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 Yaupaae, 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 Yaupaae 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 Yaupaae. 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."