he belonged to
the wealthier class of citizens, and there was something pleasing in
his manners and address.

"Glad to see you, William," said the doctor. "I want a crew; come,
ship for a cruise."

"But where away, doctor?"

"To Holden's island, to visit a wounded man. Jump aboard, and tend
jib-sheets."

By this time the sails were hoisted, and, the young man complying with
the invitation, the little craft was soon under weigh, and rapidly
proceeding down the river. The distance was only three or four miles,
and quickly passed over. They were met on the beach by Holden, to whom
the gentlemen were both known, but he was unable to inform them of the
name of the wounded man. As soon as the doctor beheld him, however, he
exclaimed:

"It is Mr. Pownal. God forbid the hurt should be serious."

The countenance of the doctor's companion, and the few words he
uttered, denoted also recognition of the stranger.

"So, my poor fellow," said the doctor, as the sufferer extended a
hand, and expressed in a few words his pleasure at the coming of the
two, "that is enough, I claim a monopoly of the talking."

He proceeded at once to examine the wound, which he did with great
care and in silence. He found, as Holden had said, that the charge
had only grazed the surface, tearing the flesh from the side up to
the shoulder, pretty deeply, indeed, but making an ugly, rather than
a dangerous wound. After the task was completed, and lint and fresh
bandages were applied, the doctor sunk with a sigh, as of relief, upon
a chair, and assured the young man that he only needed rest for the
present, and in a day or two might return to his friends.

"I would rather lose six ordinary patients than you, Tom Pownal," he
said. "Why you are my beau ideal of a merchant, the Ionic capital of
the pillar of trade. Now, let not your mind be

                'Tossing on the ocean;
  There, where your argosies with portly sail,
  Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood;
  Or, as it were the pageants of the sea,
  Do overpower the petty traffickers.'

Quiet, my dear boy, both of mind and body, are your indispensables. I
want you to understand that:

                'I tell thee what, Antonio--
  love thee, and It is my love that speaks.'"

Pownal promised to be very obedient, in consideration whereof the
doctor guaranteed he should receive great satisfaction from his wound.
"You shall see for yourself," he said, "how beautifully it will heal.
To a scientific eye, and under my instruction you shall get one, there
is something delightful in witnessing the granulations. We may say of
Nature, as Dr. Watts sings of the honey-bee:

  'How skillfully she builds her cell,
  How neat she stores the wax!'

I consider you a fortunate fellow."

The young men were obliged to smile at the doctor's way of viewing the
subject; but he paid little attention to their mirth.

"And I will remain, meanwhile, with you," said William Bernard, which
was the name of the gentleman who had accompanied the physician,
addressing himself to Pownal, "if our good friend,"--and here he
looked at Holden--"has no objection."

The Recluse signified his assent; and Pownal, thanking his friend, the
doctor gave his sanction to the arrangement.

"It will do you no harm, William," he said, "to rough it for a night
or two, and you will prove yourself thereby of a different stamp from
Timon's friends." And here the doctor, who loved to quote poetry,
especially Shakspeare's, better than to administer medicine, indulged
again in his favorite habit:

                "'As we do turn our backs
  From our companion thrown into his grave,
  So his familiars, to his buried fortunes,
  Slink all away; leave their false vows with him,
  Like empty purses picked, and his poor self
  A dedicated beggar to the air.'

But, Mr. Holden, lend me thy ears a moment, and thy tongue, too, if
you please, for you must tell me how this happened. I do not care to
disturb Pownal with the inquiry."

So saying, he walked out of the chamber, followed by the Recluse.

"Tell me first," said Holden, as they stood in the open air, "what
thou thinkest of the wound."

"Ha!" cried the doctor, "'tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a
church door; but 'tis enough--'twill serve."

"What!" exclaimed the Recluse, "hast thou been deceiving the boy! But
no, thou art incapable of that; and, besides, I have seen too many
wounds to apprehend danger from this."

"I see, friend, you have read Shakspeare to some purpose," cried the
doctor; "but know that I spoke not in the sense in which Mercutio
speaks of the wound that Tybalt gave him. My mirth is not so grave as
poor Mercutio's. Look you, now, I told you but the simple truth, and
what your own eyes have seen. The wound _is not_ so deep as a well,
nor so wide as a church door. If it were--admitting the physical
possibility--Pownal would be a monster to look at, and no dressings of
mine would be of any use. And it is enough, too. You would not have it
more. Besides, 'twill serve; that is, to keep him a day or two in
your cabin. And herein consists one of the innumerable excellences of
Shakspeare. Every sentence is as full of matter as my saddle-bags of
medicine. Why, I will engage to pick out as many meanings in each as
there are plums in a pudding. But, friend, I am sure you must have a
copy. Let me see it."

"I know little of these vanities," replied Holden. "In my giddy youth,
I drank such follies, even as the ass sucketh up the east wind. But
it pleased the Lord to open mine eyes. In thoughts from the visions of
the night," he continued--and his eyes shone brighter, and his stature
seemed to increase--"when deep sleep falleth on men, fear came upon me
and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a vision passed
before me, and the hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but
I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine
eyes--there was silence, and then I heard a voice saying, 'Behold,
I come quickly; watch and pray, for thou knowest not the day nor the
hour!' I was not disobedient to the heavenly warning, and thenceforth
the pomps and vanities of the world have been as the dust beneath my
feet."

This was not the first time that the doctor heard the Recluse speak of
his peculiar opinions; but, although always ready to avow and dilate
upon them when others were willing to listen, he had uniformly
manifested an unwillingness to allude to himself or the incidents of
his life. Whenever, heretofore, as sometimes happened, the curiosity
of his auditors led the conversation in that direction, he had
invariably evaded all hints and repulsed every inquiry. But his mood
seemed different to-day. Elmer was a friend whom Holden highly prized,
and he could therefore speak the more freely in his presence; but this
is not sufficient to account for the dropping of his reserve. We know
no other explanation than that there are times when the heart of every
one is opened, and longs to unburden itself, and this was one of them
that unsealed the lips of the Solitary.

"Is it long since the revelation?" inquired the doctor.

"Too long," said Holden, "did I wander in the paths of sin, and
in forgetfulness of my God, and my youth was wasted in that which
satisfieth not, neither doth it profit. My heart was very hard, and it
rose up in rebellion against the Lord. Then it pleased Him (blessed be
His holy name) to bray me in the mortar of affliction, and to crush
me between the upper and the nether millstone. Yet I heeded not; and,
like Nebuchadnezzar, my mind was hardened in pride, continually. Then,
as the King of Babylon was driven forth from the sons of men, and his
heart made like the beasts', and his dwelling was with the wild asses,
and they fed him with grass, like oxen, and his body was wet with
the dew of heaven, even so did the Spirit drive me forth into the
tabernacles of the wild men of the forest and the prairie, and I
sojourned with them many days. But He doth not always chide, neither
keepeth He His anger for ever. In His own good time, He snatched me
from the fiery furnace, and bade me here wait for His salvation; and
here, years, long years, have I looked for His promise. O, Lord, how
long!"

The doctor's question was unanswered, either because Holden forgot
it, in his excitement, or that he was incapable of giving any accurate
account of the passage of time. But thus much the doctor could gather
from his incoherent account, that, at some period of his life, he
had suffered a great calamity, which had affected his reason. In this
condition, he had probably joined the Indians, and passed several
years among them, and afterwards, upon a partial restoration of
intellect, adopted the wild notions he professed. What had passed
during those years, was a secret known only to himself, if, indeed,
the events had not disappeared from his memory.

"You have suffered bitterly," said the doctor.

"Talk not of suffering," exclaimed Holden. "I reckon all that man can
endure as not to be compared with the crown of glory that awaits him
who shall gain entrance into the Kingdom. What is this speck we call
life? Mark," he continued, taking up a pebble and dropping it into the
water, "it is like the bubble that rises to burst, or the sound of my
voice that dies as soon away. Thereon waste I not a thought, except to
prepare me for the coming of my Lord."

"You think, then, this solitary life the best preparation you can make
for the next?"

"Yes," said Holden; "I work not my own will. Can the clay say to the
potter, what doest thou? Behold, I am in the hand of One wiser and
mightier than I. Nor hath he left me without duties to perform. I am
one crying in the wilderness, and though the people heed not, yet must
the faithful witness cry. I have a work to perform, and how is my soul
straitened until it be done? Canst thou not thyself see, by what
hath happened to-day, some reason why the solitary is upon his lonely
island? Had he loved the crowded haunts of men, a fellow-being had,
perhaps, perished."

The allusion to the occurrence of the morning recalled the doctor's
attention to the purpose for which he had left the chamber, and which
he had forgotten, in listening to the talk of the enthusiast. He
now directed the conversation to the subject of the wound, and heard
Holden's account. He became convinced, both from his statement, and
from a few words Pownal himself had dropped, as well as from the sight
of the gun which Holden had picked up, and found just discharged, that
the wounding was accidental, and occasioned by the young man's own
fowling-piece. Having satisfied himself on this point, the doctor,
with his companion, re-entered the hut. It was only to give a few
parting directions to Bernard, to enjoin quiet upon his patient, and
to take leave of him, which he did, in the words of his favorite--

  "Fare thee well!
  The elements be kind to thee, and make
  Thy spirits all of comfort."




CHAPTER III.

  Ici il fallut que j'en divinasse plus qu'on ne m'en disoit.
    MEMOIRES DE SULLY.


A week after the events narrated in the preceding chapters, a small
company was collected in a parlor of one of the houses of Hillsdale.
It consisted of a gentleman, of some fifty years of age; his wife, a
fine-looking matron, some years his junior; their daughter, a bright
blue-eyed flaxen-haired girl, rounding into the most graceful form of
womanhood, and a young man, who is not entirely a stranger to us.

The judgment of the doctor, respecting the wound of Pownal--for it is
he--had proved to be correct, and, on the second day after the hurt,
he had returned to the village, with his friend William Bernard, in
the house of whose father he was, for the present, domiciliated. The
young men had been acquainted before, and the accident seemed to have
established a sort of intimacy between them. It was, therefore, with
no feeling of reluctance, that Pownal accepted an invitation to desert
his boarding-house for a while, for the hospitality of his friend.
Perhaps, his decision was a little influenced by the remembrance of
the blue eyes of Miss Bernard, and of the pleasant effect which, from
their first acquaintance, they had exerted upon him. However that
may be, it is certain, that, although somewhat paler than usual, he
appeared to be quite contented with his condition.

It was evening, and candles were lighted, and Mr. Bernard, or as
he was more commonly, or, indeed, almost universally, called, Judge
Bernard, from having been one of the judges of the Superior Court, was
sitting in an arm-chair, reading a newspaper; Mrs. Bernard was busy
with her knitting; the young lady employed upon one of those pieces
of needle-work, which, in those days, were seldom out of female hands,
and Pownal looking at her all he dared, and listening to an occasional
paragraph read by the Judge from his newspaper.

"You are the cause of quite a sensation in our little community,
Thomas," said the Judge, laying down his spectacles and newspaper
at the same time. "Mr. Editor Peters and the gossips ought to be
infinitely obliged to you for wounding yourself, and affording him an
opportunity to display his inventive genius and the brilliancy of his
imagination, and giving them something to talk about. Here, Anne, read
the article aloud for our edification."

The young lady ran her eye hastily down the column, and could not
restrain her laughter.

"Excuse me, papa," she said, "it is too much for my poor nerves. Only
think of it; Mr. Peters loads Mr. Pownal's gun with sixteen buck-shot,
topples him off a precipice twenty feet high, breaks three of his
ribs, and makes a considerable incision in his skull. Never was there
such a wonderful escape. It is too horrible."

"How the newspapers are given to big stories!" said Mrs. Bernard.

"I dare say," cried Anne, "the editor has authority for what he
says, for now that my attention is drawn to it, I think there must
be something in the incision. Have you not remarked, mamma, that Mr.
Pownal is at times light-headed?"

"Anne!" exclaimed her mother, smiling, "I am ashamed to hear a young
girl rattle on so."

"I am not aware of being more light-headed than usual," said Pownal,
"but I am certain no one can be in Miss Bernard's company, and not be
light-hearted."

"Very prettily spoken! Mr. Thomas Pownal is practising his wit upon a
country maiden, in order to be in training when he returns to open the
campaign among the New York ladies."

"I am too happy here," said Pownal, in a low tone, "to wish to return
to the city."

An almost imperceptible blush suffused the cheeks of Miss Bernard. She
looked up from the newspaper, but her eyes encountering those of the
young man, instantly fell.

"What fine speeches are you making to one another?" broke in the
Judge. "My dear, do not hold down your head. It throws the blood into
your face."

"Papa," cried his daughter, desirous to divert attention from herself,
"can you find nothing instructing in the paper to read to us? Is there
no report of any speech?"

"Speeches, indeed! Thank Heaven, there is no speech in this paper.
The session of Congress has not commenced, and the deluge of words, in
comparison with which Noah's flood was a summer's shower, therefore,
not begun. Why, my dear little daughter, do you remind me of the
national calamity?"

"To atone for the offence, papa, let me tell you that Mr. Armstrong
and Faith promised to come to see us this evening, and from the sound
of the opening of the front gate, I suspect they are close at hand."

Anne's conjecture proved true, for shortly after the expected visitors
were announced, and the usual greetings having passed, they were all
soon seated.

But before proceeding further, it may not be amiss to give some
description of persons destined to play a not unimportant part in our
story.

Mr. Armstrong was of middle age, of the ordinary stature, and with a
face which still possessed great beauty. A noble brow, hair originally
black, but prematurely grey, large dark eyes, a straight nose, and
a well-formed mouth, over which played an expression of benevolence,
made an exterior of exceeding attractiveness, and it would have been
an unmixed pleasure to gaze upon his gracious presence, but for an air
of dejection amounting to suffering, which had of late been increasing
upon him. He seldom smiled, and when he did the smile was often
succeeded by a dark shadow, as if he felt compunction for trespassing
on the precints of gaiety.

Faith strongly resembled her father, as well in externals as in the
character of her mind. Her figure was slender, approaching even to
delicacy, though without any appearance of sickliness. Her face, pale
and thoughtful usually, was sometimes lighted up with an enthusiasm
more angelic than human. Her mother having died when she was too young
to appreciate the loss, she had concentrated upon her father all that
love which is generally divided between two parents. Nor was it with
a feeling of love only she regarded him. With it was mixed a sentiment
of reverence amounting almost to idolatry. No opinion, no thought,
no word, no look of his but had for her a value. And richly was the
affection of the child returned by the father, and proud was he of
her, notwithstanding his struggles against the feeling as something
sinful.

It was the first time since the accident to Pownal that Mr. Armstrong
or his daughter had seen him, and the conversation naturally turned
upon the danger he had incurred.

"It was a providential escape," said Mr. Armstrong. "It is astonishing
how many dangers we run into, and our escapes may be considered as
so many daily miracles to prove the interposition of a controlling
Providence. There are few persons who cannot look back upon several
such in the course of their lives."

"You are right, my friend," said the Judge. "I can recall half a dozen
in my own experience; and if some have had fewer, some, doubtless,
have had more."

"These accidents are, I suspect, the consequences of our own
carelessness in nine cases out of ten," said Pownal. "At any rate, I
am sure it was my carelessness that occasioned mine."

"You speak as if it could have been avoided," said Mr. Armstrong.

"Certainly. Do you not think so?"

"I am not sure of it," said Mr. Armstrong. "There appears to be a
chain which links events together in an inevitable union. The very
carelessness of which you accuse yourself may be the means purposely
used to bring about important events."

"It has brought about very agreeable events for me," said Pownal. "I
am only afraid, from the care lavished upon me, I shall be tempted to
think too much of myself."

"It has scattered pleasure all around, then," said Mrs. Bernard,
kindly.

"Yes," said the Judge; "any attention we can render is more than
repaid by the pleasure Mr. Pownal's presence imparts. If he should
ever think more highly of himself than we do, he will be a very vain
person."

The young man could only bow, and with a gratified countenance return
his thanks for their kindness.

"Your adventure was also the means," said Mr. Armstrong, "of making
you acquainted with our anchorite. Did you not find him an interesting
person?"

"More than interesting," replied Pownal. "From the moment he took me
into his arms as if I had been a child, and with all the tenderness of
a mother, I felt strangely attracted to him. I shall always remember
with pleasure the two days I spent in his cabin, and mean to cultivate
his acquaintance if he will permit me."

"He is evidently a man of refinement and education," said Armstrong,
"who, for reasons of his own, has adopted his peculiar mode of life.
It was a long time before I could be said to be acquainted with him,
but the more I know him, the better I like him. He and Faith are great
friends."

"I value his friendship highly and am glad he made so favorable an
impression on you, Mr. Pownal," said Faith.

"I do believe," cried Anne, "Faith could not reverence him more if he
were one of the old prophets."

"If not a prophet," said Faith, "he is at least a noble and good man,
and that is the highest title to respect. He takes an interest in you,
too, Mr. Pownal, for Anne tells me he has been to see you."

"My preserver has been here several times to make inquiries after my
health," answered Pownal. "He was here this morning."

"And preaching about the kingdom," said Judge Bernard. "What a strange
infatuation to look for the end of the world each day."

"He errs in the interpretation of the prophecies," said Mr. Armstrong,
"when he finds in them prognostics of the speedy destruction of the
world, but does he mistake the personal application? Who knows when
he may be called to face his judge? Youth, and health, and strength,
furnish no immunity against death."

"But what a gloom this daily expectation of an event which the wisest
and stoutest hearted are unable to contemplate without trepidation,
casts over life," said the Judge.

"Not in his case," replied Armstrong. "On the contrary, I am satisfied
he would hail it with a song of thanksgiving, and I think I have
observed he is sometimes impatient of the delay."

"It is well his notions are only crazy fancies as absurd as his beard.
His appearance is very heathenish," said Mrs. Bernard.

"Taste, my dear," exclaimed the Judge, "all taste. Why, I have a
great mind to wear a beard myself. It would be a prodigious comfort to
dispense with the razor in cold winter mornings, to say nothing of the
ornament. And now that I think of it, it is just the season to begin."

"You would look like a bear, Mr. Bernard," said his wife.

"It would be too near an imitation of the old Puritans for you,
Judge," said Faith.

"You, at least, my little Puritan," cried the Judge, "would not
object. But do not fancy that in avoiding Scylla I _must_ run upon
Charybdis. Be sure I would not imitate the trim moustaches and peaked
chins of those old dandies, Winthrop and Endicott. I prefer the full
flowing style of Wykliffe and Cranmer."

"We should then have two Holdens," exclaimed Mrs. Bernard, "and that
would be more than our little village could live through."

"Fancy papa running an opposition beard against Mr. Holden!" said
Anne.

The idea was sufficiently ludicrous to occasion a general laugh, and
even Armstrong smiled.

"I am a happy man," said the Judge; "not only mirthful, myself, but
the cause of mirth in others. What a beam of light is a smile, what a
glory like a sunrise is a laugh!"

"That will do, Judge Bernard, that will do," said his wife; "do not
try again, for you cannot jump so high twice."

"Tut, tut, Mary; what do you know about the higher poetics? I defy you
to find such sublimities either in Milton or Dante."

"I can easily believe it," said Mrs. Bernard.

At this moment some other visitors entering the room, the conversation
took another turn; and Mr. Armstrong and his daughter having remained
a short time longer, took leave and returned home. Let us follow the
departing visitors.

Upon his return, Mr. Armstrong sank upon a seat with an air of
weariness.

"Come, Faith," he said, "and sit by me and hold my hand. I have been
thinking this evening of the insensibility of the world to their
condition. How few perceive the precipice on the edge of which they
stand!"

His daughter, who was accustomed to these sombre reflections, bent
over, and bringing his hand to her lips, kissed it without saying
anything, knowing that he would soon explain himself more perfectly.

"Which," continued Armstrong, "is wiser, the thoughtless frivolity of
Judge Bernard, or the sad watchfulness of Holden?"

"I am not competent to judge, dear father; but if they both act
according to their convictions of right, are they not doing their
duty?"

"You ask a difficult question. To be sure men must act according to
their ideas of right, but let them beware how they get them, and what
they are. Yet, can one choose his ideas? These things puzzle me?"

"What else can we do," inquired his daughter, "than live by the light
we have? Surely I cannot be responsible for my involuntary ignorance."

"How far we may be the cause of the ignorance we call involuntary,
it is impossible to determine. A wrong act, an improper thought,
belonging to years ago and even repented of since, may project
its dark shadow into the present, and pervert the judgment. We are
fearfully made."

"Why pain yourself, dearest father, with speculations of this
character? Our Maker knows our weakness and will pardon our
infirmities."

"I am an illustration of the subject of our conversation," continued
Armstrong, after a pause of a few minutes, during which he had
remained meditating, with his head resting on his hand. "I know I
would not, willingly, harshly judge another--for who authorized me to
pass sentence? Yet these ideas would force themselves into my mind;
and how have I spoken of our kind and excellent neighbor! There is
something wrong in myself which I must struggle to correct."

We communicate only enough of the conversation to give an idea of
the state of Mr. Armstrong's mind at the time. At the usual family
devotions that night he prayed fervently for forgiveness of his error,
repeatedly upbraiding himself with presumption and uncharitableness,
and entreating that he might not be left to his own vain imaginations.




CHAPTER IV.

  O! I could whisper thee a tale,
    That surely would thy pity move,
  But what would idle words avail,
    Unless the heart might speak its love?

  To tell that tale my pen were weak,
    My tongue its office, too, denies,
  Then mark it on my varying cheek,
    And read it in my languid eyes.
                                    ANONYMOUS.

After the expiration of a fortnight, Pownal could find no excuses to
satisfy even himself with remaining longer at Judge Bernard's. The
visit had been, indeed, one of great enjoyment, and gladly would he
have availed himself of the pressing invitation of his host to prolong
it, could he have conjured up any reason for doing so. Lightly would
he have esteemed and cheerfully welcomed another wound like that from
which he was recovering, could the pleasure have been thus purchased.
The truth is that within a few days he had been conscious of a feeling
of which he had never before suspected himself, and it was this
feeling that made him so reluctant to depart. And yet, when, in the
silence of his chamber, and away from the blue eyes of Anne Bernard,
he reflected upon his position, he was obliged to confess, with a
sigh, that prudence required he should leave a society as dangerous
as it was sweet. To be in the same house with her, to breathe the same
air, to read the same books, to hear her voice was a luxury it was
hard to forego, but in proportion to the difficulty was the necessity.
Besides he could not avoid fancying that young Bernard, though not
cold, was hardly as cordial as formerly, and that he would regard
with satisfaction a separation from his sister. Nor had he reason to
suppose that she looked upon him with feelings other than those which
she entertained for any other acquaintance standing to her in the
same relation as himself. Beyond the ordinary compliments and little
attentions which the manners of the day permitted, nothing had passed
between them, and though satisfied he was not an object of aversion,
he knew as well that she had never betrayed any partiality for him.
Meanwhile, his own feelings were becoming interested, beyond, perhaps,
the power of control, the sooner, therefore, he weaned himself from
the delightful fascination, the better for his peace of mind.

Thomas Pownal was comparatively a stranger in the neighborhood, only
two or three months having elapsed since he had been sent by the
mercantile firm of Bloodgood, Pownal, & Co., of New York, to take
charge of a branch of their business at Hillsdale. Even in that short
space of time, by his affable manners and attention to business he had
won his way to the respect and esteem of the good people of the town,
and was looked upon as one likely to succeed in the lottery of life.
No one was more welcome, by reason of his amiable character, to those
of his own age, while his steadiness recommended him to his elders.
But his family was unknown, though he was supposed to be a distant
relation of the second member of the firm, nor had he any visible
means of subsistence except the very respectable salary, which, as
a confidential clerk, he received from his employers, on whom his
prospects of success depended. The chasm, therefore, betwixt the only
daughter of the wealthy Mr. Bernard and himself, was wide--wide enough
to check even an overweening confidence. But such it was not in the
nature of Pownal to feel. He was sensible of the full force of
the difficulties he had to encounter; to his modesty they seemed
insuperable, and he determined to drive from his heart a sentiment
that, in his despondency, he blamed himself for allowing to find a
place there.

It took him some days to form the resolution, and after it was formed,
it was not easy to carry it into effect. More than once he had been
on the point of returning thanks for the kindness he had received,
and avowing his intention to depart, but it seemed as if the veriest
trifle were sufficient to divert him from his purpose. If Mr. Bernard
spoke of the satisfaction he derived from his company, if Mrs. Bernard
declared she should miss him when he left; or if Anne's radiant
face looked thanks for his reading aloud, they were all so many
solicitations to delay his departure. The treacherous heart readily
listened to the seduction, however much the judgment might disapprove.
But, as we have seen, a time had come when the voice of prudence could
no longer be silenced, and, however unwillingly, must be obeyed. He,
therefore, took occasion, one morning, at the breakfast table, to
announce his intended departure.

"Had I been a son," he said, in conclusion, "you could not have
lavished more kindness upon me, and I shall never forget it."

"What! what!" cried the Judge, "I am not sure that the shooting one's
self is a bailable offence, and I shall be obliged to examine the
authorities, before I discharge you from custody, Master Thomas."

"To think," said Mrs. Bernard, "it does not seem a week since you
came, and we have all been so happy. I declare, Mr. Pownal, I shall
not know how to do without you."

"The dearest friends must part--but we shall always be glad to see
you, Tom," said William Bernard.

"I do not see the necessity for your going," said the Judge. "Our
house is large enough for all; your attacks at table are not yet very
formidable; and I have not taught you whist perfectly. Would it not
be better to substitute a _curia vult avisare_ in place of a decision?
But, Anne, have you nothing to say? Is this your gratitude for all
Thomas's martyrdoms of readings of I know not what unimaginable
nonsense; and holdings of skeins of silk, more difficult to unwind
than the labyrinth through which Ariadne's thread conducted Theseus;
and pickings up of whatever your feminine carelessness chose to drop
on the carpet; and endurance of all the legions of annoyances with
which young ladies delight to harass young gentlemen? Have you no
backing for your mother and me? One word from you ought to be worth a
thousand from us old folks."

"Mr. Pownal owes me some gratitude, too, father," said Anne, "for the
patience and accomplishments I have taught him. But he surely knows
how much pleasure his presence confers on all in this house. We shall
miss him very much, shall we not, Beau?"--addressing a little spaniel
that, upon being spoken to, sat up on his hind legs to beg for
breakfast.

"I have several times endeavored to say this before," said Pownal,
somewhat piqued, and feeling a strong desire to kick the innocent
cur out of the room, "but have never been able to muster sufficient
courage. And now, if my thanks appear cold, as I am afraid they do to
Miss Bernard, I assure her it is not the fault of my heart, but of my
tongue."

"Hearts and tongues!" exclaimed the Judge. "The former belong to the
ladies' department; the latter to mine. Yet, I fancy I know something
about hearts, too; and yours, Thomas, I am sure, is adequate security
for your words."

"You are very good, sir," said Pownal, "and I can only wish that all
participated in your undeserved partiality."

Anne was vexed with herself for having spoken in so trifling a manner.
The frigid politeness of her brother's speech, too, had not escaped
her notice. It seemed to her now, that she had been wantonly rude. She
hastened, therefore, to repair the fault.

"Mr. Pownal mistakes," she said, "if he thinks me unmindful of the
pleasant hours his unfortunate accident procured us. And I am sure I
should be a monster of ingratitude," she added smiling, and relapsing,
in spite of herself, into the very trifling she had condemned, "if I
did not remember, with lively emotions, his skill at holding silk and
yarn."

"Well, whenever you want a reel, send for me," said Pownal, "and I
shall only be too happy to come."

"Take care, my good fellow," said the Judge, "she does not wind you
up, too."

"I should be too happy--" began Pownal.

"For shame, father," cried Anne, laughing, and rising from the table.
"The young men have quite spoiled you, of late. Good-bye; you have
finished your last cup of coffee, and have no longer need of me." So
saying, she hastened out of the room.

It was with mutual regret that the parting took place, and not without
many promises required of the young man that he would frequently visit
the family. His landlady, Mrs. Brown, was, as usual, all smiles, and
welcomes, and congratulations on his return; notwithstanding which, it
was with a sense of loneliness, amounting almost to desolation, that
her lodger found himself installed again in his apartments. It seemed
like passing out of the golden sunshine into a gloomy cavern. Was it
possible that two short weeks could have produced so great a change in
him? When he thought upon the cause, the conscious blush revealed its
nature. "No," said he, aloud, as he paced backwards and forwards
in the room, "this is folly and madness. For me, a humble clerk, to
connect myself, even in imagination, with _her_! What have I to offer
her? Or what even in prospect? I have been sailing in the clouds,
and my tattered balloon is precipitated to the earth--I have been
dreaming. How delicious was the dream! But I am now awake, and will
never expose myself to the mortification of ----. I have been foolish.
No, not so; for, who could come within the range of such fascinations,
and not be charmed? But what, after all, are they to me? I will
resist this weakness, and learn to regard her as only any other valued
acquaintance; for, alas! she can never be more."

In such incoherent expressions, poor Pownal gave vent to the emotions
that agitated him. It would have been some consolation, could he have
known what was said at the Bernards', when the family gathered around
the table in the evening. Mrs. Bernard alluded more than once to the
gap his absence made in their little circle; and the Judge, in his
jesting way, wished that somebody would shoot him again, if it might
be the means to bring him back. Even Anne expressed regret at his
loss, since his company had been such a pleasure to her parents.




CHAPTER V.

  "Groves freshened, as he looked, and flowers
     Showed bright on rocky bank,
  And fountains welled beneath the bowers,
     Where deer and pheasant drank;
  He saw the glittering streams, he heard
  The rustling bough and twittering bird."

  BRYANT.


The mind of Ohquamehud dwelt upon his meeting with Holden. Sleeping or
waking, the image of the latter pursued him. But it was not always
in the shape of the Recluse that the vision appeared. More often it
assumed the form of a young man, in the garb of a western hunter, with
a rifle in his hand. Then rose up, in connection with him, boundless
forests, through which the deer stole noiselessly, and the screech
of the catamount was heard. And then again he hunted, and as he
approached the game he had shot, Holden approached and claimed it as
his; or he was on a war-path, and stumbled against a log, and fell;
and as he strove to rise, the log was changed into Holden, who
grappled him in a death-struggle--wherever he was, and whithersoever
he turned his eyes, there was the young man, seeming to be, and
yet not to be Holden, and haunting him like a shadow. As these
imaginations possessed themselves more and more of the Indian's mind,
he began to fancy himself the victim of some incantation, with which
he naturally connected the Recluse as the cause; and, finally,
by continual brooding on the subject, both his appetite and sleep
deserted him. His moodiness at length attracted the attention of
Peéna. Ohquamehud was lying on the floor of her hut, his head resting
on his hand, and he had been for some time gazing in the fire. The
simple noon-day meal had barely been tasted, and that in silence.

"Have the hands of Peéna," she said, "forgot how to prepare his food,
that the eyes of my brother turn away from it with displeasure?"

"The hands of my sister have not lost their skill, but Ohquamehud is
not hungry."

"Ohquamehud is a warrior, and Peéna is but a weak woman, and he will
not be angry," she added, hesitatingly.

The Indian waved his hand, with dignity, as if inviting her to
proceed.

"Ohquamehud sees the heart of his sister, and he knows that it loves
him, for he is the brother of Huttamoiden. Why does he cover up his
face from her, and hide his grief? Is she unworthy," she added, laying
her hand on his shoulder, and looking affectionately in his face, "to
listen to his voice?"

He turned towards her, and paused before he said--

"The stone in the path of Ohquamehud is very small, and will not hurt
his feet."

"Peéna, then, will try to remove it. She has strength to move small
stones."

She ceased, and continued looking at him, without adding a word, as if
she had said enough, and awaited a reply.

"Why should Ohquamehud speak?" he said, at last; "the breath of the
Long Beard will blow away his words."

A look of vacancy overspread the face of the squaw, as if she failed
to apprehend his meaning.

"My brother's words are dark," she said.

"Has not the powawing of the Long Beard brought back the spirit
of Huttamoiden's cub from the happy hunting-grounds, and does not,
therefore, the face of Peéna turn to him as the sun-flower to the
sun?"

"The Great Spirit loves the Long Beard, and the Long Beard loves his
red brethren."

"What! a Yenghese love an Indian? Yes, as a wild-cat loves the deer
when he sucks his blood, as the water loves the fire it extinguishes.
The lips of Peéna speak foolishness."

"If Peéna feel grateful to the Long Beard, why should that anger her
brother? Could he look into her heart, he would see his face as in a
clear stream."

It was not in human nature to withstand the soft voice and pleading
looks of the woman. The momentary fierceness passed away from the
countenance of the Indian, a milder expression assumed its place, and,
in a gentle tone, he said--

"Peéna shall hear. She is like a stone which, when spoken to, repeats
not what is said, and not like a brook that sings an idle song. My
words shall enter her ears, but they will not descend to her tongue.
Listen! the Manitou has troubled my thoughts, and sent a bird to tell
me, that the hands of the Long Beard are red with the blood of my
brothers."

"It was a lying bird," she exclaimed vehemently; "it was an owl that
hooted untruth from the dark. When lifted the Long Beard a hatchet
against my tribe?"

"The voice was as the voice of the waterfall," he continued. "It spoke
indistinctly, and I understood but half."

"Why should not Ohquamehud talk with the Long Beard? The words of each
shall be sweet to the other, and they will learn to have one heart."

"It is well," said the Indian, "Peéna is a wise woman, and Ohquamehud
will speak with the white man."

It needed only the suggestion of the squaw to carry into effect a
resolution already more than half adopted.

The Indian rose, and proceeding to the river, which was but a dozen
rods distant from the hut, unloosed a canoe, and directing its course
up the stream, was lost, in a few moments, from her view.

The appearance of Ohquamehud indicated no hostility when he presented
himself before the Recluse, whom he found weaving baskets in front
of his cabin, nor did his visit seem to surprise the latter. For an
instant the Indian looked with disdain upon an employment which his
wild education had taught him was fit only for women; but suppressing
the expression of a sentiment that might have interfered with his
purpose, with a quiet dignity, and, as if in answer to a wave of
Holden's hand, he seated himself on a large stone by his side. For
a time he was silent, as if either out of deference to the superior
years of the other, or because he wished to collect his thoughts
before he began the conversation. Finding, however, he could obtain
from the Solitary no further sign of recognition, he spoke in his own
language.

"My brother has a big heart. He is making gifts for the beautiful
women of his nation."

"Indian," replied Holden, "think not to deceive me. At this moment
thou considerest this an occupation unfit for a man."

"My brother has very long eyes. They can see the woodpecker on the
rotten tree across the river, but they reach not here," laying his
hand upon his breast. "The Holder of the Heavens loves not to see
things alike. He therefore made the leaf of the oak to differ from
that of the hickory, and the pine from both, and also the white race
from the red. And, for the same reason, he taught the white man to
make big lodges of wood, and brick and stone, and to swim over the
waters in large canoes with wings: while to the red man he gave the
forests and prairies, with the deer, and bear, and buffalo, and caused
him to dwell in very small wigwams made of bark. And so, also, he
taught my white brother to weave beautiful baskets, but denied the
skill to my father's son."

The Indian must have supposed he had seriously offended his new
acquaintance, to induce him thus elaborately to attempt to avert
his suspicions. However that might be, the Solitary resumed the
conversation as though he felt no resentment.

"There is wisdom in thy speech. The Great Spirit loves variety, and it
is he that maketh men to differ. But there was once a time many moons
ago, when thy ancestors builded great houses and dwelt in cities, and
sailed over the seas in winged-canoes."

The Indian cast a quick, sharp glance at the Solitary, as if he wished
to read his very soul. For a moment he looked as though he doubted the
evidence of his senses. But recovering his composure, he said:

"The thoughts of my brother are very high, and his voice like the
sound of a great wind."

"Thou comprehendest me not. Know then, Indian, that innumerable years
ago, there lived far towards the rising sun, twelve tribes, called the
'Children of Israel,' whom the Master of Life greatly loved. And they
had wise and brave Sachems, who led them to battle, and their feet
were red with the blood of their enemies. But they became wicked, and
would not hearken unto the words of the Great Spirit, and He turned
his face away from them. So their enemies came upon them, and
despoiled them, and drove them from the land. Two of the tribes still
linger near the rising sun, but ten wandered far away into distant
countries, and they are thy fathers."

The Indian listened with great attention, and upon the other pausing,
said:

"Has the Manitou told all these things to my brother?"

"No, Indian; the Great Spirit speaks not now to his people as he did
when the world was young. But," he added, as if struck with the folly
of continuing a conversation of this character, "the path is long that
led me to this truth, and it would weary thy feet to travel it."

"My brother is wise, and cannot lie, and I am a child. My ears drink
in his words. The legs of my brother are long, and he has been a great
traveller. Was it near the rising sun he learned the language of the
red man?"

"Indian, I have never been nearer the rising sun than thou. But tell
me the object of thy visit. Why dost thou seek me now, when but a few
days since thou didst chide the squaw for her willingness to oblige
me?"

"The lips of Ohquamehud spoke folly. He did not then know that this
brother had talked to the Master of Life, who granted to him the life
of Huttamoiden's child. The blood of Huttamoiden runs in these veins."

The explanation was perfectly natural, and whatever suspicion had
arisen in Holden's mind vanished. It seemed not surprising that the
Indian, who also, by uttering his name, had proclaimed himself a
Pequot, should be willing to form the acquaintance of one who had
proved himself a friend to his tribe, and probably was invested in his
imagination with the qualities of a "great medicine." But, though
to Holden's high-wrought fancies, the recovery of the boy had seemed
miraculous, and he could not avoid connecting his prayers with it,
yet he shrank from directly claiming so great a power as the Indian
ascribed to him.

"The issues of life and death are with the Great Spirit," he said. "At
his pleasure he breathes into our nostrils, and we live; or he turns
away his face, and we die. Let not my brother give too much credit to
a worm."

The wily Indian, from the other's altered tone and manner, perceived
his advantage, and was not slow to use it.

"Because my white brother loved his red brethren, he sought them in
their lodges, and there they taught him their language. So when the
boy was departing for the happy hunting grounds, my brother remembered
their kindness, and held the child by the hand, and would not let him
go."

The face of the Solitary worked with emotion while the other was
speaking.

"Would that I could explain," he said. "But thou art unable to
understand. How canst thou know a Christian heart?"

"The heart of Ohquamehud is a man's."

"Aye; but a savage knows not, and despises forgiveness. I was a
stately pine, whose branches mingled with the clouds, and the birds
came and lodged therein. And a storm arose, and thunders rolled,
and the lightning struck it, and its pride and glory tumbled to the
ground. And it was burnt up, all save this blasted trunk." He uttered
this with a wild frenzy, and as if hardly conscious of the presence of
another.

"Doth the lightning fall from a clear sky?" said the Indian, after
a pause. "It is long since a black cloud burst over the ancient
hunting-grounds of the Pequots."

"Where the streams run toward the setting sun, the thunderbolt struck.
Why was it not me instead of those dearer to me than life?"

"A bird hath sung to Ohquamehud that the land is pleasant, and the
hunter only extends his hand to find something to savor his broth and
to cover his feet."

"It is a land of streams, and mountains, and forests, and the deer
and the bear still are plenty. When the Creator made it, he smiled
and pronounced it good; and there, as in your fabled hunting-grounds,
might men be blessed but for their passions."

"The red man loves his friend, and hates his enemy."

"To hate is a devilish feeling. It comes not from the Good Spirit."

Ohquamehud rose and stood before Holden. It seemed to his bold and
ferocious temper, that he could not, without cowardice, hear assailed
and not vindicate, a principle that had been inculcated upon him from
youth, and formed a sacred portion of his creed. As he stood up, the
blanket fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, around his person,
and he stretched out a hand to solicit attention.

"Listen," he said; "the tongue of Ohquamehud is one: it will speak the
truth. Because the Great Spirit loved his children, he made them to
love and to hate, and both are pleasant. The south wind is sweet when
it comes in spring to tell that winter is past and the starved Indian
need no longer shiver over the fire; and sweet are the kisses of
Wullogana to Ohquamehud, and dear are the voices of his little ones
when they meet him from the chase, but sweeter than the sighs of the
wind of spring, or the caresses of Wullogana, or the laughter of
his children, is it to strike an enemy. His flesh is good, for it
strengthens a red heart. The wolf will never become a lamb, and the
wolf is the totem of my clan. Ohquamehud has said."

It would be impossible to describe the conflicting emotions of Holden
during this savage speech. Whatever might have been the wild incidents
of his youth, or whatever his wrongs and sufferings, the time was long
past, and he had supposed all stormy passion subdued, and his heart
chastised to resignation and submission. He listened at first with
unmixed horror to the Indian's declaration, but as the savage went on,
the words became more and more indistinct, till they lost all meaning
or were converted into other sounds, and, as in a dream, made the
aliment of his thoughts. The whole conversation, and the very language
in which they spoke, contributed to produce this state of mind. Lost
to all around, his soul was far away. He saw a cabin beside a mountain
torrent, overshadowed by immense trees. It was summer, and the birds
were singing among the branches. The door of the cabin opened, and a
young and beautiful white woman stepped out, holding a child by the
hand. Suddenly it was night, and the cabin on fire, and he heard the
yells of savages, and saw them like so many demons dancing round the
flames; then hush, all again was still, and darkness brooded over the
spot, lighted only by a flickering brand.

The bosom of Holden heaved convulsively, and his brain reeled.

The Indian watched his changing countenance with an eager look as
if he revelled in his agony. Not a hard drawn breath, not a single
expression escaped his notice. He saw the eyes of the Solitary flash,
then settle into a dreamy gaze as if looking into a dim, unfathomable
distance, then shut, as if he tried to exclude some horrid sight.
Suddenly, with a shudder, Holden sprang to his feet.

"Accursed Shawnees," he cried; "they have done this deed. But for
every drop of blood they shed a river shall flow. Dog!" and he seized
the Indian with a strength to which madness lent additional force, and
dashed him to the ground, "thou art first delivered into my hand."

He staggered toward the fallen man--stopped--glared at him a moment
and with a wild cry rushed into the hut.

The Indian, who had immediately risen from the fall, and stood with
folded arms regarding his motions, slowly gathered up his disordered
blanket about him and stalked towards the canoe. A gleam of ferocity
shot over his face as he resumed the paddle, and softly breathing the
single word "Onontio," pushed from the shore.




CHAPTER VI.

  I will pursue to death this spiteful knight:
    Not earth's low centre, nor sea's deepest part,
  Nor heaven, nor hell, can shield him from my might:
    I will o'ertake him, take him, cleave his heart.
                                    FAIRFAX' TASSO.


The suspicions of the Indian were confirmed beyond a doubt. It was,
perhaps, the voice and accent of the Solitary in his native tongue
that at first attracted his attention and induced him to try the
experiment which resulted as we have seen. He must have had or fancied
that he had a cause of deadly hatred of long standing against Holden.
It is impossible otherwise to explain his conduct. But no length of
time can erase the recollection of an injury from the mind of a North
American Indian. He cherishes it as something never to be parted with,
and would feel degraded in his own estimation were he to forgive.
Revenge is the central sun round which his spirit revolves; and to
gratify the feeling no hardships are too severe. For such a purpose
he will traverse, with an unerring instinct, pathless forests for
hundreds of miles, swim wide rivers, climb lofty mountains, sleep,
unrepining, on the bare ground, exposed to all vicissitudes of heat
and cold, supporting himself by the chase and fishing, and sustained
throughout by his vindictive passion and the glory he connects with
its gratification. The kindness shown by Holden to his sister and
her son, and the reverence with which she regarded him, it might
be expected would have influenced Ohquamehud; but they had no such
effect. To the kindness he ascribed a sinister motive; and of course,
Peéna's gratitude was misplaced. It was therefore with a fiendish joy
unalloyed by misgivings, that he brooded over the means to accomplish
his purpose.

He dared not communicate it to Peéna. He understood her gentle
nature too well to suppose that, under any circumstances, she could
sympathize with him, even though she felt no sense of obligation to
Holden; and, besides, he distrusted her as one who had abandoned the
faith of her fathers. For, although no Christian in the proper import
of the word, the sweet and purifying influences of Christianity had
not been wholly thrown away upon Peéna. She had many friends in the
neighboring village who had been attracted by her gentle temper and
modesty, conspicuous among whom was Faith Armstrong. Hence, when she
came to the village, as not unfrequently was the case, in order to
sell the berries she had gathered in the fields, or pretty baskets
stained with such lively colors as the simple skill of the Indians
knew how to extract from roots and the bark of trees, it seldom
happened that she returned without having made Faith a visit. On such
occasions the enthusiastic girl would strive to inform her on points
of religion which, to her own mind, were of the highest importance.
Peéna would listen, and never contradict, though, it is probable, she
understood but little of what to Faith's apprehension was clear.

It was impossible, however, not to derive benefit from such meetings.
None could be in the presence of Faith without being influenced by
the atmosphere of goodness in which she moved. And, indeed, that she
herself derived pleasure from the presence of Peéna, was evidence of
the gentle worth of the latter.

No wonder then that Ohquamehud determined to conceal his fell purpose
in his own heart. When, therefore, with the quiet step peculiar to his
race, he glided into her hut, just before the setting of the sun, he
had chased the traces of passion from his brow, and met her with a
calm and satisfied mien. So perfect was the dissimulation that even
one less guileless than the woman would have been deceived. In the
present case, the preoccupation of her mind in Holden's favor made it
easier.

"My brother," she said, with a pleased expression, as she caught sight
of his altered appearance, "is like the sky in summer when not a cloud
is to be seen."

"The cloud has left the sky of Ohquamehud."

This was said with a natural and easy air, as if all suspicion were
banished from his mind; nor was the subject further adverted to.

The time at which the children of nature retire to rest, is not that
observed by the artificially-cultivated man. For them, the hours of
light and darkness mark out the periods for action and repose. It was
then still early in the evening, when a heavy breathing in the hut of
Peéna indicated the sleep of its inmates. Ohquamehud had listened
for it, and having waited until the breathing became deep and full to
assure him of the profoundness of the slumber, he sat up on his couch
and looked cautiously around. The brands were smouldering in the
ashes with a dim flickering light, but sufficient to direct and give
certainty to his movements. With a step so noiseless that the acutest
ear would not have detected it, he crossed the floor, took his rifle
from the corner where it had been placed, with equal caution opened
the door, and stood in the open air.

It was a clear star-lit night, and on the placid bosom of the water
shone one star larger and brighter than the rest, as if to light him
on his way. But it was all unobserved by the Indian. He had no eyes,
no ears, no senses, except for the crime he was about to commit. To
him, no crime, but a heroic act. Slowly, and measuring each step as
though a thousand ears were listening, he proceeded in the direction
of the canoe, untied it, and softly pushed it into the stream. As he
took his seat the dip of his paddle made no sound, and thus, stern as
an iron statue, and almost as still, he paddled on.

And now Ohquamehud approached the island. He stopped his paddle and
held his breath, and listened. Not a living sound was to be heard,
not even the cry of a night bird; nothing save the soft flowing of the
water against the shore. Like an eagle circling round and round before
he pounces on his quarry, the Indian cautiously paddled around the
island. From one of the windows, before concealed, he saw a light.
Keeping at a distance, so that the rays should not fall upon him, he
stole around until he had interposed the hut between himself and its
beams. Then, apparently satisfied there was nothing to be feared, he
directed the canoe towards the island, and slowly advanced until its
bottom touched the sand, when he sat still and listened again. Hearing
nothing, he left the canoe, and crouching down, crept towards the
cabin. Having reached it, he applied his ear to the side and listened,
and again advanced. Thus slowly proceeding, some little time elapsed
before he found himself at the window whence streamed the light.
Without venturing to touch the wooden boards, as if fearful they might
communicate a knowledge of his presence, he raised himself almost
imperceptibly at the edge of the window, until he obtained a view of
the interior. Holden was sitting at a distance of not more than six
feet, near a small table, on which a single candle was burning, and
in his lap lay a large opened book, on which his folded hands were
resting. He seemed lost in meditation, gazing into the wood-fire
before him, towards which his crossed legs were extended at full
length.

The Indian slid his hand down to the lock of the gun, and drew back
the trigger. Cautiously as it was done, he could not prevent a slight
clicking sound, which, perhaps, struck the ear of the Solitary, for he
turned his head and moved in the chair. The Indian slunk to the edge
of the window, so as to conceal his person from any one within the
room, and remained motionless. Presently he advanced his head, and
took another view. The Solitary had resumed his former position, and
was buried in profound thought. The Indian stepped back a couple of
steps, so as to allow the necessary distance between himself and the
window, and raised the rifle to his shoulder.

At that instant and just as he was about to discharge the deadly
weapon, a large rattlesnake, attracted by the warmth, or for some
other reason, glided from the opposite side of the hut towards the
outstretched limbs of Holden, over which it crawled, and resting
its body upon them, with upraised head seemed to fasten its eyes,
glittering in the fire-light, full upon the face of the startled
Indian. The effect was instantaneous. The rifle nearly dropped from
his uplifted hands, a cold sweat burst from every pore, his knees
shook, and his eyes, fixed on the snake by a fascination that
controlled his will, felt bursting from their sockets. After
preserving its attitude for a short time, the snake, as if taking
Holden under its protection, coiled itself around his feet, and lay
with its head resting on his shoe, looking into the fire. As the
snake turned away its bright eyes the spell that bound the Indian
was dissolved. An expression of the deepest awe overspread his
countenance, his lips moved, but emitted no sound, and cautiously as
he had advanced be returned to the canoe, and was soon swallowed up in
the darkness.

The abstraction of Holden must have been deep and long, for upon
recovering from his reverie, the reptile was gone. Without his
consciousness it had come, and without his consciousness departed; and
when he laid the Bible, in which he had been reading, upon the table,
he knew not either the danger he had escaped, or the means by which it
had been averted.

Nor let the conduct of Ohquamehud excite surprise. An American Indian,
he was susceptible to the influence of the legends and traditions of
his race. Among them are some inculcating a superstitious reverence
for certain animals. The bear, for instance, is regarded by some
tribes as a sort of relation, and when the necessity of hunger compels
them to kill him, they apologize, and beg him not to be angry. The
rattlesnake again is an object of great respect. Supplied with a
deadly venom that makes him the most formidable of enemies, he never
attacks unless first injured, and then, if he can reach his foe, his
vengeance is sure. On his trail he disdains concealment, but with the
rattles nature has provided to announce his approach, apprises all,
that they may remove themselves out of his way. Indeed, he comprehends
within himself those qualities most valued by the Indians, and is the
type of a brave warrior. When, therefore, at such an hour and such a
place, the reptile made its appearance, and first darting its fiery
glances at the Pequot, quietly and, as if scorning and defying the
danger, laid itself caressingly on the limbs of Holden, it seemed to
the astonished Indian that the snake knew his purpose, and angrily
ordered him to desist. Vain, he thought, would it be to assail one so
protected, nor was he willing to incur the mysterious enmity of the
snake. How its power might be displayed, whether in striking him
dead on the spot, or in laming his limbs, or defeating his success
in hunting, or what other dreadful manner, he knew not, but he was
convinced that some awful punishment would follow disobedience. He
thought it, therefore, more prudent to yield for the present, and wait
till he had propitiated the snake, or it had withdrawn its protection.
As long as that lasted Onontio was beyond his power. Not that
vengeance was forborne; it was only postponed.

Of such a character were the thoughts that darted through the mind of
the Pequot when frightened from his purpose, and in less time than it
has taken to record them, as with drooping head he pursued his lonely
way. Even what he considered the interposition of a supernatural
power, had not shaken the determination of his spirit. The desire
for revenge had been too long cherished to be given up at a single
warning, however awful, or however strongly appealing to the deepest
implanted superstitions.




CHAPTER VII.

  "Arma, virumque cano qui Primus."
                           VIRGIL


The season had now advanced to within a few days of that joyous period
of the year, when the Governors of the several New England States are
wont to call the people to a public acknowledgment of the favors of
Divine Providence. At the time of which we write, their Excellencies
required the citizens to be thankful "according to law," and "all
servile labor and vain recreation," on said day, were "by law
forbidden," and not, as at present, invited them to assemble in their
respective churches, to unite in an expression of gratitude to
their Heavenly Benefactor. Whether the change from a command to an
invitation, or permission to engage in the sports which were before
forbidden, has been attended with any evil consequences, we leave
to the individual judgment of our readers to determine. But whether
commanded or invited, the people always welcomed the season of
festivity with preaching and praying, and an indiscriminate slaughter
of all the fat turkeys and chickens on which they could lay their
hands.

The yellow and crimson maple leaf had faded on the trees into more
sombre colors, or, falling to the ground, been whirled by the wind
among heaps of other leaves, where its splendor no more attracted
attention. Of the gaiety of autumn, only the red bunches of the sumach
were left as a parting present to welcome winter in. The querulous
note of the quail had long been heard calling to his truant mate, and
reproaching her for wandering from his jealous side; the robins had
either sought a milder climate or were collected in the savin-bushes,
in whose evergreen branches they found shelter, and on whose berries
they love to feed; and little schoolboys were prowling about, busy
collecting barrels for Thanksgiving bonfires.

It was a beautiful clear morning in Thanksgiving-week, when a
side gate, that admitted to the yard or inclosure in front of Mr.
Armstrong's house, opened, and a negro, with a round good-natured
face, and rather foppishly dressed, stepped out upon the walk. But,
before paying our respects to Mr. Felix Qui, it may not be altogether
amiss to give some description of the house of Mr. Armstrong, as
representing the better class of dwelling-houses in our villages, at
the time.

It was a large, two-story wood building, painted white, with green
blinds, and consisted of a main body nearly fifty feet square, in
which, were the apartments for the family, and of an L, as it was
called, from the shape it gave the building, running back, and devoted
to the kitchen and sleeping chambers of the servants. The height of
the stories in this L was somewhat less than in the front part of the
house, indicating thereby, perhaps, the more humble relation in which
it stood to the latter. Three large chimneys rose above the roof, two
from the principal building and one from the kitchen. A wide hall in
the centre, swept through the whole length without interference from
the rear building, which might be considered as a continuation of
somewhat less than one-half of the part in front. The wood-house stood
on the same side as the kitchen, some twenty feet distant; and still
further back, a large barn, also of wood, and painted a light lead
color, with the exception of the cornice and trimmings about the doors
and windows, which were white. The house itself stood some fifty feet
back from the high road, and was surrounded by enormous elms, those
glories of the cultivated American landscape, some measuring four and
five feet in diameter, and throwing their gracefully drooping branches
far and high over the roof, to which, in the heat of summer, they
furnished an acceptable shade. The prospect in front, and looking
between two rows of maples that lined the road, comprehended the
Yaupáae, expanded into a lake, green fields and apple orchards running
down to the water's edge, and hills, clothed to the top with verdure,
rolling away like gigantic waves into the distance. Behind the house
was a garden and orchard of, perhaps, two acres, terminating in a
small evergreen wood of hemlocks and savins, interspersed with a few
noble oaks. Mr. Armstrong had laid out several winding paths through
this little wood, and placed here and there a rustic seat; and the
taste of his daughter had embellished it with a few flowers. Here
Faith had taught the moss pink to throw its millions of starry
blossoms in early spring over the moist ground, after the modest
trailing arbutus, from its retreat beneath the hemlocks, had exhausted
its sweet breath; here, later in the season, the wild columbine
wondered at the neighborhood of the damask rose; here, in the warm
days of summer, or in the delicious moonlight evenings, she loved to
wander, either alone or with her father, in its cool paths.

Still more beautiful than the prospect from the front door, were the
views from this charming spot. Rising to a considerable elevation
above the river to which it descended with a rapid slope, it commanded
not only the former view to the south, though more extended, but also
one to the northwest. Beneath, at a depression of eighty feet, lay the
lake-like river with its green islets dotting the surface, while, at
a short distance, the Fall of the Yaupáae precipitated itself over a
rocky declivity, mingling, in the genial season of the year, a noble
bass with the songs of birds and the sighing of the wind, and adding
to and deepening in the rougher months, the roar of the tempest. A
small stream diverted from the river, turned the wheel of a moss-grown
grist-mill, which was nestled under large willows at the foot of
the rocks, and conveyed the idea of the presence of man, without
detracting from the wild beauty of the scenery.

Now, alas, how is all changed! _Heu! quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore_!
The grist-mill has disappeared! A row of willows which skirted the
road that winding by the margin of the cove, led to it, has been cut
down; and huge brick and stone factories of paper and cotton goods,
gloomy and stern-like evil genii, brood over the scene, and all
through the day and into the night, with grinding cylinders, and
buzzing spindles and rattling looms, strive to drown, with harsh
discords, the music of the waterfall. One of the little islands has
been joined to the main land with gravel carted into the river, and a
bleach-house or some other abomination erected upon it. The place is
disenchanted. The sad Genius of Romance who once loved to stretch his
limbs upon the mossy rocks, and catch inspiration from watching the
foam and listening to the roar, has departed with a shriek, never to
return.

Felix, when he found himself outside of the gate, gazed up and down
the street, as if uncertain in which direction to proceed. After a
momentary hesitation, and drawing a pair of gloves over his hands, he
seemed to have made up his mind, and at a lounging pace, directed his
course up, that is towards the north. He had not gone far when he saw
coming towards him a person of his own color, who until then had been
hid by a turn in the road. No one else was in sight, the spot being
the piece of table-land mentioned in a previous chapter, about a
half mile from the thickly settled part of the town, which was at the
bottom of the hill near the confluence of the rivers. Here were no
shops or public buildings, but only private residences from thirty to
fifty rods apart, and inhabited by a few families a little wealthier,
perhaps, for the most part, than the others.

It was a man, still hale and hearty, though what his age was it might
be difficult to say. He might have been sixty or even seventy. The
African race does not betray the secret of age as readily as the
white. Probably the man did not know himself, nor is it of importance.
He moved with a jerk, and upon a nearer approach it appeared that the
lower part of one of his legs was made of wood. He must have been,
however, long accustomed to it, for as he moved rather sedately along,
it seemed to occasion him but little inconvenience. When sufficiently
near, Felix, touching his cap with great politeness, bade him good
morning, by the title of General. But who our new acquaintance is, we
may as well tell here as anywhere else.

The old negro, then approaching, was one of those, the number of whom,
although small compared with that of the white troops engaged in
the war of the Revolution, was still considerable enough not to be
entirely overlooked. His name was Primus Ransome, and at an early
period he had enlisted into the army, and served until disabled by
the loss of a leg, when he found himself in rags, with an excellent
character for bravery and general good conduct, minus the member left
at Yorktown, and a candidate for any such bounty as the exhausted
means of the country and the liberality of Congress might grant. He
contrived somehow to return to the town of Hillsdale, where, in a
checkered life, he had happened to pass two or three of his happiest
years, and there prepared to enjoy that liberty he had helped to
achieve. His good character, cheerful temper, and the services he had
performed made him a general favorite. Yet, notwithstanding, he found
it at first hard to get along. His military habits had incapacitated
him for long continued industry, and an invitation to a social glass
or an opportunity to tell one of his campaigning stories, was at any
time temptation sufficient to wile him away from labor. There was no
gentleman's kitchen where Primus was not treated with kindness, and
where he did not receive all he asked but he had some pride, and was
unwilling to abuse the offered hospitality. Thus, working a little
at digging in gardens and cutting wood and such other odd jobs as
he could obtain, and making calls at the kitchens, and telling long
stories about Monmouth, and Trenton, and the siege of Yorktown, what
with the money he got, and the presents made him at Thanksgiving
and Christmas, and other odd times, Primus roughed it along, after
a fashion, until Congress found itself in a condition to give him a
pension. It came late to be sure, and was small, but then so were his
wants. It was regularly paid and certain, and joined to the advantages
he already possessed, constituted an ample fortune. Before he got
his pension, poor Primus would sometimes cast a rueful glance at his
wooden leg, and think to himself he had paid a pretty dear price for
independence; and at such times, it must be confessed, his patriotism
ran to a low ebb. He knew no Latin, and therefore could not say, "_sic
vos non vobis_," &c., yet he thought it. But after he obtained his
little annuity, the love of country of the Horatii or Curiatii was
frigid to his. He was never weary of boasting of its freedom, of its
greatness, and of General Washington. It was observed that as he
grew older his stories became longer and more incredible, and his
patriotism hotter. His own personal exploits too, occupied a wider
space in his narratives. To believe him, the number of British and
Hessians conquered by his single arm would have composed a regiment;
and, indeed, it was difficult to conceive how the struggle could have
been brought to a successful issue without his assistance.

"Good morning, General," said Felix, politely touching his cap.

"Good warning, Missa Qui I hope I see you well dis pleasant marning.
How Miss Rosa?" inquired Primus, at the same time making a military
salute with the back of his hand.

"Miss Rosa is well, thank you, sir. As for this genlman, he is always
well," said Felix, laying his hand on his breast.

"Fine day for walking, sir. Sorry you going de oder way, Missa Qui.
Suppose you hab business."

"I walk out for the exercise. I have not take exercise enough lately
for the health."

At this moment the eye of Primus caught sight of a white piece of
paper sticking out of a corner of Felix's pocket, and he suspected the
errand on which the latter was sent, so he added:

"You celumbrate Tanksgiving in de usual style at your house dis year,
I presume."

"Some witch tell you, General. Haw, haw!"

"De ole chimbly smoke extrorninary at dis season. De chickens and de
turkies know dat chimbly well."

"Guess they do," said Felix. "General Ransome, can you keep a secret?"

"I is close as Missa Pint pocket, dat button all round," said the old
negro.

"Then I have no objections to tell you, General, that I give out some
invite this morning to ladies and genlmen to take dinner at my house,
Thanksgiving Day."

"Hab you one for me?"

"Look for yourself, sir," said Felix, pulling out two or three billets
from the left pocket of his waistcoat, and presenting them to the
other. "You sociate with General Washington and all the great men, and
read writing, sure."

Primus took the billets into his hands, and ran his eye over the
superscriptions, with an air of the most perfect confidence, then,
shaking his head, returned them to Felix, observing:

"Dere is none here for me."

"Perhaps there is one for you in this pocket," continued Felix,
fumbling on the other side, and producing another billet. Primus
looked, but shook his head as before. "Have the extreme goodness,"
said Felix, who began to be considerably mystified by the serious air
of the other, and half-disposed to believe that he might have some
knowledge of the mystic characters, "to tell me who this little note
is intend for."

Primus knew very well the intimate relations existing between the
families of the Armstrongs and Bernards, and that the former
often took their Christmas dinner with the latter, while again the
Armstrongs reciprocated the civility by inviting the Bernards, who
were Episcopalians, to the feast of Thanksgiving. Moreover, he had met
Felix going in a direction towards the house of Mr. Bernard, which
was close by. Putting these circumstances together, the old soldier
thought that he might venture a guess, which, if it succeeded, would
redound greatly to the credit of his learning, and, which, if it
failed, could entail on him no other harm than the laugh of Felix.
Assuming, therefore, a knowing look, he said:

"Dat is berry easy to read. Any man wid any larning at all, can see
de billet is intend for Missa Judge Bernard." He saw by the distended
eyes of Mr. Qui that his guess had struck the mark, and fearful of
being requested to decipher the other superscriptions, hastily added:

"But what for I stop here, wasting my precious time, and keeping
you from doing you master's arrant? I hab de honor to wish you good
marning, Missa Qui." So saying, Primus turned round and stumped
off half a dozen steps, before the bewildered Felix recovered his
faculties.

"Stop, General," at last exclaimed Felix, as soon as he regained his
speech, running after him and taking hold of his arm, "allow me, a
word with you"

"I is berry busy dis marning," cried Primus, struggling to get free;
"Missa Pownal want my sarvices; de doctor is anxious to insult wid me;
and de 'Piscopal minister hab someting 'portant to communicate."

"I inspect he want you to write the Thanksgiving sermon," said Felix,
grinning. "But, General, I have really an invite for you. I forgot to
write the note before I leave home, and so you must, 'scuse the want
of style. I have the honor to ask you, General, to take your dinner,
on that glorious day, with Miss Rosa and I."

"Dat alter de case intirely," said Primus, losing his dread of reading
billets, and forgetting his hurry in the pleasure received from the
invitation; "dat alter de case entirely. You is a genlman, and berry
polite, Missa Qui, and Miss Rosa is beyond 'spression. Dere is few
ob de fair sec equal Miss Rosa. Let me see," he continued, with a
thoughtful air, and looking on the ground, "whedder I not disappoint
some genlman. When I come round de corner I see Missa Tracy boy going
toward my house. Now, probably he bring invite for me. But you invite
is de fust, Missa Qui, and it is hard to desist de attraction ob Miss
Rosa and youself, and I will do myself de honor to wait on you. Sorry,
howebber to disappoint Missa Tracy." Primus had now embarked on the
full tide of his garrulity, and casting out of mind his regret for not
being able to accept the imaginary invitation to Mr. Tracy's, went on:

"'Pears to me a great 'vantage, Missa Qui, dat some folks is
'Piscopalians, and some Presbyterians."

Felix looked as if he failed to apprehend the meaning of his friend.

"'Cause," said Primus, "dat make two grand dinner, and you and me is
dere to eat 'em."

Felix had now fairly caught the other's meaning, and the two exploded
in bursts of laughter.

"You have right to say so, General, and the observation do you great
honor. And that is the reason I inspect that you are 'Peskypalian."

"I surprise to hear you say so ob your ole friend," said Primus,
drawing himself up with an air of offended dignity. "No, sar, dat is
not de reason. De reason I is 'Piscopalian is, 'cause I belong to de
regulars."

"I never hear tell the 'Peskypalians is more regulars than other
folks," said Felix.

"You is a young man (the difference in their ages might be half a
dozen years), and cannot be 'spected to know ebbery ting. If you gib
me your 'tention, I make it all plain as de road Gineral Washington
show de British out ob de country. You see when I was in de army in de
glorious war ob de Resolution, we say prayers sometime as well as you
folks who stay at home, and don't do none ob de fightin. And so when
de drum beat, ebbery man must be at his post. Den come de chaplain all
in his regimental, and put de book on de big drum, and kneel down, and
Gineral Washington he kneel down, too, and de chaplain say some prayer
dat sound like de roll ob de drum itself. O, it was so beautiful, and
I always feel better arter-wards. Dere nebber was much uniform in de
army, but what dere was, de regulars is entitle to it. I nebber tink
de soger look just de ting widout de regimental. Now, look at de
'Piscopal minister in de pulpit, in de lily-white and de black gown.
De fust is for white folks, and de oder out of respec' for us colored
pussons. Dey is his regimental. He look like a regular soger ob
de Lord. But see de Presbyterian. He hab no uniform at all. He ony
milishy officer."

Felix, who, as in duty bound, was as zealous a Presbyterian (as the
Congregationalists in New England were generally called) as Primus was
an Episcopalian, was scandalized at such language. He half regretted
having given the invitation to the dinner, and it is highly probable
that, if he had heard General Ransome's speech before, that gentleman
would have so far talked himself out of his good graces (a misfortune
that sometimes happens to extraordinary eloquence), as to have lost
the object of his anxiety, and, like the nightingale in Cowper's
fable, have "sought his dinner somewhere else." But Primus saw the
gathering storm and hastened to avert its discharge.

"I hab great respec'," he said, "for the milishy. Dey is excellent for
skirmishing, and where ebbery man hab to fight on his own hook, but
when it come to de hard fightin' de regulars is de men to be depend
on. And den," added he, "dere is odder reasons: I like de exercise in
de church better. I like dere taste, too, when dey ornaments de church
wid greens at Christmas. It make de winter look kind o' young and
happy."

Felix was easily propitiated. He might be offended with his comrade,
but his anger could not last. It had passed away, before Primus had
concluded his conciliatory remarks. In fact, the two cronies were too
necessary to each other's happiness to allow of a long quarrel,
and for all Felix's reverence for his master's "meeting," he was as
placable as zealous, nor would the famous festival have been a
genuine Thanksgiving without his old friend to help him to discuss its
luxuries. They shook hands at parting, and Mr. Qui promised to present
the complemens of the General to Miss Rosa.

As Felix pursued his way alone, having no one else to talk to, he gave
himself the benefit of his conversation.

"That General," he said, aloud, "is a wonderful man. I never respected
him before of knowing how to read writin'. I don't believe, after all,
he does know how. But when he took the billets in his hand, he sort o'
give 'em a squint as if he knew all about it Who learned him? Perhaps
he does and perhaps he doesn't. I wonder, too, how he missed all the
bullets he preaches about sometimes, with losing only one leg. I heard
him say, fifty times, they come like an April shower. Now, if he had
a hundred legs, it seems to me they ought all to be smashed. I
'spect, as I heard the doctor say once, he draws on the fact for his
'magination. But what can you 'spect, Felix, from a 'Peskypalian? They
think so much of gitting up and setting down, as if there was religion
in moving the legs. But let me see about the billets. Miss Faith told
me to put the Bernards' in this pocket, and the minister's in this,
and the doctor's in this other one. Ah, all right! The doctor is a
very curus person. I wonder what makes him talk so much about a man he
calls Shakspeare. I heard him say he lived a great many years ago, I
guess with Joshua and David, when there was so much fighting going
on, and when they hadn't no guns. Perhaps he was Goliah's brother, who
come out with shield and spear. Well, there is no sogers with spears
now-a-days. It's my opinion, give old Prime a loaded musket with a
baggonet, and he'd do more work than Goliah and Shakspeare together,
with their spears. But, here, I am near the Judge's. Now, sir, mind
your eye, and see that you maintain the spectability of the family".
Saying this, Felix drew himself up, adjusted his neckerchief, and
strutted somewhat pompously into the yard of the Judge, whence he soon
found his way into the kitchen. The invitations to the Bernards were
in due form delivered, as were the others, and accepted.




CHAPTER VIII.

  _Lorenzo_.--Go in, Sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.
  _Launcelot_.--That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.
  _Lorenzo_.--Goodly lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then
  bid them prepare dinner.
  _Launcelot_.--That is done too, sir.

    MERCHANT OF VENICE.

The high square, pews of the little Congregational church, or (as in
those days the descendants of the Puritans, in order to manifest
their abhorrence for popery, and all that in their judgment sounded
papistical, loved to call their places for public worship) the
"meeting-house," were tolerably well filled by an attentive
congregation on Thanksgiving morning. We say only tolerably, some
seats being vacant, which seldom of a Sunday missed of occupants. The
rights of hospitality were allowed on this occasion to trench upon the
duties of public worship, and many a good wife with the servants, whom
no common storm or slight indisposition would have kept away, remained
at home to spread the board for expected guests. If there were some
whose stern principles condemned the practice as a carnality, they
were a small minority. Those whose fleshly appetites were to be
gratified by it took a different view of the subject very generally;
and as this was the condition of pretty much the whole community,
whose members figured now as hosts and now as guests, the verdict was
nearly unanimous in its favor. In truth, the due observance of the
day seemed to consist of two parts, worship and feasting; each was
necessary to the other to form a complement, and without both it would
have been jejune and unsatisfactory. Besides, this was the annual
period for the reunion of friends and relatives, parted for the
rest of the year, and in some instances considerable journeys were
undertaken in order once more to unite the severed circle and gather
again around the beloved board. Fathers and mothers, with smiles of
welcome, kissed their returned children; brothers and sisters joined
cordial hands and rushed into each other's embraces, and the placid
grandparents danced the little ones on their knees, and traced
resemblances to others. It would have been a cold and inhospitable
greeting, to be invited, after listening to a two hours' sermon, to
sit around a dinner not beyond the common. Not to such a feast did
stout-hearted and hard-headed Jonathan invite his friends. He rightly
understood that there was a carnal and a spiritual man, nor was he
disposed to neglect the claims of either. The earth was given to the
saints "with the fullness thereof," and he meant to have his portion.
Therefore it was that while one part of the family went to "meeting"
to pray, the other remained at home to--cook. Thus, by a judicious
division of duties the honored day was celebrated with befitting rites
and ceremonies.

After waiting for a reasonable time, until all who were expected to
attend were supposed to be in the house, the minister rose from his
seat, in the high, wine-glass shaped pulpit, over which hung, like the
sword of Damocles, by a cord, an immense sounding-board, considered
indispensable, duly to scatter round that each might have his
appropriate portion, the crumbs of salvation he dispensed, and "gave
out" an appropriate hymn, in which the Supreme Being was acknowledged
as the Ruler of the Seasons. This was sung, it must be confessed, by a
sadly shrunken choir, stoutly supported, however, by the congregation
in the body of the meeting-house, without the sound of tabret, or
harp, or other musical instruments; for in those days not even the
flute or grave bass-viol, those pioneers of the organ, were permitted
in the Sanctuary. To the hymn succeeded a long and fervent prayer, in
which Mr. Robinson, the minister (the term Reverend had then a slight
papistical twang), after bewailing with ingenious particularity the
sins and back-slidings of himself and people, and the ingratitude
of the whole land, and recounting the innumerable blessings that had
crowned their basket and their store, entreated that notwithstanding
their manifold sins, iniquities and transgressions, the divine favor
might not be withdrawn from a land where the Lord had planted his own
vine, and where the precious seeds of heavenly grace deposited in
the soil and nurtured and cultured by men "of whom the world was not
worthy," had sprung up and borne the inestimable fruit of civil and
religious freedom. Upon the conclusion of the prayer followed another
hymn, and after these "exercises," the sermon.

The text was the ninth verse of the twenty-sixth chapter of
Deuteronomy, "And He hath brought us into this place and hath given
us this land, even a land that floweth with milk and honey." The
Thanksgiving sermon was formerly one on which more than common labor
was expended, and was intended to be a celebrity of the year. On this
occasion the preacher laid out a wide field for his eloquence. He
commenced by comparing the condition of the first colonists to that
of the children of Israel when they fled from the house of bondage. He
painted the Pilgrim fathers landing on Plymouth Rock, snow, and ice,
and desolation around, but the fire of faith in their hearts. He
contrasted the feebleness of the beginning with the grandeur of the
result, whence he deduced the inference that the Lord had led his
people with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; he alluded to the
changed appearance of the country, converted from a heathen wilderness
into a Christian garden, whence the perfume of Christian devotion
perpetually arose; he portrayed the horrors of the war of the
Revolution, and exhorted his hearers to cherish the memory of the men
who had consecrated their lives and fortunes to Liberty, and sealed
that consecration with their blood. Warming with his subject, his eyes
shone with a brighter lustre and seemed gazing into a far future, as
in prophetic tones he proclaimed the advent of the latter days, when
the beacon fires of Freedom kindled on the mountain tops of the new
Canaan should send their streaming rays across the seas, and the
kingdoms of this world should become the heritage of God and of His
Christ. "Seeing these things are so, brethren," he concluded, "seeing
that God hath chosen you unto himself for a peculiar people, the weak
things of the world to confound the strong, the rejected, the cast
away and despised, to be held up as an example to the wondering
and admiring nations, what manner of men ought ye to be in all holy
conversation and godliness?"

Such is an imperfect sketch of the remarks of Mr. Robinson. With such
language sought the ministers in times past to keep alive the flame
of patriotism, and to inspire with humility, yet animate with a just
pride. Nor are such discourses thrown away. They do much towards the
formation of a national character.

Long as was the sermon--and of not a moment of its orthodox length was
it defrauded--it was listened to with the deepest attention, by the
older members, especially, of the congregation. The grave decorum of
a place of public worship forbade any open exhibition of approval, but
more than one knit brow and lighted eye, betrayed the emotions excited
by the allusions. Let it be remembered, it was nearer the times that
tried men's souls; the later events were fresh in their memory; some
of the hearers, perhaps, had borne a personal part in them, and all
were animated by the generous fire of '76--sparks of which, we trust,
still glimmer in the bosoms of their descendants. What to us, in
these colder and as some say more worldly days, might have seemed
extravagant, if not vain-glorious, was to them sober truth; and
if there were any who, perverting into poison what was meant for
wholesome nutriment, thanked God that they were not as other men,
there were others who, without losing their humility, felt an impulse
given to the nobler feelings.

At the conclusion of the services, there was the usual grasping of
hands, and congratulations of the season, and inquiries after healths,
and encomiums on the sermon, when the assembly dispersed to their
homes, to attend, in another form, to the duties of the day. Mr.
Armstrong and Faith waited for the minister, and the three walked
home together. They were overtaken and joined by Doctor Elmer,
who expressed regret at having been detained from the services by
professional duties.

"But," added he, looking at Mr. Robinson, and bowing courteously, "if
I have been so unfortunate as to miss of one feast, I do not mean to
be deprived of another. I may say of myself, as Shakspeare says of
somebody, 'Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.'"

"I hope your Puritan principles do not consist merely in eating
Thanksgiving dinners," said Mr. Robinson, with a smile.

"And remember, doctor," observed Faith, "what your own Shakspeare says
again--

                                 "'dainty bits
  Make rich the ribs, but bankerout quite the wits.'"

"My dear," interposed Mr. Armstrong, "is not this conversation of too
light a character?"

But he could not immediately check the doctor.

"Ha, Miss Faith," he cried, "'wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy
wit, in an instant? I pray thee, understand a plain man in his plain
meaning.' But

  'The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
    As is the razor's edge invisible,
  Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen.'
Come," he added, observing that Mr. Armstrong looked grave, "take my
arm, and we will discuss some serious subject, together." So saying,
he offered his arm to Faith, which she took, and they followed, at a
few steps distance, after Mr. Armstrong and the minister.

"I am afraid," said the doctor, slackening his pace, so as to allow
the others to get out of hearing, "you would prefer a certain young
gentleman's arm to that of an old bachelor. It is rather hard that the
rogues, whose principal recommendation, I flatter myself, is that they
are twenty years younger, should steal away all my sweethearts."

Faith laughed, as she replied:

"Why, dear doctor, what would you have us do? You never will propose;
so you must not complain if you drive us poor girls to desperation."

"You wicked little baggage, is this the way you laugh at the most
constant of your admirers? How many long years have I spent in your
service, from the time I began with rocking your cradle, occasionally
giving you, to sweeten your humors, a teaspoon of castor oil, or a
half-dozen drops of elixir salutis, up to the present time, and thus
you reward my devotion! I begin to feel desperate, and have half a
mind to transfer my affections to Anne Bernard."

"Do not treat me so cruelly. I assure you, my love increases every
day. Besides, you might find your perfidy punished by meeting a too
formidable rival."

"Ah, ha! I understand. Yet, I feel my chivalry a little roused at
the idea of opposition. But, on the whole, Faith, I will accept your
pledge of affection, and stick to my colors like a man and a doctor.
And, to exhibit my confidence, you may, meanwhile, flirt in moderation
with William Bernard. You will get tired of it when the novelty wears
off; so I shall escape, and it is better that you should tease him now
than me hereafter. But, dear me, here we are at your door."

Mr. Armstrong and the minister had waited for them on the step, and
the four entered together. Shortly after Pownal arrived, and somewhat
later the family of the Bernards.

We should deceive our readers if we left them to infer from the
jesting talk of the doctor that any mutual attachment existed between
Miss Armstrong and William Bernard. It was because his suspicions were
so vaguely expressed, and herself so unconscious of any feelings of
the kind, that Faith had not thought it worth while to notice them.
She and young Bernard had known each other from infancy; they had
attended the same school; the intimacy betwixt Faith and Anne, and the
friendly relations of the two families equals in wealth and station,
had brought them frequently together, but nothing could be further
from the fact than that any engagement existed between them. They
treated one another, indeed, like brother and sister; but if any
warmer emotion was felt, it was not by Faith. Her engrossing affection
for her father seemed to exclude all rivalship. The meeting exactly
expressed the footing on which the families stood. Mr. Armstrong shook
hands cordially with all, and in a few words uttered his pleasure at
welcoming them; Mrs Bernard kissed the cheek of Faith, with almost
the feeling of a mother; the greeting of the girls' was like that of
sisters, and Faith extended her hand to William Bernard, with a smile,
but without a blush.

Though utterly unlike, it would be difficult to conceive of two more
beautiful creatures than Faith Armstrong and Anne Bernard. The dark
hair of Faith, the large black eyes, the nose slightly aquiline, an
expression of countenance ordinarily composed, though not sad, but
which could be lighted up into enthusiasm, and a graceful dignity that
marked every action, while it seemed only a necessary part of herself,
forcibly reminded one sometimes of the heroines of the ancient
Scriptures. So in her youthful years, before her eyes were fully
opened to the vision, and before to the sound of the clanging timbrel
her voice responded to the triumph song of the children of Israel,
might have looked the prophetess, Miriam.

No contrast could be stronger than that presented by sweet Anne
Bernard. Light colored hair fell in graceful curls around an oval and
perfectly regular face, of the most delicate complexion. So thin, so
almost transparent was the skin, that the veins seemed hardly hidden,
and a very slight emotion was sufficient to suffuse it with a tint
that needed to fear no rivalry with the rose. No heaven could be bluer
than the soft eyes that seemed "to love whate'er they looked upon,"
and whether dimmed with the tear of pity, or flashing with mirth,
revealed a pure, but not a timid spirit. But among features which all
were beautiful, if one could be called more beautiful than another, it
was the mouth, and white as snow were the regular and perfectly formed
teeth which the crimson lips concealed. Her figure was rather below
than above the ordinary height, and its roundness indicated the
most perfect health. Let not this description be deemed a picture of
romance. Those acquainted with the beautiful daughters of New England
will acknowledge its truth, or, at least, confess, it errs not on the
side of exaggeration.

The intermediate time between the arrival of the company and the
serving up of dinner, was spent by them in such conversation as
usually takes place on occasions of the kind. Somebody has said, that
two Americans cannot meet without talking politics, but we can vouch
for the fact, that although Mr. Armstrong, the doctor, and divine were
federalists, and the Judge a democrat, having spent several of his
early years in France, where he was supposed to have imbibed his
sentiments, not a word on the subject was uttered. A reference or two
was made to the minister's discourse; the flourishing condition of the
country and its prospects adverted to; and some items of domestic
news and village anecdotes narrated. Such was the conversation of the
elders: as for what passed between the young people, we know there was
some laughing, but have forgot what they talked about. We regret this
irreparable loss, and promise to be more attentive for the future.

Al length, the ebony disc of Felix's face, rising pleasantly above a
snow-bank of neck-cloth, appeared at the door, and announced dinner,
when Mr. Armstrong offering his arm to Mrs. Bernard, preceded his
friends into the dining-room. Faith accepted the Judge's escort, and
Pownal tried to wait on Anne, but somehow or other (and we suspect her
of complicity in the affair), the divine secured the prize.

Before the company sat down, which was in an order having reference to
their supposed tastes and attractions, at a request from the host, an
appropriate grace was said by the minister, which happily avoided
the extremes of too much brevity on the one hand, and of too
great prolixity on the other; or, in other words, it was neither
irreverently short, nor impertinently long.

The dinner was of that kind which still graces the hospitable boards
of old Connecticut. At one end of the table a roasted turkey, which
had been stuffed a couple of days before, in order that the spices,
composing a part of the ingredients, might penetrate and flavor
the flesh of the noble bird, turned up his round full breast to the
carving-knife; at the other end, another turkey, somewhat smaller,
boiled and served with oyster sauce, kept company with her mate, while
near the centre, which was occupied by bleached celery in a crystal
vase, a mighty ham balanced a chicken pie of equal size. Besides these
principal dishes there were roasted and boiled fowls, and ducks, and
tongues, flanked by cranberry and apple sauces, and mashed turnips and
potatoes. On the sideboard (for be it remembered, it was "when this
old cap was new," and a practice which now is considered, at least,
questionable, was then held in all honor, and its neglect was never
dreamed of, and would have drawn down an imputation of nigardliness
and want of breeding) stood bottles of wine, and flagons containing
still stronger liquors, together with a large pitcher of delicious
cider. Upon the removal of the first course followed various kinds of
puddings, and pies, and custards, and tarts, and sillabubs, and they,
in their turn, were succeeded by apples and different sorts of nuts,
with raisins and figs, with which the repast was concluded. Such was
an old Thanksgiving dinner. The present preliminary soup was unusual
or unknown. It was an array capable of supplying the wants of a much
larger company, and but a small part could be consumed, but it was the
fashion, and it still continues. They were celebrating the bounty of
Providence, and it was meet that the liberality of man should be in
harmony with it. Felix, grave and decorous, as became the importance
of the occasion, and his assistant, multiplied themselves into a
thousand waiters, sedulous to anticipate the wants of the host and his
guests.

The conversation, which at first ran in several distinct rills being
confined to each one's immediate neighborhood mostly, and interrupted
by the serious business of dinner, seemed gradually, after a time, to
unite its various streams into one common current. The attention of
the doctor was first attracted from an unsuccessful attempt to quote
to Mrs. Bernard Shakspeare's famous recipe for cooking a beef-steak by
an observation of Mr. Robinson to Mr. Armstrong, at whose left hand
he sat, the seat at the right being occupied by Mrs. Bernard, next to
whom sat the doctor.

"The results," said the minister, "furnish, I fear, little
encouragement for the future. Unless divine grace shall manifest
itself in a more signal manner than has heretofore been vouchsafed,
they seemed destined to die in their sins."

"Is there, then, no escape from a doom so horrible?" inquired the
low voice of Mr. Armstrong. "After being hunted from their ancient
possessions, and denied even the graves of their fathers, must they
perish everlastingly?"

"Can the clay say to the potter, 'What doest thou?'" said Mr.
Robinson. "He maketh one vessel to honor and another to dishonor.
Repeated attempts have been made to civilize and Christianize them,
but in vain. Whom He will He hardeneth."

Mr. Armstrong sighed, and another sigh, so low it was unheard, stole
from the bosom of his daughter.

"You are speaking of the Indians?" inquired the doctor.

"Yes," said Mr. Robinson, "and of the failure of all attempts by
Christians to ameliorate their condition."

"And are you surprised it should be so?" inquired the doctor.

"The ways of Providence are inscrutable," replied Mr. Robinson. "I
pretend not to explain the reasons why they are deaf to the pleadings
of the Gospel."

"What," cried the doctor, slightly altering his favorite author,
"'hath not an Indian eyes? Hath not an Indian hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt
with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the
same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a
Christian is? If an Indian wrong a Christian, what is his humility?
revenge; if a Christian wrong an Indian, what should his sufferance
be, by Christian example? why, revenge.' There, you have the whole in
a nut-shell."

"In addition to the difficulty growing out of their treatment by the
whites, suggested by the doctor," said the Judge, "there is another,
which I consider insuperable, arising out of a difference of race."

"I do not quite understand you," observed Mr. Robinson.

"It is said by naturalists," answered the Judge, "that man
comprehends, within himself, the peculiarities of all inferior
animals. Now, there are some capable of domestication, while others
are irreclaimable. You may tame the horse, but not the tiger. The
wild element controls the one, and is controllable in the other. In
my opinion, this wild element so predominates in the Indian as to make
him incapable of civilization. He is the tiger."

"But some have been civilized," remarked Mr. Armstrong.

"A _quasi_ civilization, I grant," said the Judge; "and were I to
concede more, the exceptions are so few as only to confirm the rule."

"Your theory opens a wide field for speculation," said Mr. Robinson,
"and I could bring many objections to it. In the first place"----

"No doubt, no doubt," cried the Judge, hastily, and desirous to avoid
the arising collision, "and I shall be happy to examine the subject,
at some future time, with you. I throw out these ideas only as hints.
But there is another rule operative, if, indeed, it is not the same
differently expressed--the inferior must always give place to the
superior race"

"That is not clear, either," said the divine. "What race ever existed
superior to the Jews? Yet, observe their condition."

"I am not understood. Why, the Jews prove my theory. If they had not
been a superior race, they would long ago have been extinct. But their
number now is probably as great as it ever was. The Indians, however,
are vanishing."

"And, really, Mr. Bernard," said his wife, "on your own principles,
they will be no loss, if they do vanish. If a superior race succeeds,
all the better."

"Right, right, my dear," cried her husband, "_rem acu_--pshaw! I was
going to quote Latin. They have had their day, and fulfilled their
design."

"It seems to me a deplorable necessity," said Mr. Armstrong.

"There are many laws and purposes at work in the rise and fall of
nations," said the minister, "beyond our view. A peculiar mystery
hangs over the devoted tribes; and, assign what reasons we please for
their decay, there is only one satisfactory reason into which all
the others are resolvable, viz: the determination of Providence. That
determination is obvious. As the inhabitants of Canaan, were
swept away for their iniquities, so is the red race destined to be
extinguished; and it may be for a like reason--they will not abandon
their abominations."

"They are as moral as the whites, generally, I believe," said William
Bernard.

"Alas, that word morality!" exclaimed the divine. "It is an _ignis
fatuus_ to mislead--a broken reed to lean on."

"But," inquired Faith, anxiously, "do you think, sir, that nothing can
be done for those who are left?"

"I see but little prospect of it," said Mr. Robinson.

"There are some good people among them," said the doctor, warmly. "I
wish I was as sure of my own salvation as I am of poor Esther's."

This discussion scarcely disturbed the conversation between Anne
Bernard and Pownal, who, much to his delight, found himself seated by
her side. Nor did the contiguity seem displeasing to the lovely girl.
What is the charm that gives boldness to the timid, and eloquence
to the hesitating; which kindles the eye with a brighter lustre,
and imparts a softer tone to the voice: which colors the cheek with
frequent blushes, and fills the heart with unwonted flutterings? Sweet
maiden, can you tell? Yet, what could they have so much to say to
one another? They who are young, and they who have not forgotten the
feelings of youth will readily find an answer.

"My heart warms to the Indians," said Pownal, in a low tone, "whenever
I hear them spoken of. It appears to me, sometimes," continued he,
smiling, "as if I were a sort of relation. Were I a believer in the
transmigration of souls, I should think I had been, in some previous
existence, an Indian myself."

"Probably a Sachem, with your hair nicely shaved, except a little
which was caught up into a knot like a cock's comb, on top to hold an
eagle's feather," said the laughing Anne. "How elegantly you must have
looked after having made your toilette, preparatory to wooing some
Indian Princess, with your face beautifully painted in all the colors
of the rainbow, only handsomer. How I should have liked to see you.
Hard-hearted must have been the fair who could resist such charms."

"You have reason to laugh at me; it is very ridiculous, but"--

"And then to think of the sad change that has befallen you! To subside
from an eagle-feathered Sachem, eating succatash with an Indian
Princess, into a tame civilized gentleman, in a swallow-tailed coat,
handing apples to a poor little Yankee girl! I do not wonder you were
melancholy and tried to shoot yourself."

"It was the most fortunate shot I ever made, since"--

"I am not sure of that. Perhaps if you had succeeded you might have
been transmigrated back into the wigwam, and resumed your addresses to
the Princess."

"Your fancy outstrips mine. I find it hard, by the side of a real
Princess, to think of an imaginary one."

"Faithless, like all your fickle sex. Ah me, poor princess!"

Here Mrs. Bernard made a motion to rise, which was followed by the
other ladies, and as Anne turned away she said:--

"You who have set me an example of desertion can not be surprised
at my leaving you, which please to consider a punishment for the
Princess' wrongs."

"And a severe one," said Pownal.

But a short time elapsed before the ladies were rejoined by the
gentlemen in the withdrawing room, where we will leave them to look
after some other friends of ours.

Upon the conclusion of his duties, Felix had opportunity to extend the
rights of hospitality to General Ransome, who, true to his promise,
had not failed to make his appearance in due time in the kitchen.
There the worthy warrior had been received with all customary forms of
politeness by Miss Rosa, and, installed in a high-back chair, awaited
his share of the entertainment. And when the time arrived, seated
between his friends, and opposite two other servants, there were few,
if any, lighter and more careless hearts that day than the General's.
And of the whole company it may be said, that if they were not
refined, they were at least merry.

"Ladies and genlmn," said the General, soon after the repast had
commenced, and seeming to think the toasts could not begin too soon,
"do me de satisfacshum to fill you glasses. Wid you leave I'm going to
gib a toast."

On this day it was customary to extend an unusual degree of license to
the servants, and hence there was no lack of generous liquors on the
board, of the same descriptions as those drank by their superiors. And
to do them justice, it was seldom the privilege was abused.

The glasses were quickly filled, and the General proposed "de healt'
ob de fair sec." This was drunk with acclamation, and a gentleman
observed, "dat de whole world acknowledge de superur beauty ob de
'Merican ladies." This toast was followed by "De day we celumbrate;"
and it was admitted on all sides that Thanksgiving was one of the most
important institutions of the country. Felix, then, looking at his
friend gave, "the heroes of the 'Merican Revolution;" whereupon, the
old soldier considering it incumbent upon him to return thanks for the
array, requested permission to make some remarks. Of course leave
was readily granted, and the orator, gracefully rising and steadying
himself on the sound leg, with the other a little drawn back, extended
his right hand, and bowing all round began.

"Dere is noting," he said, "so sweet as liberty. 'Tis dis dat make de
eagle fedder light, and de bob-o-link sich a good singer. See de grand
bird how he wheel right about face up to de sun, and hear de moosic ob
de merry little fellow!

  "Liberty, liberty,
  Berry nice to be free!
  Bob-o-link where he please,
  Fly in de apple trees,
  O, 'tis de Freedom note
  Guggle sweet in him troat!
  Jink-a-jink, jink-a-jink,
  Winky wink, winky wink,
  Ony tink, ony tink,
  How happy, Bob-o-link!
      Sweet! Sweet!

"King George, he want to make de Yankees drink tea instead ob coffee.
Now dere is no comparishum 'atween de two, and who is dere would drink
de little tea leaves dat look as dey been all chew and den roll up,
when he can git good coffee? Now King George he hab a great lot ob dis
tea on hand, and it sell berry slow, and he want to git rid ob it, so
he send it to dis country wid orders dat ebery man, woman, and child
shall drink at least four cup a day, and no coffee. So Broder Jonatan
he rise like a cat back, and he say (begging you pardon, ladies), 'dam
if I drink de tea.' And a great many ob dem dress demselves up like
Injuns, and one dark night dey heab all de tea oberboard in Bosson
harbor, and all de fish get sick, dey say for a week. Now King George
when he hear ob all dis he git mad and jerk his old wig on de ground,
an stamp on it, and kick it in de fire, and say he make de 'Mericans
pay for de tea. And after dat he send a big army to dis country, but
it was no use. De 'Mericans whip dem orfully at Bunker Hill, and dat
was de beginning ob de famous Resolution. And dey continues to drink
de coffee; and I nebber drink no better dan Miss Rosa make in dis
house (bowing to her). And for my 'sploits in de glorious Resolution
you is welcome wid all my heart, ladies and genlmn; and for de
complemen to de officers and sogers I gib dere best knowledgmn on dis
'casion."

The General sat down amid a storm of applause. Miss Rosa after the
excitement caused by his eloquence had subsided, observing that no
toast had been given by any lady, offered to make up the deficiency
herself, which proposal being eagerly accepted, she gave "Miss Faith;
and when she marry may she be happy as the angels." The toast was
drank with right good will, though with somewhat more decorum than
the others. Faith was greatly beloved by the servants, to that degree
indeed, that the affectionate creatures doubted whether there was any
man in the world fit to be her husband. But, enough of toasts and fine
speeches. As the General very judiciously observed when Miss Rosa, who
seemed to think he could not have too many delicacies, nor too much
of them, offered to add to his already overfilled plate, "dere is
'bundance of cranberry saace for dis turkey."

According to custom, as soon as it began to be dark, the bonfires were
lighted, and flashing from various eminences made luminous the night,
while joyous shouts of boys answered each other across the rivers and
ravines.

At nine o'clock the bell rang out its usual warning, and before the
clock struck the next hour, the inhabitants of Hillsdale had courted
the repose of their pillows.




CHAPTER IX.

                                 He was a man
  Whom no one could have passed without remark,
  Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs
  And his whole figure breathed intelligence.
  Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek
  Into a narrow circle of deep red,
  But had not tamed his eye; that under brows,
  Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought
  From years of youth.

                      WORDSWORTH'S EXCURSION.


There were certain seasons of the year when the malady of the
Solitary assumed a more serious character than at others. From what
circumstance this proceeded was unknown. It might arise from an
association of ideas, connected in some manner with the events of
his life, the particulars of which, although curious persons had, at
various times, endeavored to draw them from him, he had never revealed
more plainly than in the conversations with Ohquamehud and the
doctor. The imagination was left to wander, therefore, among whatever
speculations respecting him it chose to indulge in, and, accordingly,
there was no hypothesis that could be started, however absurd, that
did not find advocates.

By some, he was supposed to be a murderer, whom remorse had driven
from the haunts of men, and who was endeavoring to expiate his
crimes by self-denial and suffering; others, asserted that he was the
Wandering Jew, though his long residence at the island militated
a little with the idea: however, that was balanced by his marked
reverence for the New Testament, and frequent references to the coming
of the Son of Man; while others insisted he was a pirate, who had
buried treasure on the lonely island, and there watched over its
security. This last opinion was received with especial favor by the
gaping vulgar, and further confirmed by the fact that the Solitary
never asked alms or was destitute of money, of which, indeed, he gave
away to those whom he considered poorer than himself. But whatever was
the truth, or however anxious the good people of Hillsdale might be to
discover the secret, no one ventured to meddle with him, though more
than one old woman had hinted that it was a shame he should be allowed
to run about with so long a beard, and a resolute fellow even once
suggested the expediency of arresting him on suspicion. As, however,
his life was perfectly harmless, and he had never been, nor seemed
likely to become, a burden to the town, nor had committed any act of
violence, such counsels were considered too harsh, especially as the
attempt to execute them might involve the town in expense and other
unpleasant consequences. Besides, it was known he had strong friends
in influential families, who would not permit him to be wronged or
quietly see the least of his rights invaded. The curiosity of the
place, therefore, was obliged to content itself with surmises, and to
wait until some more favorable period for its gratification.

The time of the year had now arrived when Holden was wont to show
himself more than usually restless and excitable. He had been
wandering one day since early in the morning, shooting partridges and
squirrels, until late in the afternoon he found himself at the Falls
of the Yaupáae. This was for him a favorite place of resort, and
here, stretched on the ground, he would lie for hours, with his eyes
fastened on the foaming water, listening to the cataract's roar, as
if it soothed his humor. Holden threw himself on the moss that
exuberantly covers the rocks, and essayed the spell. But this time, in
vain. He lay but a moment, when, starting up, he seized the rifle he
had laid aside, and making a considerable detour, in order to reach a
small bridge higher up the stream, he crossed it, and pursued his way
to the village.

Holden, notwithstanding he had lived so long in the vicinity and
had often been in the village, never made his appearance without
attracting attention. The little boys and girls, and even their
elders, seldom passed him without turning to look again. The
singularity of his dress, and fine tall person, as straight as his
rifle, and a beard, that waved like a prophet's, on his breast, would
have commanded observation anywhere. Joined to this was an air of
dignity and gravity that, in spite of the coarseness of his apparel,
insured respect. However much the rude and vulgar might feel disposed
to insult, they were too much awed by his presence to attempt it. They
might speak disrespectfully, indeed, of him in his absence, but before
him they were cowed and mute. The mystery, besides, with which their
imaginations surrounded him, invested him with a power the greater,
perhaps, on account of its indefiniteness. They forgot in gazing
at him, that his only means of living they were acquainted with was
derived from the sale of the oysters and fish he caught in the river,
and of the large baskets he made with his own hands. The meanness of
the occupation was lost sight of when they saw his majestic appearance
and heard the grand tones of his deep voice.

Holden proceeded down the street, hardly recognizing--though such was
not his wont--the friendly greetings with which he was sainted by many
that passed, until he arrived opposite the house of Mr. Armstrong.
Here his progress was arrested by a tap on a window, and looking up
he saw the bright face of Miss Armstrong, who was beckoning to him.
He stopped; the face disappeared to re-appear at the door, and Faith
invited him to come in. He hesitated, but the irresolution was only
momentary, for instantly he turned and entered the house.

"I doubted," he said, "whether it were right to inflict the gloom of
an old man on one so young. What have age and despondency in common
with youth and happiness?"

"But you do not doubt my sympathy? Is there anything I would not do to
make you happy, Father Holden?"

"No. I trust in thee as a parent in his child. Thou art as incapable
of deception as the heavens of a stain. I have known thee, Faith,
since thou wast a child, and thou hast always had an influence over
me. As the notes of the youthful harper of Israel scared away the
demons from the bosom of Saul, so do the tones of thy voice thrill
me like a melody from the past. So tell me of thyself and of all that
concerns thee, so far, at least, as thou canst impart thy thoughts and
feelings to one like me."

"The subjects that engage the attention of a young woman can have
little interest for you, father."

"Believe it not. Though my heart be sore, it has not lost all its
earlier feelings."

"I cannot speak of myself," said Faith. "My life has been too
destitute of incident to deserve mention, and it is already known to
you."

"What callest thou life? Is it," he continued, fixing his eyes on the
carpet, and speaking in a low tone, "the few gasps that agitate the
bosom here? If that were all, it were of but little more consequence
than any other sigh. But this is only the beginning. It is the
lighting of the spark that shall blaze a glorious star, or burn a
lurid conflagration for ever." He stopped; he raised his eyes to the
face of Faith, whose own were fastened on him, and gazed fondly on
her; his features assumed a softened expression; and, as if a new
train of thought had driven out the old, he added, "blessed are the
pure in heart, for they shall see God."

Apparently, these exclamations affected Faith with no surprise. She
had probably listened to similar conversations, and simply replied:

"Who shall say his heart is pure?"

"If not thou, then none. Sad thought, that the poisoned tongue of the
snake in Eden, should taint even a being so fair as thou."

"Father," said Faith, who was desirous of changing a conversation
which began to be embarrassing, for to such ejaculations it was
impossible to return reasonable answers, "do you love the loneliness,
of your island as much as ever? Would it not be more prudent to pass
the winter months in the village?"

"Thou art not the only one whose kindness hath asked the question.
But, in my youth I learned to love solitude, though it was forced on
me in the beginning. The dungeon and the chain introduced me to its
acquaintance; yet, such is the kindness of Providence, that, what at
first I hated, I afterwards learned to love. Know, too, that I have
lived in the boundless forest, until an inhabited street cramps my
breast and stifles my breath; nor am I ever less alone than when alone
with God. Ask me not, then, though thy intentions be kind, to renounce
a mode of life which habit hath made a second nature."

"Tell me of your adventures."

"Hold! Wouldst thou hear of a youth blasted by unkindness; of
prostrate hopes, and scenes of revenge and horror? Nay, thou knowest
not what thou askest."

"It was not through mere curiosity I made the request. Those who love
you would willingly know more, that they may be the better able to
promote your welfare."

"The motive," said Holden, taking her hand, and holding it an instant,
"is kind, my child; but what purpose would it serve? The time will
come when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed: then let the
story of my crimes and wrongs be blazoned to the world."

Faith attached little credence to confessions of crimes which Holden
intimated he had committed. Had she done so, she might have felt alarm
at being thus alone with him. But his presence, so far from inspiring
her with terror, had something unaccountable of attraction. His
self-accusation she considered exaggerations of a morbid fancy that
converted common errors into unpardonable sins. Hers was a charity
that could think no evil, and in her imagination she had long since
formed a theory that, to her pure mind, made him an object of
deep interest. In Holden she saw a man of superior endowments and
breeding--his manners and language so far above those of most around
her, proved both; who, by undeserved misfortunes had partially lost
his reason, and, like the stricken deer, left the herd to die alone.
Sometimes she would fill up the picture with scenes from his supposed
life, at one time of one character, and at another time of another;
but they were merely sports of the Imagination, changing figures of a
kaleidoscope which employed without satisfying the mind. Of the truth
of her general hypothesis she was quite convinced, nor without hope
that her old friend would be restored to society and the position
which she considered his due. As children instinctively know those
who love them, so must Holden have originally had some idea of the
feelings of Faith, and by it been drawn closer to her. Certainly,
there was no one in whose society he took more pleasure, or whom he
was more desirous to please.

At this stage of the conversation, the door opened, and Mr. Armstrong
entered. He advanced to Holden, whose hand he took, and welcomed with
much cordiality. It was no new thing for him to see the Recluse in
his parlor. His daughter's partiality he well knew, of course; and
although, in his opinion, it was somewhat extraordinary that a young
lady should be attracted by Holden, he accounted for the circumstance
by ascribing it to the romance in her nature, of which she had no
common share.

The contrast was strong betwixt the appearance of the two men. On
the one hand, in perfect harmony with the adornment of the handsome
parlor, stood the delicate person of Mr. Armstrong, with cropped hair
and close-shaven face, in a suit of fine black cloth and muslin cravat
of spotless white, representing a refined, perhaps enervated phase of
civilization; on the other, the stately and vigorous form of Holden,
in a clean but coarse gray frock, girt around the waist with a sash,
with long hair falling on his neck, and unshorn beard, looking like
one better acquainted with the northern blast than with the comforts
of curtains and carpets.

"It is not often, brother Holden," said Mr. Armstrong, addressing him
by an epithet sometimes applied to him, "that I am so fortunate as to
meet you in my house."

"Dost thou speak from the heart, James Armstrong," replied Holden, "or
art thou flattering me with empty conventionalities?"

The melancholy face of Mr. Armstrong looked distressed, but,
remembering the wayward humor of the other, he gently answered:

"I am sorry the form of expression displeases you; but I assure you I
am glad to see you."

"Nay," said Holden, "let me rather beg pardon for my rudeness; and
that I fully believe thee, be my presence here the proof. I owe thee
many obligations through thy daughter, and there are times when it
does me good to be with her. It is then I fancy I hear in her voice
the tones of the long lost, and they come not with a wail of sorrow,
but like a welcome and an invitation."

"The lost!" softly said Armstrong, falling insensibly, and as by some
mesmeric process, into a corresponding train of feeling, "the lost!
how soon drop away from our sides those who made the morning of life
so pleasant!"

"Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward," said Holden. "He
cometh from the womb of darkness, and returneth thither again."

The two men drew their chairs nearer each other. It seemed as if a new
community of thought and feeling had been established between them.

"You have suffered," said Armstrong, "perhaps lost all your dear ones,
and, in that, more miserable than I; for, have I not left my Faith?
But the hand that inflicted the wound can heal, and I trust the balm
has been poured in."

The countenance of Holden was agitated; his lips trembled, and, in a
broken voice, he replied:

"The nearest and dearest are gone. Yet hath God left me some comfort
in my affliction. I am not entirely bereft."

"In the promises of the Holy Scriptures you find consolation. Happy
the soul that draws comfort from their sacred pages!"

"I meant not entirely so. But it avails not now to explain. Yet art
thou right. I do find in the precious Book my dearest hope. Without
it, I were miserable indeed."

"And it sustains you under every trial and temptation?"

"Assuredly. For that very purpose was it given, that man might not
sink under the mystery of existence; that in its pages he should find
hope."

"And you find in it the warrant of your salvation?"

"I strive to work out my salvation, with fear and trembling."

"There are many who strive to enter, who shall not be able. How may
one be assured of safety?"

"There is a justification by faith. Hast thou never tasted of its
sweetness?"

"Alas! no," exclaimed Armstrong. "I have prayed for it, and longed for
it in vain. The threatenings of the Gospel and not its promises are
mine."

"Father, dear father, how can you speak so wildly?" cried his
daughter, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his pale
cheek.

He looked at her a moment, then putting her away, gently, again
addressed Holden:

"Have you no word of comfort for me?"

"Faint not; neither be tired of well-doing," answered Holden, "and I
doubt not that the cloud which now concealeth the divine countenance
will depart, and thou shalt attain the peace that passeth
understanding."

"Have you attained it? Do you know what it is to be justified by
faith?"

"I have that blessed experience," cried the enthusiast. "Those whom He
called He justified. I am a brand plucked from the burning--a monument
of abounding mercy."

"Tell me, then," exclaimed Armstrong, "what are the signs by which it
may be known?" He said this eagerly, and with an air of the intensest
interest.

"I feel it," cried Holden, rising and standing before him, "in the
hatred that I bear towards all that conflicts with His will; in the
love with which I read His word; in the willingness to suffer all
things for the glory of His name, and to be damned for ever, if such
be His purpose; I feel it in that, through His grace, I can trample
the world under foot, and bear whatever cross His decree imposes; in
the struggle and the aspiration to be more like Him, and in that His
sovereign grace hath chosen me to reveal unto me His salvation and the
knowledge of His speedy coming."

It is impossible to convey an adequate idea of the manner in which
this was spoken. Words cannot describe the voice, or paint the wild
gleams of enthusiasm that, like lightning-flashes, coursed each other
over the features of Holden, as, without a gesture, and immovable as a
rock, an image of undoubting confidence, he delivered himself of this
extraordinary speech. Nor, carried away by its impassioned utterance,
were either Armstrong or his daughter aware of its full fanaticism.
But the impression made upon the two was somewhat diverse, and marked
how differently the chords of their minds were tuned. With all her
reverence for the Enthusiast, Faith could not hear his wild avowal
without pain, notwithstanding it was stamped with all the honesty of
conviction, and her own creed taught that such a degree of spiritual
elevation might be attained; while her father listened with a sad
admiration, not unmixed with self-abasement and almost envy.

After a pause, Armstrong said: "If such are the evidences of
justification and a saving faith, then have I had them, too; but why
bring they to me no confidence or holy joy? Why is my soul cast down,
and why do I feel like one who stumbles towards a pit? Alas! my flesh
quivers and my heart trembles at the thought of falling into His
hands."

"It is prayer that opens heaven," said Holden. "If thou wilt, we will
unite our hearts in supplication. Peradventure the Lord may send a
blessing."

A mute assent was the reply from Armstrong; the three knelt down
together, and Holden poured out a prayer, into which he concentrated
his glowing feelings. He described themselves as covered all over with
crimes, like a leprosy; as willful and determined rebels; as not only
unworthy of the least of God's mercies, of the warm sun and refreshing
rain, but deserving of the torments of the bottomless pit; but
entreated that, devoid of all merit, as they were, and justly exposed
to His wrath, their aggravated offences might be pardoned for the sake
of One who had taken their burden upon Himself, and that they might
be of the number of the elect, whom the foreordination of God had
predestined to salvation. He concluded with beseeching that the balm
of peace might be poured into his afflicted brother's heart, that his
ears might be opened to hear the truth, and his eyes to see how near
was the great and terrible day of the Lord, and that, as in ancient
days chosen women were raised up to do mighty works, even so Faith
might be made an instrument to proclaim His power abroad.

As the three rose from their knees, a change seemed, during the
prayer, to have passed over the little circle. Holden was invested
with an authority not felt before. Neither his speech nor dress was as
strange as formerly. He had become a teacher to be honored. It was the
influence of a mind originally powerful, and which, though shattered,
exercised the control of a strong will, guided by an earnest
fanaticism.




CHAPTER X.

  Thus as he spake, his visage waxed pale,
    And chaunge of hew great passion did bewray,
  Yett still he strove to cloke his inward bale,
    And hide the smoke that did his fire display.

                       SPENSER'S FAERY QUEENE.


The request of Mr. Armstrong, supported by the pleadings of his
daughter, prevailed upon Holden to remain to tea, and afterwards
to accompany them to the "conference," as a meeting for religious
purposes held usually on some particular evening of the week, was
called. Upon the conclusion of the service he was to return with
them and pass the night at the house of his host. It was not without
difficulty he allowed his objections to be overruled, nor was he ever
known before to have accepted such an invitation. But it had seemed of
late that as his influence with Miss Armstrong increased, so did hers
over him, until he became unable to deny her slightest wish. Perhaps,
too, the events of the afternoon, by bringing him more intimately into
communion with sufferings like those through which he had passed, had
softened his sternness and disposed him more for human companionship.

The little building where the "conference" met was of the humblest
pretensions. It was a weather-stained, unpainted wooden edifice of
one story, standing at no great distance from the meeting-house, and
capable of containing comfortably, probably a hundred people. The
interior was almost as rude and unattractive as the exterior, the
walls being coarsely plastered and dingy with smoke that had escaped
from a cast-iron stove which stood in the centre of the room. Benches
with backs were placed parallel to one another, and facing a sort of
rostrum or reading-desk, to which a passage betwixt the benches led.
The inside work was equally innocent of paint as the outside.

On the arrival of Mr. Armstrong with his companions, they found the
room only partly occupied, nor had the exercises commenced. According
to a custom which would have struck a stranger as singular, but which,
doubtless, was founded in a knowledge of the nature of young men and
young women, the males were seated on one side of the passage, and
the females on the other. The separation, as might be expected, only
partly answered the purpose, being unable to arrest the glances
which, with quite as much of earth as of heaven in them, crossed the
intervening space. These, however, were stolen, and managed in such a
quiet way as not materially to affect the devotions of the elders.
In compliance with an usage, a breach of which would have violated
propriety, Faith, withdrawing her arm from her father's, glided into
a seat among her own sex on the right, while Mr. Armstrong and Holden
sought places on the left.

The appearance of the Solitary entering the little place of worship,
striding up the passage with his usual air of dignity and composure,
and taking a seat among the principal members of the church,
occasioned great surprise. Although differing little, probably, in
religious sentiments (except in one point) from those around him, he
had never united with them in religious worship. He was, therefore,
notwithstanding his frequent allusions to the Scriptures, considered
generally more in the light of a heathen than of a Christian man, and
the apparition of Plato or Socrates would hardly have excited more
observation. Many, in consequence, were the looks bent on him by those
present, and those who afterwards came in.

But of them, or of any sensation caused by his presence, he seemed
utterly unconscious. With arms folded and head drooped upon his chest,
he shut his eyes and abandoned himself to meditation.

"Massy on us," whispered Miss Green, the mantua-maker, to her next
neighbor, Miss Thompson, the tailoress, "if here ain't old Holden. I
wonder what fetches him here."

"And did you see!" said Miss Thompson, whispering in like manner, "he
came in with the Armstrongs. I always did admire what they could see
in him to like."

"I guess," said Miss Green, "he feels kind o' awkward. Look how
he's folded his arms. It's so long since he's been to meeting or
conference, if he was ever in such a place before; he don't know how
to behave."

"There's no sort o' set about his clothes," observed Miss Thompson.
"They look as if he made them himself."

"Perhaps he did, but they're good enough to go with Faith Armstrong's
cloak" (which had been made by a rival artiste), responded Miss Green.
"What dark colors she wears, no variety, and how dreadful old they
make her look!"

"Hush!" said Miss Thompson, "the deacon's going to open."

During the colloquy of the two spinsters a grave, respectable-looking
man, somewhat advanced in years, had taken a seat behind the
reading-desk, and opening the large Bible that lay upon it, selected
a chapter, and now invited the attention of the audience to its
contents. Upon its conclusion he gave out a hymn, the tune of which
was announced by another person, who immediately on naming it pulled
out a pitch-pipe from his pocket and making a slight sound, furnished
the starting note. The singing proceeded principally from a certain
part of the room, as if by some understanding the singers had been
collected together, although scattered sounds also, of either rumbling
bass or shrill treble whose trembling modulations betrayed the
advanced age of the performers, were here and there heard. Some
of these guerrilla passages were sadly out of time and tune, and
according to the humor of the hearer might either provoke a smile
or start a tear. The gay and thoughtless might, indeed, laugh at the
wavering and undecided notes, but to the reflecting mind there was
something profoundly pathetic in the feeble tribute to the praise of
their Maker, of those whose voices in the ordinary course of nature
must soon be silent in the grave.

After the singing was ended, the person who had hitherto officiated
invited Deacon Baldwin, calling him by name, to make a prayer.
Hereupon the deacon rose, and folding his hands complied with the
request, while most of the congregation respectfully bent forward,
or covered their faces with their handkerchiefs. The prayer evidently
came from a sincere and earnest heart, but contained nothing that
requires it should be recorded. Another hymn was then sung, upon the
conclusion of which followed the sermon.

The person who came forward to perform this office was a short,
thick-set man, of middle age, with a bull neck. His features were
harsh and severe, and stamped with an expression of mortification,
though the gross animality of the mouth and chin too plainly revealed
how many and desperate were the conflicts it must have cost him to
become a saint. As he passed to the reading-desk his clothes brushed
Holden, who shrunk from the touch. The Solitary looked up, but as if
what he saw was displeasing, he averted his face and shut his eyes.

The first thing done by Davenport on reaching the desk, and casting a
furtive glance around, was to draw an East India silk handkerchief out
of his pocket, and having noticed a spittoon by his side, to blow his
nose sonorously. He then cleared his throat two or three times, and
commenced reading.

It happened, singularly enough, that the subject was prophecy,
considered as evidence of the divine inspiration of the Scriptures.
The writer, after referring to the fulfillment of many prophecies
contained in the Old Testament, came to those in the New, and amongst
others he spoke of that in which Christ alludes to the destruction of
Jerusalem. He said that even in the times of the Apostles, there were
persons who, by putting too literal a construction upon the words,
were misled into believing that the end of the world was at hand, and
that there had never been a time when there were not victims to the
same delusion.

It was impossible, with reference to the condition of Holden's
mind, to have selected either a topic or reader more unsuitable. The
aversion he had manifested at first increased every moment. It was one
of those antipathies as unquestionable as they are unaccountable. It
at first exhibited itself in restlessness, and an inability to remain
quiet, and afterwards in half-suppressed groans and sighs. If he
opened his eyes and looked at the reader, he saw a devilish figure,
with a malignant leer glaring at him; if he shut them to exclude the
disagreeable image it was converted into a thousand smaller figures,
dancing up and down like motes in a distempered vision, all wearing
that intolerable grin, while the whole time a hissing sound, as if it
came from a snake, whispered in his ears temptations to some deadly
sin. It was a trial the shattered nerves of the enthusiast were
ill qualified to bear, and, finally, a torture beyond his powers
of endurance. The very force of the reasons urged by the writer
distressed him more and more. They seemed to his disordered
imagination the subtle enticements of an evil spirit to lure him
from the truth, and Davenport an emissary of Satan, if not the
arch-deceiver himself. No adequate answers to doctrines which he was
persuaded were false presented themselves to his mind, and this he
ascribed to some hellish spell, which fettered his reason, and must
soon be broken, or he was lost. Mentally, then, first ejaculating a
prayer, he suddenly sprung to his feet, and in a loud voice bade the
reader to stop.

"Forbear," he cried, "man of sin, to seduce the people with these
soul-damning and abominable lies. I conjure thee, Satan, to leave the
body of this man, and depart. Ha! thou wouldst lull them into
security that they may slumber and have no oil in their lamps when
the Bridegroom cometh, when He cometh in the clouds of heaven. My soul
have not thou thy portion with the unbelievers."

The words were uttered with wonderful vehemence and rapidity, and upon
their conclusion, he strode with long strides down the passage towards
the door. Not an exclamation was heard, not a hand raised to stay his
departure, so stupefied were all with astonishment. Upon leaving the
room he rushed into the street, and, forgetful of his promise to Mr.
Armstrong, took his way to his own hut. The tything man, awakening
from his lethargy, and a few others recovering their presence of mind,
went at last to the door, and gazed up and down the street, but the
disturber of the meeting was not in sight, nor, sooth to say, were
any of the number sorry, or wished to meet him that night. Contenting
themselves, therefore, with this slight demonstration of zeal, they
returned to the Conference-room. There, great as was the scandal
occasioned by the interruption, all things soon settled down into
their usual course, and the meeting was regularly concluded and
dismissed.




CHAPTER XI.

  _Angelo_.--We must not make a scarecrow of the law,
                  Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,
                  And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
                  Their perch, and not their terror.

    MEASURE FOR MEASURE.


The events of the preceding evening caused quite a sensation in the
village. We shall better understand the various opinions and feelings
of the inhabitants by stepping, at about eleven o'clock the following
morning, into the shop, or, as it was called in those days, and would
generally be called now, the "store" of Truman and Jenkins. This was
an establishment at the foot of the hill, where it hung out its sign,
in company with several others of the same character, which professed
to supply all the wants of the community. Here everything was to be
had from a gallon of molasses to a skein of thread, or a quintal of
codfish, to a pound of nails. On one side, as you entered, were ranges
of shelves, protected by a counter, on which were exposed rolls of
flannels of divers colors, and calico and broadcloth, and other
"dry goods," while a showcase on the counter contained combs, and
tooth-brushes, and soaps, and perfumery, and a variety of other small
articles. The back of the store was used as a receptacle for hogsheads
of molasses, and puncheons of rum and wine, and barrels of whisky and
sugar. Overhead and on the posts were hung pails, and rakes, and iron
chains, and a thousand things necessary to the complete enjoyment of
civilization. On the other side was a small counting-room partitioned
off, with a door, the upper part of which was glass, for the
convenience of looking into the shop, in order to be ready to attend
to the wants of such customers as might come in. This little room,
scarcely eight feet square, contained a small close stove, around
which were gathered some half a dozen persons.

"I say, squire," exclaimed Tom Gladding, a tall, awkward, good-natured
looking fellow, with legs sprawling out, and heels on the top of the
stove, addressing himself to a man in a black suit, rather better
dressed than the others, "what do you think of this here rusty old
Father Holden cut up last night at Conference?"

Squire Miller, as one in authority, and who might be called to
adjudicate upon the case, and for other reasons of his own, was not
disposed to commit himself, he, therefore, cautiously replied, _more
Novo Anglicano_, by asking another question, "Were you there, Mr.
Gladding?"

"No," said Tom, laughing; "the old folks used to make me go so
regular, when I was a boy, I guess I've done my part. So after a while
I give it up."

"It is a pity you ever gave it up," said the squire. "You might get a
great deal of good from it."

"There's two opinions about that," said Tom. "You see, squire, as long
as mother was alive, I always went with her regular, 'cause it kind o'
comforted her, though somehow or other I never took to it. So when she
died I sort o' slacked off 'till now it's 'een amost two year since I
been in."

"They say," observed Mr. Jenkins, "they've took the old man up."

"I'm sorry for that," cried Tom. "To go to take up a kind o'
half-crazy man for speaking in meetin'!"

"Why," inquired the squire, "would you allow the man to go about
disturbing the neighbors as he pleased?"

"I never heard tell of his disturbing nobody," said Tom. "Just take
him off his notions about the ten vargins and their lamps, and the
judgment day, and I don't know a likelier man than old Holden. In my
opinion, he's a cleverer fellow than Davenport, by a long shot."

"I don't believe he's been caught," said a man in a pee-jacket,
who, from his appearance, was a fisherman. "I passed his island this
morning about sunrise, with a boatload of oysters, and I see the old
man at his door."

"Well," observed Mr. Jenkins, "I hope he isn't. It's enough to make
a body puke up his boots to hear Davenport, and I don't much blame
Holden for cutting him short."

"I heard somebody say," said Gladding, "that the old man shook his
fist right in old Davenport's face, and told him up and down he was a
good for nothing liar. I want to know if he can sue him, squire?"

"Why, as to that," answered Miller, who being appealed to on a
question of law, conceived it necessary to show his learning, "if a
man strikes at me within striking distance, I can sue him for assault,
though he shouldn't touch me. That I call one of the nice pints of the
law. I decided so myself in the case of Samuel Pond _versus_ Ezekiel
Backus. You see Pond and Backus had a little quarrel about some
potatoes Pond sold him, and Pond got mad, and told Backus he lied.
Backus is rather hasty, and doubled up his fist, and put it near
Pond's nose, and insinuated that if he said that again he would
knock him down." Here the squire paused, and looked round to see what
impression he was making on his audience, and the momentary silence
was taken advantage of by Gladding to observe:

"That Pond's a mean cuss."

The justice took no further notice of honest Tom's not very
complimentary remark than to cast at him a look of angry surprise,
which the other endured with complete indifference.

"So," continued Squire Miller, "Pond went to Lawyer Tippit, and he
brought the suit before me. Backus pleaded his own case, but he had a
fool for a client; the law was all against him, and I had to fine him
a dollar and cost."

"That's considerable to pay," exclaimed Tom, "just for skinning such
a fellow's nose as Sam Pond's (I've heard of the case afore), but you
ain't said nothing, squire, about calling a man a liar."

"Well," said Squire Miller, "that's what we call a mute point. I heard
the affirmative and negative argued once by Lawyer Ketchum and Lawyer
Tippit. Lawyer Tippit was the affirmative, and Lawyer Ketchum the
negative. Lawyer Tippit's principle was in _medio pessimus ibis_,
while Lawyer Ketchum held _qui facit per alien facit per se_. They,
therefore, couldn't agree, they were so wide apart, you see. So they
separated without either giving up, though I think Lawyer Tippit had a
little the best of the argument."

"Lawyer Tippit knows a thing or two," said the fisherman, in a low
tone.

Here Squire Miller handed to Mr. Jenkins twelve and a half cents, for
the four glasses of Jamaica he had drank, a portion of which some way
or other seemed to have got into his last speech, and took his leave.

He had hardly left the store when who should come in but Constable
Basset, bearing in his hand a black staff, "having a head with the
arms of the State thereon," the badge of his office, as provided by
law, and which he was required to carry "upon proper occasions." Some
such occasion had, in the judgment of the constable, evidently arisen,
else it would not now be forthcoming.

He was a bullet-headed, carroty-haired little fellow, with a snub nose
and eyes so diminutive and deeply sunken, that but for the sparks of
light they emitted, they would have been undiscernible. The expression
of his face was like that of a wiry terrier, being derived partly from
his occupation, which, in his opinion, required him to be as vigilant
in spying out offenders as the aforesaid peppery animal, in scenting
vermin, and being partly the gift of nature. But though the person of
Basset was small, such was not his opinion of himself. That was in an
inverse ratio to his size, and at once the source of his highest joys,
and, sooth to say, of an occasional mortification. But the former
greatly preponderated, and, on the whole, it was a pleasure to
a benevolent mind to look at him, if for no other reason than to
consider how much enjoyment there may be in ignorance.

As soon as Gladding set his eyes on the constable, he hailed him:

"Here, Basset," he cried, "what are you going to do this morning with
that are stick?"

The constable did not much relish hearing the badge of an office which
he esteemed one of the most important in the State thus lightly spoken
of and degraded to a common stick; he, therefore, replied somewhat
shortly--

"I guess, Mr. Gladding, you don't see the head of my staff, do ye?"

"Don't I?" said Gladding. "I know old
Authority-by-the-State-of-Connecticut a mile off, without seeing his
head, I rather think. But what are you up to now?"

Basset, who, though no Solomon, had too much wit to admit every one
into his confidence, answered:

"O, nothing; I was only looking for Squire Miller."

"Why," said Gladding, "he only left the store a minute ago. I say
Basset, you got a warrant agin old Holden?"

"Why," said Basset, "what makes you ask?"

"Because," replied Gladding, mischievously, who strongly suspecting an
intention to arrest Holden, and knowing the constable's cowardice,
was determined to play upon his fears, "I shouldn't like to be in your
skin when you go for to take him."

"I'd like to see the man what would dare to resist when I showed him
my authority," said the constable. "I guess I'd make him cry copeevy
in less than no time."

"Well," said Gladding, who all this while had been leisurely whittling
a bit of white pine, "well, Basset, you know your own business best,
and I'm not a man to interfere. My principle is, let every man skin
his own skunks. You haint no wife nor children, have you?"

"No," said Basset. "What makes you ask?"

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. I always think it judgmatical, you see,
to choose a man for constable who haint got no family; 'cause, if any
accident should happen, 'twouldn't be of so much consequence."

"I don't catch your meaning clear," said Basset.

"You'll catch it clear enough, I guess," answered Gladding, "if Holden
gits hold o' ye."

"Now, Tom Gladding, you needn't think you're going to frighten _me_,"
cried Basset, on whom the charm was beginning to work.

"I never had sich an idea," said Tom. "But folks does say he's a
desperate fighting character. Did you never hear tell of Kidd the
pirate, and his treasures, ever so much gold and silver, and rings and
watches, and all sorts o' trinkets and notions, buried somewhere along
shore, or perhaps on the old fellow's island? Folks does say that
when it was kivered, two men was murdered on the spot, so that their
sperits should watch it, and hender other folks from gitting on't.
But them may be all lies. I heard tell, too," he added, bending down
towards the constable, and speaking in a low, confidential tone, as if
he wished to be overheard by no one, "that Holden's Kidd himself; but
I don't believe a word on't. I tell you this as a friend of your'n,
and I advise you to be prudent."

Poor Basset left the shop, with a much less confident air than that
with which he had entered it. The truth is, he had in his pocket, all
the while, a warrant issued by Squire Miller to arrest Holden, which
he now most heartily wished he had never burnt his fingers with.
He had heard before, the strange stories in circulation about the
Solitary, but had listened to them with only a vague feeling
of curiosity, without any personal interest therein, so that no
impression of any consequence had been made upon his mind. But now the
case was different. The matter was brought home to his own bosom. Here
was he, Constable Basset, required and commanded, "by authority of the
State of Connecticut," to arrest a man of the most violent character,
"for," said Basset to himself, "he must be a dangerous fellow, else
how would he venture to insult a whole conference? Tom Gladding's
more'n half right, and I must look sharp." Gladly would he have
abandoned the whole business, notwithstanding his cupidity was not a
little excited by the fees, but he doubted wh

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