It seemed to Faith natural that her father should be affected by the death of the fisherman, who, after saving his life, had perished in the attempt to bring rescue, although she thought his expressions exaggerated. She felt pained at his self-reproaches, but doubted not that soon the keenness of regret would lose its edge. In order the sooner, therefore, to produce this result, she attempted to divert his thoughts into another channel.

"You are unjust to yourself, father," she said. "How many are there to bless you for charities known only to themselves and you?"

"Mention them not, Faith, crumbs from my superfluity, like those that fell from the other rich man's table. Besides, of what avail will any charities, as you call them, of mine be? They will serve only to convey the curse that attaches itself to me. I tremble to think you are my daughter."

"And I," said Faith, "can never be thankful enough for having such a father. Ah, how happy we might be, if you would only banish these fancies from your mind!"

"Thus it is," said Armstrong. "Did I not say right? Like an evil spirit I scatter only gloom around one. I will remove a presence that blasts whatever it meets."

So saying he rose, and in spite of the tearful entreaties of his daughter, walked into the hall, and taking his great coat from the hook that held it, put it on and passed into the street.

Faith, upon his departure, sunk into a chair, and allowed free course to her tears. They brought relief, and after a few moments she recovered composure. "This is very foolish," she said to herself, "to cry like a child. My dear father is nervous, and I do not wonder, that shocking accident agitates him. I am glad he is gone, for it is better he should seek the society of his friends, than sit here making himself melancholy with me. I must be cheerful to receive him when he returns. At least, he shall see no trace of tears."

Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong walked down the street, but shunning the sight of others, he turned at the first opportunity into an unfrequented road. It led towards the Severn, and hardly knowing how it happened, he crossed a bridge, and soon found himself in the woods that skirt the left bank of that river. Unconsciously, and as if attracted by some spell, he was directing his course towards the scene of the late disaster. The walk and the solemn silence of the woods, in which no sound was heard except the cawing of a watchful crow, some sentinel placed to give notice of approaching danger to his companions, gradually subdued the excitement of his feelings. His pace, at first rapid, relaxed, the light began to play upon the clouds that brooded on his spirits, and he wondered at his fancies and his conduct.

"How could I," thought he, "be so cruel to my own Faith! Her life ought to be all sunshine and gladness, and would be but for me, and I must sadden and darken it with the baleful imaginings of a distempered mind. I must struggle harder and pray oftener and more fervently to be preserved from myself. And now my soul feels the need of communing with the Infinite Spirit. What fitter place for adoration than the stillness of these old woods? Here worldly interruptions cannot come, and the veil between Him and His creature is withdrawn."

He stopped. He looked up into the sky, and watched the clouds floating in the blue. He glanced at the sun flaming in golden magnificence. His eyes fell on the hoary stems of the giants of the forest. He saw the trailing arbutus, the delicious herald of warmer suns and softer winds, creeping to his feet, and raised his hands to heaven and repeated the lines of Milton—

These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitt'st above the heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works: yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine.

He stooped down and picked a few bunches of the arbutus, and put them in his bosom. "Faith loves flowers," he said, "and the sweetness and whiteness of these are types of herself."

He was now quite calm, and realized fully where he was. It is strange, he thought, how I came hither. I am like Philip, whom the Spirit caught away.

He continued his walk, striving to drive away the gloomy ideas, which, in spite of his resistance, threatened again to master him. With his eyes bent upon the ground, he proceeded some distance, when a slight noise attracted his attention. He raised his eyes, and discovered the cause. Five or six men were approaching, bearing, between them, something on some boards. Mr. Armstrong stopped, and, as they came near, perceived, it was the body of the drowned fisherman.

"Fate," he murmured between his teeth, "has driven me here. It was meet that the murderer should be confronted by his victim."

The men, when they had surmounted the steep river bank, tired with the weight, put down the corpse near where Armstrong stood. He walked up to it, and gazed upon the face. The men, solemnized by the mournful task, and respecting the feelings of Armstrong, whom they all knew, preserved silence.

There was no expression of pain upon the features. They wore the calm, impassive look of marble. The eyes and mouth were wide open—efforts to close them had been in vain—but, there was no speculation in the former, and the soul played no more around the latter. The long brown hair, from which the water dripped, hung in disorder over the forehead and down the neck. Armstrong knelt on the withered leaves, by the side of the corpse, and parted the hair with his fingers.

"The agony," he said, as if addressing the drowned man, "is over. The curtain is lifted. The terrible secret is disclosed. You have heard the summons we must all hear. You have trod the path we must all tread. You know your doom. Poor fellow! how gladly would I give my life for yours."

The bystanders were moved. Thus to behold the rich and prosperous Mr. Armstrong, whose reserve was mistaken by some for haughtiness, kneeling on the ground and lamenting over the obscure fisherman, was something they had not expected.

"Sill was a good fellow and a ginerous," said Tom Gladding, wiping away a tear, with the rough sleeve of his coat.

"He was a clever fellow, was Sill," added another.

"I've known him more than once," said Tom, "give half his fish away to a poor family. Josiah tried to make everybody comfortable."

"When I was sick, a year ago," said one of the men, "and the neighbors thought I was going to die, Josiah set up many a night with me, when he had to work all the next day for his wife and children. I had no notion, then, he'd have to go afore me."

"It's true what the primer says," said another—

"Xerxes the great must die, And so must you and I."

"It don't need the primer or Xerxes either to tell us that," said Tom. "Now, it looks kind o' hard to have a young man like Josiah go; but, seeing as how he must die, sometime or other, I guess it don't much consarn him whether it's to-day or to-morrow, when you think of etarnity. Howsoever, it's no use standing here sniveling; so, let's get on. Miss Sill will be glad the body's found, though it will 'most kill her to see it."

Thereupon, Tom and his friends took up the corpse, and pursued their way to the village.

Armstrong stood still, and looked after them till they were out of sight. He then turned, descended the bank, and sat upon a rock on the edge of the water.

He reviewed the events of the day before the yesterday. He had repeatedly endeavored to divert his mind from such thoughts; but, in spite of his wishes, they would force themselves back. Finding all resistance vain, he had, finally, abandoned himself to their control.

They passed confusedly through his mind. It was difficult to arrange them in the order of their succession. He began to be uncertain whether his visit to Holden was made before or after the drowning of Sill. He tried to recollect the purpose of his visit to the Solitary, but could fix upon nothing definite. He seemed to remember that he had made a confession of some sort, and that Holden had charged him with the murder of his brother; and, at the same time, commended him for removing George from the evil to come. His thoughts then reverted to the upsetting of the boat. He knew that Sill had saved his life; but why, when in safety on the boat, had he left it? He had a notion of some conversation between them, and strove, till his brain burned, to remember it. Had he not urged the unfortunate man to swim ashore? Was it not most probable he had done so? Was not that most consistent with his usual treatment of others? Was not that the means adopted by the stern angel of fate, to accomplish the decree?

Such was the nature of the thoughts of the unhappy Armstrong. Do what he might, he could not exclude them. They would give place to no others. They were at home. They had a right to rule and to torture. They were a foretaste of a never-ending punishment. His will did not consent; but, a mightier will commanded, and the weaker must obey. The sport of an irresistible necessity—with no power of choice—the blind, unwilling instrument of a controlling force, he was, notwithstanding, justly chargeable with every misfortune, and, like a malefactor, must endure the consequences.

Long he sat thus absorbed in these wretched reflections. He stared upon the water, but saw nothing: the tide rose and wet his feet, but he felt it not; the wind blew chill, but he was not cold. He got up at last from his seat, and was recalled to life. He felt stiff from having been in one posture so long. He took out his watch, and found it was twelve o'clock. He looked at the sun, and perceived it did not contradict the watch, and turned his steps homeward.

The crow from the topmost bough of a withered tree eyed him as he passed along quite near, and croaked once, but did not leave his perch. Armstrong heard him not. Nor did he heed the blue-bird singing in the noonday sun to the arbutus blossoms crushed by his unwitting feet, or notice the petulant squirrel flinging down the shells of his nuts, as if in mockery at the passing stranger. He was met by Primus in the village street, who took off his cap, but to the salutation of the negro he paid no regard. The General stopped as he passed, and turned round, with a sorrowful surprise, to look after him, and shook his head. It was the first time Mr. Armstrong had passed him without notice and a kind word. The negroes are very superstitious, and great observers of signs. He remarked that Mr. Armstrong's hat was pulled over his eyes, in the same manner he wore it at the funeral of his wife, and augured some impending calamity.

Mr. Armstrong entered his house, and threw himself into a seat, but he sat only a moment. Something seemed to be wanting. A restless impatience possessed him. He took up the tongs and begun to alter the disposition of the sticks of wood. He could not suit himself, and finally abandoned the fire to itself, after having filled the room with smoke. He went to the bookcase, and took down a book, and commenced reading. But presently his eyes wandered off, and fastened themselves on the rug. He threw down the book, and rung the bell violently. Felix instantly answered the summons.

"It seems to me you are very negligent in attending to the bell this morning," said he. "It is unpleasant to be obliged to ring so often."

"You ring only once, Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, opening his eyes wide with astonishment. "I in the kitchen at the time, and come immediumtly. The tongue still jingle."

"You may well say your tongue jingles," said Mr. Armstrong, sharply. "Let me trouble you not to contradict me. Where is Miss Faith?"

"Miss Faith went out an hour ago. I guess she is calling on some ladies."

"Go, and find her, and request her to come home."

Felix retreated hastily into the kitchen, and seized his cap. But before going out he thought it necessary to speak to Rosa.

"O, Rosa!" he said, "take care o' the boss while I'm gone. Something dreadful is happened to him, and I'm 'fraid of the consequence. If you hear the bell, Rosa, run for your life."

"How can I leave the dinner? It all spoil, Felix," said Rosa. "I send Katy."

"Never mind two dinners," cried Felix. "Better burn the roast beef than make him feel worse. I never know him cross afore."

Felix was not obliged to go far. He had hardly got outside of the gate, when he saw his young mistress coming down the street. Walking rapidly, he soon met her, and communicated his errand. Faith quickened her steps, and in a few moments stood by the side of her father.

She found him contemplating the sprigs of arbutus he had picked for her. The sight and scent of the lovely flowers had carried him back to the moment when he plucked them, and restored, in a measure, the tone of mind that prevailed then. It was, therefore, with his usual sweetness he addressed her, though there was something in his voice that made the words drop like so many tears upon her heart.

"I have brought you some flowers, my darling," he said. "They are the first nurslings of spring. Beautiful things! looking up all night and day, with their starry eyes, to heaven, and drinking the dew of God's grace. Happy things! they know no sin nor sorrow, and are remembered only for their perfume and beauty. Take them, Faith. Sweets to the sweet. Like these flowers, your soul exhales an atmosphere of fragrance, and they belong to you."

The mutations of Mr. Armstrong's mind were like the changes of an April day. The softer mood was now prevailing, and as Faith kissed the flowers, before she put them in her bosom, she felt less unhappy than in the morning.



CHAPTER XXVI.

Whose part in all the pomp that fills, The circuit of the summer hills. Is that his grave is green. And deeply would their hearts rejoice, To hear again his living voice.

BRYANT.

The funeral, with the usual celerity with which such things are done in our country, was to take place on the next day. Too often the haste appears indecent, and it may be that in some instances the body has been buried before life deserted it. It would seem that the family felt constrained by the presence of the corpse, and compelled to exercise an irksome self-control, and, therefore, desired to hurry it under ground, as if it would be less likely there to know how soon it was forgotten.

But in the present case there was no reason why the body should be longer kept. There could be no doubt that life was extinct. It had lain too long in the water to admit a ray of hope to the contrary. The sooner it was placed in its final earthly home the better for poor Jane Sill, the widow. Her grief would the sooner be mitigated, by withdrawing her thoughts from the dead to fix them on the necessity of providing for the living. Until the burial the sympathizing neighbors took upon themselves to perform the usual work of the household, such as cooking the necessary food, &c., and one or another came in at times to look after the children, to see that nothing was neglected for their comfort, and to console the lone woman in her affliction. But this could not last long. It was better it should not, but that things should, as quickly as possible, resume their usual and natural course.

When the hour for the ceremony arrived, Mr. Armstrong sent round his carriage to convey the mourning family in the melancholy procession, while he and Faith, as the distance was short, proceeded on foot to the house. It was situated on a sandy beach, near the Wootuppocut, and a considerable company had collected together before their arrival. Poor Josiah's generosity and good-nature had made him a general favorite, and his acquaintances had pretty generally turned out to render to him the last testimony of affection it would ever be in their power to pay. The house was too small to hold all present, so that besides the relations, very few except females were admitted. Faith entered, but her father, though courteously invited in, and in consequence of his connection with the accident that caused the death, considered in some wise a mourner, preferred to remain on the outside. Meanwhile, during the preparations in the house, groups without were scattered round, engaged, in low voices, in various conversation. In some, expressions of condolence and pity were let fall for the condition of the widow and her family; others descanted on the good qualities of the deceased; others debated on what might be the feelings of Armstrong, and wondered what he would give the widow. They were all acquainted with his generosity, and doubted not of his desire to repair, so far as he was able, the misfortune with which the more ignorant would insist upon connecting him as in some sort, a cause. For this reason, some of them stole sly glances, from time to time, at his face, wishing not to be observed, as if they expected to read therein his purposes. But Armstrong, his eyes fastened on the ground, and absorbed in his own reflections, was unconscious of the attention he attracted. So lost was he, indeed, in his own thoughts, as not to observe many of the nods and greetings directed to him.

Presently low tones, as of one speaking, were heard issuing from the house, and those standing outside gathered round the open door, to listen to the prayer of the minister. It seems to be taken for granted that on such occasions the prayer must occupy some considerable time, whether because a short one would be irreverent to the Being to whom it is addressed, or disrespectful to the sorrowing friends, or because the mind cannot sooner be impressed with due solemnity. Hence it follows that as these prayers are extempore, and the abilities and taste of those who offer them of different degrees, they are of various shades of merit. Seldom is one made in which the canons of good taste are not violated, and some are not compelled to smile who ought to weep. The reverend gentleman who conducted the services, was not insensible to what was expected from him, and determined "to improve" the mournful event to the benefit of the living. After alluding to the gratitude his hearers ought to feel at not being thus hurried, like poor Sill, without time for preparation, before the bar of Judgment, who, however, he hoped, was prepared, and in order to heighten the feeling of thankfulness, contrasting the light and liberty of life with the darkness of the grave (as if the spirit were confined there), he ran through the usual common places, speaking with an assured conviction, as if the country beyond the grave were as familiar to him as the streets of the town. With a tedious particularity he then entreated the divine blessing upon the members of the bereaved family, mentioning them by name, beginning with the widow, to whom succeeded the children, two boys, one of four, and the other of two years of age, followed by fathers, and mothers, and brothers, and sisters to an indefinite extent, until the compliment was duly paid to all who were supposed to have any claim to it. The prayer was closed very much as it began, with a reference to the suddenness of the death, which was treated as a warning sent for their benefit, and a hope that it might be laid to heart, and induce sinners to fly from the wrath to come. The usual time being now consumed, the minister who had labored hard, and not without sundry hesitations and coughings to accomplish his task, brought it to a conclusion, and announced an appropriate hymn. There was something sadly sweet and touching in the homely words and simple tune, sung in low and suppressed tones, as if they were afraid of disturbing the slumbers of the dead.

Upon the conclusion of the hymn, the person who acted as master of the ceremonies went to the door, and, addressing those gathered round, said that all who desired might now have an opportunity to see the corpse. Several accepted the invitation, and among others, Mr. Armstrong.

The coffin was placed upon a table in the centre of the room, with a part of the lid turned back on hinges, so as to leave the face exposed. The former friends and acquaintances of the dead man, giving place and succeeding to one another, came, looked, and passed out again, moving lightly on tip-toe solemnized and subdued by the awful mystery of death. As they came in and left the house, they could see through an open door in an adjoining room the weeping widow in full mourning, with her little boys on either side, and the relations seated round in chairs.

All having gazed upon the corpse who wished, preparations now commenced for screwing down the lid of the coffin. The sobs and sounds of grief which had proceeded from the room where the mourners were collected, and which had been, as by an effort, suppressed during the prayer and hymn, now broke forth afresh.

"O, do not hinder me," poor Mrs. Sill was heard to say; "it's the only chance I shall have in this world."

"I guess you'd better not," said a voice, trying to dissuade her. "It's no use; and, then, before all them strangers."

"I will see Josiah," she exclaimed, rising from her seat, and putting aside the well-meaning hand that strove to detain her. "Who has a better right to take the last look than me?"

With these words, her crape veil thrown in disorder back upon her shoulders, her eyes red and swollen with crying, and tears streaming down her cheeks, she advanced towards the body, all respectfully making room for her as she approached.

We are not a very demonstrative people. The inhabitants of New England are taught, from an early age, the lesson of self-control. They do not wear in their bosoms windows into which any eyes may look. It is considered unmanly for men to exhibit excessive feeling, and perhaps the sentiment has an influence even on the softer sex. The conduct of Mrs. Sill was unusual, and excited surprise; but it is difficult to stem strong passion and it had its way.

She moved quickly up to the table, and threw her arms around the coffin, resting her cheek on that of her husband, while the hot tears ran in large drops down its marble surface. One who thought he had a right to interfere, whispered in her ear, and took hold of an arm to draw her away, but she turned fiercely upon him.

"Who are you," she said, "to separate me from my husband? Go—I will keep him as long as I please."

The person, seeing her determination, desisted; and all looked on in mournful silence.

"O, Josiah," she sobbed, "who'd have thought it! The best, the kindest husband a woman ever had. O! how sorry I am for every hard word I ever spoke to you. And you so good—never to find fault when I scolded. I was wicked—and yet all the time I loved you so. Did you know it, Josiah? If you were back again, how different I would treat you! The fire should always be burning bright, and the hearth clean, when you came back cold from fishing, and you should never, never ask me a second time for anything. But you don't hear me. What's the use of crying and lamenting? Here," she said, raising herself up, and addressing those next her, "take him, and put him in his grave."

She staggered and fainted, and would have fallen, had she not been caught in the arms of sympathizing friends, who removed her into the adjoining chamber, and applied the usual restoratives. This caused some little delay, but, after a time, the person who had assumed upon himself the arrangements of the funeral, entered, preceding the four bearers, whose hats he took into his own hands, to restore them to the owners when the coffin should be placed in the hearse—a plain black wagon, with black cloth curtains—waiting at the door. The coffin was taken up by them, and deposited accordingly; after which, they took their places in front of the hearse, while the four pall-bearers ranged themselves on each side. At a signal from the director of the ceremony, the whole moved forward, leaving space for the carriages to approach the door. Mr. Armstrong's carriage was driven up, and the widow and children, with two or three females, were assisted in. Then followed a few other vehicles, with the nearest relatives, after whom came others, as they pleased to join. A large number of persons had previously formed themselves into a procession before the hearse, headed by the minister, who would have been accompanied by a physician, had one assisted in making poor Sill's passage to the other world easier.

The mournful cortege wound slowly up a hill to the burying-ground—a piece of broken land on the top. At the time of which we write, the resting-place of the departed of Hillsdale presented a different appearance from what it does now. Wild, neglected, overgrown with briers, it looked repulsive to the living, and unworthy of the dead. The tender sentiment which associates beauty with the memory of our friends, and loves to plant the evergreen and rose around their graves, seemed then not to have touched the bosoms of our people. A pleasing change has succeeded. The briars have been removed, trees planted, and when necessary to be laid out, new burial-ground spots have been selected remarkable for attractiveness and susceptibility of improvement. The brook has been led in and conducted in tortuous paths, as if to lull with a soft hymn the tired sleepers, and then expanded into a fairy lake, around which the weeping willow lets fall its graceful pendants. The white pine, the various species of firs, the rhododendron, mixed with the maple, the elm, and the tulip tree, have found their way into the sacred enclosure. The reproach of Puritanic insensibility is wiped out. Europe may boast of prouder monuments, but she has no burial-places so beautiful as some of ours. Pere la Chaise is splendid in marble and iron, but the loveliness of nature is wanting. Sweet Auburn, and Greenwood, and Laurel Hill are peerless in their mournful charms.

The coffin was lowered into the grave in silence. No solemn voice pronounced the farewell "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The ceremonies were concluded. The minister took off his hat, and addressing the bystanders, some of whom, respectfully imitating his example, raised the coverings from their heads, thanked them in the name of the afflicted family for this last tribute of regard. The procession was formed again, and slowly returned to the house, leaving the grave-digger to shovel in the gravel and complete his task.

As Mr. Armstrong and Faith walked home together, but few words were exchanged between them. Each was absorbed in reflection upon the scene just witnessed. In Faith's mind it was solemn, but devoid of gloom. With the hopefulness of health and youth, gleams of sunshine played over the grave. She looked beyond, and hoped and trusted.

But with her father it was different. Had it not been for him Sill might have been alive and well. He had made the wife a widow and her children orphans. He had introduced weeping and wailing into a happy home. But this was a slight calamity, and hardly worthy of a thought in comparison with another. The words of the minister, that the victim had been hurried to his sentence without time for preparation recurred with a feeling of horror. It was he through whose instrumentality Sill had been thrust into tormenting but undestroying flames. Better that he had never been born. Better that he had been strangled in the hour of his birth.

With thoughts like these, this unhappy man, whose heart was the seat of all the virtues, tormented himself. It seemed sometimes strange that people did not point their fingers at him: that he was not arrested for the murder: that he was permitted to walk abroad in the sunshine. His mind, unknown to those about him, unknown to himself, was hovering on the confines of insanity. Only a spark, perhaps, was necessary to light a conflagration. Alas! that one so good, so noble, should be a victim of destiny. But we forbear to intrude further into reflections alike miserable and insane.

Mr. Armstrong felt more composed the next day, and in the afternoon, accompanied by Faith, went to the dwelling of the widow. They found her engaged in ordinary family affairs. The duties to the living must be respected. To neither rich nor poor does sorrow furnish an excuse for their neglect. Let the mind find something to occupy it, the hand something to do. Thus do we become sooner reconciled to those dispensations of Providence at which our weakness, and ignorance, and presumption rebel.

The poor woman received them kindly, and offered chairs. Faith took into her lap the younger child from the floor on which it was sitting, gnawing a crust of brown bread, and began to talk to him. The round eyes of the boy expressed his astonishment, but as he looked into the loving face and heard more of the sweet voice, the alarm he at first felt at the approach of the stranger subsided, and he smiled with the confiding innocence which children return to the caresses of those who are fond of them.

"Jimmy doesn't know what a loss he's had," said Mrs. Sill.

"Jimmy will grow up to take care of his mother bye and bye, and repay her for some of her trouble, won't he?" said Faith, addressing the boy.

"O, Josiah and Jimmy are my only comfort," said the widow—"now that he's gone. I don't know what I should do without them, I'm sure."

Mr. Armstrong had called the elder boy, Josiah, to his side, and the little fellow had quickly become familiar enough to play with his gold watch-chain. Seeing it pleased the child, he took the watch and held it to his ear, at which the countenance of the boy became radiant with delight. "O, Jimmy," he cried, "it talks."

Mr. Armstrong released the watch into the hands of Josiah, who ran with it to his brother.

"He will drop it," exclaimed Mrs. Sill, starting forward, taking the watch from the hands of the disappointed boy, and offering it to Mr. Armstrong.

"Keep it," he said, "for Josiah, to associate me, when he grows up, with his father's death."

"You don't mean to give away your gold watch?" said Mrs. Sill, still holding it out towards him.

"Yes, Mrs. Sill," said Mr. Armstrong, "I intended it for him: I would give him all I have if I could thereby restore his father to life."

This observation renewed in full force the sorrow of the poor woman. She sank back into a chair, and covering her face with her apron, sobbed and wept bitterly.

Faith looked at her father with an expression which seemed to say—do not refer to the cause of her grief. Armstrong understood the appeal, but he had that in his mind which was unknown to his daughter, and after a pause he proceeded.

"I have more property than I deserve, and what better use can I put it to than give it to the deserving? You will find in that," he continued, handing a paper to the widow, "what will entitle you to a little income during your life. I hope it will enable you to take better care of your children."

Mrs. Sill took the paper mechanically, and gazed upon without opening it or imagining the extent of the gift. She kept turning it round and round in her fingers, as if not knowing what to do with it.

"Everybody knows you're a kind man, and as generous as you're rich, Mr. Armstrong;" at last she said, "But I guess I shant want anything long in this world."

"I hope you may live long yet," said Mr. Armstrong, "for the sake of the little boys."

This allusion recalled her more to herself, and without looking at the paper she put it into her bosom. "I'm sure I thank you with all my heart, and shall always try to do my duty by them," she said.

Here Mr. Armstrong rose, and Faith, putting down the child, that seemed loth to leave her, spoke in a low tone some parting words of consolation.

"I'm sure you're very good; I'm sure I'm very much obleeged to you," was all Mrs. Sill could say.

On their way home Faith spoke of the promising appearance of the children, and of what the hopes of the mother must be on their account.

"It is true they are all that are left to her," said Mr. Armstrong, "and what hopes she has of earthly happiness must be built on them. But who can look into to-morrow? A few days ago, never dreaming of misfortune, she exulted in the enjoyment of her husband and little boys. The first is taken away, and none know how soon the latter may be. So joys and sorrows are mingled together. At this moment she is more miserable for having been happy, and so great is the misery, it outweighs all the happiness of former years. Such is the nature of pain and pleasure. A pang of the former, an instant's acute agony, may be equivalent to hours of what is called enjoyment. We are so made. We may hope for happiness: we are certain of sorrow. We must seek after the one: the other is sure to find us. When I look round, what evidences of wretchedness do I see! Alas, it is indeed a fallen world, and the ground is cursed for man's sake."

"You take a gloomy view, father," said Faith. "Look beyond. Are we not promised a happier time when the bliss of Eden shall be renewed?"

"Yes, and the time will come. Not only prophets and apostles have had it revealed to them, but grand souls among the heathen have dimly descryed its dawning from afar. But what unimaginable scenes of horror must first be? What doleful misereres must first ascend to cloud the brightness of the heavens and dim the joy of the blest! Long, long before then, your and my remembrance, Faith, will have perished from the earth. You will be then a seraph, and I—. If there be ever an interval of pain, it will be when I think of your blessedness, and you, if angels sometimes weep, will drop a tear to the memory of your father, and it shall cool his torment."

What could the grieved and alarmed daughter say? She spoke in gentle and loving tones. She combated by every possible argument these miserable fancies. She entreated him for her sake as well as his own, to cast them off. He listened to her without impatience, and as if he loved to hear the sound of her voice. But he shook his head with a mournful sadness, and his melancholy remained. As may well be supposed, the dark cloud that had settled down upon his mind was not thus to be dissipated. Faith, though troubled, did not despair. She trusted the impression of the late calamity, to which she attributed much of his unhappiness, would in time wear off. Meanwhile, she commended him to the kind protection of that Gracious Being who is loving to all his works.



CHAPTER XXVII.

I cannot think of sorrow now: and doubt If e'er I felt it—'tis so dazzled from My memory by this oblivious transport.

BYRON

"Here come that strange old man," said Felix, the next morning, looking out of the kitchen window, which commanded a view of the road. "I do believe he's bewitched the boss."

Rosa, to whom the remark was addressed, ran to the window, and saw the Recluse coming up the street.

"I'm 'stonished," she said, "that Mr. Armstrong and Miss Faith give so much encouragement to these low pussons. They always take so much liberty."

"Give 'em an inch and they take two feet," said Felix. "I wish his two feet take him away from this house for the last time," he added, laughing.

"Ha, ha, ha, you so 'musing Felix," said Rosa. "There is something too very genteel in your laugh."

"You do me proud, sweet Rosa," answered Felix, bowing with his hand upon his breast.

Holden was no favorite of the black. The well-dressed and well-fed servant of a wealthy family, with the feeling common to all who judge from outside appearances, had at first been disposed to look down upon the coarsely-dressed anchorite, who supported himself by so mean a labor as the manufacture of baskets, and to consider him as little better than a beggar-man. No sooner, however, did Holden detect the feeling, and it was instantly, than he corrected it, so that it never made its appearance again in his presence. In fact, a feeling of fear superseded the impertinence of the negro. There was something in the burning glare of Holden's eyes, and the deep tones of his voice, that exerted an inexplicable power over Felix. Much he turned it over in his mind, why, in spite of himself, he was obliged to be as civil to Holden as to white gentlemen, and at last concluded, the Solitary possessed some magic art, by which he controlled others. He the more readily adopted the opinion because he considered his master and young mistress under the spell of the same glamourie to which he himself had succumbed.

When, therefore, Holden struck with the knocker on the door, the obsequious Felix was at hand to open it, and show him into the parlor.

"Tell your master I am here," said Holden, entering.

"How does he know Mr. Armstrong is at home?" said Felix, to himself. "But I'm a free man, and it is very onpolite to talk about my master."

"The Lord hath raised up a mighty salvation for us," was the address of Holden, as Mr. Armstrong entered the room. "I come to bid thee farewell for a time."

"Farewell!" repeated Mr. Armstrong, without comprehending the meaning of the other.

"Sit thee down, dear friend, and listen to what will give thee joy for my sake now, and thine own hereafter. My son, who was dead, is alive again.".

Armstrong was at a loss to divine the meaning of his visitor. He took it for some figurative form of expression, and, without making any reply, passed his hand over his forehead, as if trying to recall some idea.

Holden read his thoughts. "Thou dost not understand," he said. "Know then that the child perished not with the mother."

"My friend," said Armstrong, who had now complete command of himself, "you do not reflect that I cannot understand your allusions. Explain to me, that I may participate in your joy."

"The child of my youth, he whom I lost, whom I mourned for so many years as dead, is alive," exclaimed Holden, in tones of irrepressible emotion.

"I give you joy," said Armstrong, grasping his hand. "But you never mentioned you had a son. How have you lost, and how found him?"

"It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes," said Holden. "Not long since thou didst tell of an unhappy man, round whom afflictions had gathered. Now will I tell thee of another not less wretched, the clouds of whose sorrow the setting sun is gilding. Be it unto thee for a lesson of hope, for I tell thee, James, that assuredly thou shalt be comforted."

We will endeavor to compress into a few words the more diffuse narrative of the Recluse, confining ourselves to the substance.

It will be recollected that before Holden's constrained retirement among the Indians, he had attached to him the squaw, Esther, by the ties of both gratitude and respect. But it was only at a distance she looked up to him whom she regarded as a sort of superior being. She would not have ventured to speak to him of herself, for how could he take an interest in so insignificant a creature? The nearer relations, however, into which they were thrown, while he was an inmate of her cabin, without diminishing her affection, abated her awe. The teachings of Holden, and the strong interest he manifested for herself and tribe so affected her, that one day she made to him a confession of the events of her life. It is only necessary to recount those which have a connection with this story. Some twenty years previous she had accompanied her husband on a visit to a tribe in Kentucky, into which some of her own relatives had been received. While there an expedition had been undertaken by the Indians, which her husband joined, against the white settlements, then inconsiderable, and exposed. After a few days the warriors returned in triumph, bringing with them many scalps, but no prisoner, except a little boy, saved by her husband, Huttamoiden. He delivered the child to her, and having none herself, she soon learned to love it as her own. Huttamoiden described to her with that particularity which marks the description of natural objects by an Indian, whose habits of life in the forest compel him to a close observation, the situation of the log-hut from which the child was taken, the hut itself before which leaped a mountain stream, the appearance of the unfortunate woman who was murdered, and the desperate resistance of the master of the cabin, who, at the time, was supposed to have perished in the flames, but was afterwards known by the name of Onontio—as the scourge and terror of the tribe which had destroyed his family. She had shortly afterwards started with her husband, taking with them the little boy, for the east, but they found the innumerable questions and suspicions occasioned by the possession of the white child so annoying, and dreaded so the inquiries and investigation that would be made upon their return home, that they determined to get rid of him upon the first opportunity. As their route lay through New York, the streets of a populous city furnished the very chance they desired. It was with great reluctance Esther felt herself compelled to this course, and she was unwilling the child should fall into unkind hands. While reflecting upon what was to be done, she remembered a family which had come from that part of the country whence she came, and whom she had known as worthy people, and determined to entrust to them the boy. She dared not to do this openly. So one night she placed the child on their door-step, enjoining him not to stir until some one took him into the house, while she herself watched close by, until she saw him taken in. Since then, not daring to make inquiries, for fear of bringing on herself some unknown punishment, she had not heard of the boy. She remembered the name of the people with whom he was left, and also the street, and the number, and gave them to Holden.

Upon this foundation it was the Recluse built up the hope that his son was yet alive.

"I am Onontio," he said. "The Being who touched the heart of the ferocious savage to spare the life of the child, hath preserved him. Mine eyes shall yet behold him."

Armstrong was deeply touched, and in the contemplation of the brightening prospects of his friend, he forgot the clouds that hung around his own horizon. Perhaps he was not so sanguine of success as Holden, whose eagle eyes seemed penetrating the future, but he respected too deeply the high raised hopes and sacred feelings of the father, to drop a word of doubt or discouragement.

"Myself, my purse," he said, "are at your service."

"Thomas Pownal goeth to the city to-morrow," replied Holden. "I will speak unto him, and accompany him. Nor do I refuse thy assistance, but freely as it is offered as freely do I accept it. They who are worthy to be called my friends, regard gold and silver only as it ministers to their own and others' wants."

He took the proffered bank-bills with quite as much an air of one conferring, as one of receiving a favor, and, without even looking at the amount, put them in his pocket.

It was so long since Holden had been in the great world, or mingled in the ordinary pursuits of men—and his appearance and mode of speech were so different from those of others—that Armstrong had some fears respecting his researches. It was, perhaps, this latent apprehension of his fitness to appear in the world—an apprehension, however, only dimly cognizable by himself—that induced Holden to seek the companionship of Pownal. With these feelings, and believing he might be of advantage to this strange man, for whom this new development awakened additional interest in his mind, Armstrong offered to be his companion, in the search for his son; but, to his surprise, his offer was hastily rejected.

"No," said Holden; "it befitteth not. Stay, to take care of Faith. Stay, to welcome me when I shall return with a crown of rejoicing upon my head."

Armstrong shrunk within himself at the repulse. He would not have regarded or hardly noticed it once, but, his mind had become morbidly sensitive. A word, a look, a tone had now power to inflict a wound. He was like the Sybarite whose repose was disturbed by a wrinkled rose-leaf; with this difference, that they were spiritual, not material hurts he felt. Did the forecast of Holden penetrate the future? Did he, as in a vision, behold the spectres of misfortune that dogged Armstrong's steps? Was he afraid of a companionship that might drag him down and entangle him in the meshes of a predestined wretchedness? He is right, thought Armstrong. He sees the whirlpool into which, if once drawn, there is no escape from destruction.

Holden succeeded better in communicating a portion of his confidence to Pownal. In the morning of life, before experience has dimmed our sky with clouds, we readily perceive the sun of joy. The bright eyes of youth catch his rays on the mountain tops, before the drooping lids of age are raised from the ground. The ardent temperament of the young man entered with delight into the hopes of his elder. He even anticipated the request Holden intended to make, and asked permission to accompany him. With a very natural feeling he endeavored to effect some change in the costume of the Recluse, but here he met with decided opposition.

"I have nothing to do with the world or its follies," said Holden. "Let it pass on its way as I will on mine. It will reck but little of the garments of an unknown man."

It was more for the sake of his friend than himself that Pownal proposed the change. Perceiving the feelings of the other, he forbore to press a proposal further, which, after all, was of but little consequence. A sloop was to sail the next day—the wind favoring—from Hillsdale, and it was agreed between the two to take passage together.

We may judge of the feelings of Pownal at this time, from the fact that the last evening he spent at Hillsdale, before he left for New York, where, indeed, he expected to remain but a short time, found him at the house of Judge Bernard. He was fortunate, whether beyond his expectations or not we cannot say, in finding Miss Bernard alone. At least it was a fortunate coincidence with his wishes, and might we judge, from the raised color of the cheeks, and the smiles that played round the lips of the beautiful girl, not displeasing to her. It is wonderful, when we look back, how frequently these charming accidents of youth occur.

It was unnecessary that Pownal should speak of his intended trip to the commercial capital. He seemed to assume that Anne was already acquainted with his purpose, but of Holden's discovery she had not been informed.

"Beautiful!" cried Anne, clapping her hands. "We shall have a denouement fit for a novel yet. Oh, I do hope he may find his son. And," added she, with a warm quick feeling, "I can see now reason for the strange habits of our poor dear prophet. Oh, to think of the long years of lonesome misery he must have passed!"

"He seems to have no doubt," said Pownal, "of discovering his lost son. I confess that when I heard him in his animated way tell his story, with eyes raised in thankfulness to heaven, I was swept along by his enthusiasm, and felt no more doubt than himself of his success; but when I reflect more calmly on the circumstances the prospect is not so brilliant."

"Do not doubt: the prospect is brilliant: Jeremiah shall cease his lamentations: our prophet shall be made happy. Ah, why anticipate anything but good!"

"I accept the omen, dear Miss Bernard," said Pownal, looking with admiration upon her beaming countenance, "Men arrive at conclusions, how often false, by a fallible process of reasoning, while truth comes to your more fortunate sex by a happy inspiration."

"And I accept the compliment, since you accept the inspiration. I hope it is with more than the ordinary sincerity of those in the habit of making compliments."

"I wish you could see into my heart."

"You would wish the window closed immediately. What do you suppose I should see there?"

"Yourself."

"Then it is a looking-glass," said Anne, blushing. "A valuable piece of furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!"

"No! a portrait more true to life than Stuart's, and which I prize above everything."

"You must be mistaken in fancying it mine. Only old pictures are prized. The moderns have no reputation."

"You will always jest. I assure you I am serious," said Pownal, who, however, was obliged to smile.

"I see you are very serious. Oh, I hate seriousness ever since I was frightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered my ignorance of the catechism. It was as long," she added, looking round for something to compare it to, "as the tongs."

"Or as your lessons of a June day, when the sunshine and birds, and flowers were inviting you to join them."

"Or as the time when I do not see Faith for twenty-four hours."

"Or as my absence will be to me in New York."

"I wonder how you," said Anne, "who are accustomed to the bustle and excitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotony of a country town."

"I found something here not to be found in all country towns," said Pownal. "Besides, the noise and confusion of a large place never were agreeable to me, and when I return to them they lie like a weight upon my spirits. Instead of a city I ought to have been born in a boundless forest."

"You know I have said, I thought there was a wildness about you," replied Anne, laughing.

"Do you not consider the wild animal tamed?"

"Not entirely. It belongs to a species almost irreclaimable."

"He will never be tamed a second time."

"Then he must not be suffered to escape."

The words flew from the lips of the gay impulsive girl before she was aware. The eloquent blood crimsoned her cheeks, and clapping both her hands upon her face to conceal the blushes, she burst into a laugh as musical as the song of the canary bird. Pownal's eyes sparkled with delight, but before he could utter a word, she had sprung upon her feet.

"It is too bad," she cried, "to compare you to a wild animal. Forgive and forget my impertinence. I have been reading a novel," and as, she said so she took a book from the table, "by an American author, which interests me greatly. Have you seen it?"

Pownal took the book into his hands. It was one of Charles Brockden Brown's.

"I read it some years ago," he said; "and I remember it made a great impression upon me at the time. It appears to me to be written with wonderful power of enchaining the attention. I could not lay it down until it was finished."

"Exactly as I was affected," said Anne.

"Yet I wonder that one so lively and merry as Miss Bernard should be pleased with such a book. The subjects of Brown's novels are all gloomy. His imagination seems at home only in sombre scenes. His is the fascination of horror."

"I wonder at it myself. But it shows the ability of the writer, in being able to affect as thoughtless a person as I am."

"Not thoughtless. No one would say that of you but yourself. It is, perhaps, because of your gaiety—on account of the contrast. The sunshine loves to light up dark places."

"Very prettily expressed. Really, if you go on improving, we must have you appointed valentine-manufacturer-general for the town of Hillsdale."

"I suspect the valentines would all be addressed to one person."

"Then I shall oppose your appointment. But let that pass for the present. You were telling me why I liked Brown's novels."

"I am not so presumptuous. I was only guessing. It is the Yankee's privilege. The world concedes it to us. I suggest then that your mind wanders through those dark scenes with an interest like that with which a traveller contemplates a strange country. And may they ever remain a strange region to you. May you ever continue to be what you are now, a bright being, at whose approach sorrow and sadness fly away."

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the Judge and Mrs. Bernard, on their return from some neighborly call. Anne received the bonnet and shawl from her mother, who was evidently accustomed to such attentions, nor had the young lady ever appeared more beautiful in the eyes of the young man, than when he saw her rendering those little services of filial respect and affection. "She deserves," he said to himself, "the richest gifts of Providence. One so bright, so pure, so innocent, must be a favorite of the angels."

These were lover's thoughts, and our readers at the remembrance of youthful dreams and fancies will pardon their extravagance. They come at only one period of life, and oh, how quickly do they fly, leaving behind a trail of light which may, indeed, be obscured, but never quite extinguished.

Pownal informed the Judge of his intended departure, and, as usual, received from him and Mrs. Bernard some commissions to execute on their account. That of the former was for some books, while his wife's, we are compelled to say, however undignified it may sound, was for nothing more important than the last fashionable French bonnet. But let us add that she took not more pleasure in wearing a becoming head-dress (and what new fashion is not becoming?) than he in seeing her handsome face in its adornment.

"My husband," she said, "Mr. Pownal, tries to Frenchify me a little, sometimes, and I am obliged to indulge him, he is generally so good; but he will never succeed in making anything else out of me than a plain Yankee woman."

"Plain or beautiful, the highest title to my affection," said the Judge, gallantly. "I have been a traveller, Thomas, and have seen the Old World. This is a progressive world; and, believe me, the productions of the New are not, to say the least, inferior to those of the Old."

"I can well believe it," said Pownal, bowing to the ladies.

"A pleasant voyage, Thomas," said the Judge, as he bade his young friend good-bye, "along the sandy shores of Long Island, and through the perils of Hell Gate."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Then lock thee fast Alone within thy chamber, there fall down On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground: Cry to thy heart: wash every word thou utter'st In tears (and if't be possible) of blood: Beg Heaven to cleanse the leprosy."

FORD'S PLAYS.

Armstrong, upon the departure of Holden, sat moodily pondering what had been told him. Were his emotions those of pleasure or of pain? At first, the former. The natural goodness of his disposition made him instinctively rejoice in the happiness of his friend. For a few moments, he forgot himself, and, as long as the forgetfulness lasted, was happy in the participation of the other's hopes. But this frame of mind was only momentary. We have seen how an answer of Holden was sufficient to restore his gloom. Thoughts chased each other in wild confusion, over which he had no control, which he reproached himself for admitting—which he would have excluded, if he could. The connection between him and the Solitary was one of mutual misfortune. Sorrow was the ligament that united them. For years had he known Holden, but it was only within a short time, namely, since an awakened conscience (so he judged, himself) had revealed to him his own hideousness, that he had been attracted to the Solitary. Should Holden recover his son, should his heart expand once more to admit worldly joys, would it not be closed to him? As he once felt indifference towards Holden, so would not Holden, by a change of circumstances, by the awakening of new desires and new hopes, by the occupancy of emotions the more delightful because fresh and for so long unexperienced, stand to him in other and colder relations? These reflections were not clear, distinct, sharply defined. They drove through his mind, ragged and torn, like storm-clouds chased by the tempest.

There were two beings struggling with one another in him—the one striving to encourage the noble feelings of his nature, and drive away whatever was inconsistent with truth and reason—the other whispering doubt, and selfishness, and despair. He rose and paced, with rapid steps, the room.

"Has it come to this?" he said to himself, as if wondering at his condition. "Am I become incapable of participating in the happiness of others? Am I a festering mass of selfishness? O! once it was not so. I will resist these thoughts which come from the bottomless pit. They shall not master me. They are the temptations of the Evil One. But can I resist them? Have I not grieved away the spirit? Is there place for repentance? Am I not like Esau, who sought it in vain with many tears? If he was refused the grace of God, why not I? Why not I, that I may go to my own place? Already I feel and know my destiny. I feel it in the terrible looking for of judgment. I feel it in that I do not love my neighbor. If I did, would I not sympathize in his happiness? Would this wretched self for ever interpose? I never knew myself before. I now know the unutterable vileness of my heart. I would hide it from Thee, my God. I would hide it from Thy holy angels—from myself."

That day, Mr. Armstrong stirred not from the house, as long as the sun remained above the horizon. The golden sunshine deepened his mental gloom. Nor to his eyes was it golden. It was a coppery, unnatural light. It looked poisonous. It seemed as if the young leaves of spring ought to wither in its glare.

He heard the laugh of a man in the street, and started as if he had been stung. It sounded like the mockery of a fiend. Was the laugh directed at him? He started, and ran to the window, with a feeling of anger, to see who it was that was triumphing over his misery. He looked up and down the street, but could see no one. The disappointment still further irritated him. Was he to be refused the poor satisfaction of knowing who had wounded him? Was the assassin to be permitted to stab him in the back? Was he not to be allowed to defend himself? He returned and resumed his seat, trembling all over. Faith's canary bird was singing, at the top of its voice. Armstrong turned and looked at it. The little thing, with fluttering wings and elevated head, and moving a foot, as if beating time, poured out a torrent of melody. The sounds, its actions, grated on his feelings. He rose and removed it into another room.

He folded his arms, his head fell upon his chest, and he shut his eyes to exclude the light. "I am out of harmony with all creation," he said. "I am fit for a place where no bird ever sings. This is the evidence of my doom. Only the blessed can be in harmony with God's works. Heaven is harmony—the music of his laws. Evil is discord—myself am discord."

Faith had still some influence over him, though even at her entrance he started "like a guilty thing surprised." Her presence was a charm to abate the violence of the hurricane. He could not resist the gentle tones of her voice, and at the spell his calmed spirit trembled into comparative repose. Armstrong acknowledged it to himself as an augury of good.

I cannot be wholly evil, he thought, if the approach of a pure angel gives me pleasure. The touch of Ithuriel's spear reveals deformity where it exists; in me it discloses beauty.

With her he could talk over the ordinary affairs of the day with calmness, though it is singular, considering the perfect confidence between them, that he never adverted to the communication of Holden, notwithstanding he knew it would possess the highest interest for her. It betrays, perhaps, the weakened and diseased condition of a mind, wincing like an inflamed limb at the apprehension of a touch.

As the father listened and looked at his child, he felt transported into a region whither the demons could not come. They could not endure her purity; they could not abide her brightness. Her influence was a barrier mightier than the wall that encircled Paradise, and over which no evil thing could leap. He therefore kept her by him as much as possible. He manifested uneasiness when she was away. His consolation and hope was Faith. As the Roman prisoner drank life from the pure fountains to which he had given life, so Armstrong drew strength from the angelic spirit his own had kindled.

Yet was his daughter unconscious of the whole influence she exerted, nor had she even a distant apprehension of the chaos of his mind. How would she have been startled could she have beheld the seething cauldron! But into that, only the Eye that surveys all things could look.

Thus several days passed by. An ordinary observer would have noticed no change in Armstrong, except that his appetite diminished, and he seemed restless. Doctor Elmer and Faith both remarked these symptoms, but they did not alarm the former, though they grieved the latter. Accustomed to repose unlimited confidence in the medical skill of the physician, and too modest to have an opinion adverse to that of another older than herself, and in a department wherewith he was familiar, and she had no knowledge except what was colored by filial fears and affection, and, perhaps, distorted by them out of its reasonable proportions, Faith went on from day to day, hoping that a favorable change would take place, and that she should have the happiness of seeing her dear father restored to his former cheerfulness.

It is painful to follow the sad moods of a noble mind, conscious of its aberrations, and yet unable to control them. We have not the power of analysis capable of tracing it through all its windings, and exhibiting it naked to the view, and if we had, might shrink from the task, as from one inflicting unnecessary pain, both on the writer and the reader. It is our object only so far to sketch the state of Armstrong's mind, as to make his conduct intelligible.

His restlessness has been alluded to. He found himself unable to sleep as formerly. Long after retiring to rest he would lie wide awake, vainly courting the gentle influence that seemed to shun him the more it was wooed. The rays of the morning sun would sometimes stream into the window before sleep had visited his eyelids, and he would rise haggard, and weary, and desponding. And if he did sink into slumber, it was not always into forgetfulness, but into a confused mist of dreams, more harassing than even his waking thoughts. The difficulty of obtaining sleep had lately induced a habit of reading late into the night, and not unfrequently even into the morning hours. Long after his daughter had sought her chamber, and when she supposed he was in bed, he was seated in his solitary room, trying to fasten his attention on a book, and to produce the condition favorable to repose. The darkness of his mind sought congenial gloom. If he opened the sacred volume, he turned not to the gracious promises of reconciliation and pardon, and the softened theology of the New Testament, or to those visions of a future state of beatitude, which occasionally light up the sombre pages of the Old, as if the gates of Paradise were for a moment opened, to let out a radiance on a darkness that would else be too disheartening and distracting; but to the wailings of the prophets and denunciations of punishment. These he fastened on with a fatal tenacity, and by a perverted ingenuity, in some way or other connected with himself, and made applicable to his own circumstances. Naught could pass through his imagination or memory, but, by some diabolical alchemy, was stripped of its sanative and healthful properties, and converted into harm.

"Young's Night Thoughts" was a book that possessed peculiar attractions. For hours would he hang over its distressful pages, and many were the leaves blotted by his tears. Yet those tears relieved him not. Still, from time to time, would he recur to the book, as if tempted by a fascination he could not resist, striving to find, if possible, in the wretchedness of another, a lower deep than his own. Especially in the solemn hours of the night, when the silence was so profound, he could fancy he heard the flickering of the candles, he read the book. Then hanging upon image after image of those deploring strains, and appropriating all their melancholy, intensified through the lens of his own dark imagination, he would sink from one depth of wretchedness to another, till he seemed lost away, where no ray of light could ever penetrate, or plummet sound.

He had been reading one night late, until as if unable to endure the images of woe it conjured up, he pushed the book away from him. The night was dark and stormy, and the rain pouring in torrents. He walked to the window and looked out. He could see nothing, except as the landscape was revealed for an instant by a flash of lightning. He could hear nothing, except the peals of thunder rolling through the valleys. He took a candle, and walked cautiously to the door of Faith's chamber, to see if she were asleep. The door was ajar, for the purpose of ventilation, and, shading the light with his hand, Armstrong could see the face of his sleeping daughter without waking her. She lay in the profound slumber of health and youth, undisturbed by the noise of the thunder, as one conscious of a protecting Providence. Her left hand was under her cheek, the black hair combed back, and collected under the snowy cap. Her breathing was scarcely perceptible, but soft and quiet as an infant's. An expression of happiness rested on her features, and the color was a little kindled in her cheek, looking brighter in contrast with the linen sheet.

"She sleeps," he thought, "as if there were no sin and misery in the world. And why should she not? What has she to do with them? Were my spiritual eyes opened, I should see the protecting angels in shining garments around her bed, unless my approach has driven them away. Heaven takes care of its own. So I could sleep once. Will the time come when she, too, shall be so guilty she cannot sleep? Almighty God forbid! Better she were in her grave. They are fortunate who die young. They are taken from the evil to come. The heart ceases to beat before it becomes so hard it cannot repent. Were she to die to-night her salvation would be assured. What infinite gain! The murderer could inflict no injury, but would confer a benefit."

Why did he start? Why did he shudder all over? Why did he hastily turn round, and shut the door, and hasten to his own room, locking it after him? Why was it he took something from his pocket, and, opening the window, threw it violently into the dark? But a moment Armstrong remained in his room. Blowing out the candles, and noiselessly descending the stairs, he as quietly opened and shut the front door, and stood in the open air.

The storm was at its height. The rain poured with such violence that in the flashes of lightning he could see the large drops leap from the ground. But he felt not that he was wet to the skin. He minded not that he had left the house without a hat, and that the water was running in streams from his head to the earth. With a rapid pace, approaching running, he fled through the streets, until he reached the grave-yard. Without a ray to guide him, through a darkness that might be felt, he found his way to a grave, it was his wife's. He threw himself prostrate on his face, and lay motionless.

When Armstrong raised himself from the ground the storm had ceased, the clouds had left the sky, and the stars were shining brilliantly. He gazed around, then looked up into the blue vault. What were those innumerable shining points? Were they worlds, as the learned have said? Were they inhabited by beings like himself, doomed to sin and suffer? Did they suffer, more or less? Could the errors of a few years be expiated by sufferings of ages, as countless as the grains of sand on the seashore? He struck the palm of his hand violently on his forehead; he threw out his arm, as if in defiance, toward heaven, and groaned aloud. It seemed as though from every heaped-up grave that groan was echoed, and called to him like an invitation to join the hosts of darkness. He started, and looked again at the gruel sky. But no voice of comfort was breathed thence. The silver stars were now sparks of an universal conflagration. With a gesture of despair, he left the city of the dead.

Silence and darkness still shrouded the house of Mr. Armstrong on his return. He closed the door quietly after him, and, cautiously as he had descended, ascended the stairs, which, in spite of all his precaution, creaked under his feet. The sounds sent a thrill of alarm through him as though he feared discovery. It was as if he were returning from some guilty enterprise. Without striking a light, he threw off his soaked garments, and got into bed. Strange, perhaps, to say, he soon fell into a sleep, deeper and more refreshing than any he had for a long time enjoyed. It may be that the excitement of his system was worked off by rapid motion, and exposure to the night air and rain, or that nature, unable longer to endure it, sunk beneath the tension. It was not until a late hour he arose, when he found breakfast awaiting him. After the usual greetings, Faith said:

"Here is your penknife, father, which Felix found lying on the path this morning. You must have lost it from your pocket."

Mr. Armstrong took the knife, without reply, and, when unobserved, dropped it into the fire.



CHAPTER XXIX.

Cities humming with a restless crowd Sordid as active, ignorant as loud, Whose highest praise is that they live in vain, The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain.

COWPER.

We have a little anticipated the order of events for the purpose of presenting more clearly the details of the story, it being after the departure of the Solitary and Pownal that some of them occurred. The favorable wind for which the packet Calypso had waited for two or three days at last came, and with a flowing sheet the good sloop sped over the waters of the Severn.

The means of communication between Hillsdale and the commercial capital were very different in those days from the present. Instead of the fine steamboats and railroad cars, which now connect the two places, the mode of travelling was by sailing vessels and stage coaches. The latter were the surer—but not the more popular. In the wintry months, when the navigation of the river was unimpeded by ice, the condition of the roads was such that, in spite of the dreariness of water transit, at that season, the packets were able to maintain a fair rivalship with the coaches, while, in the summer, the latter stood but little chance in the competition, but were almost entirely deserted. To this result the comfortable cabins of the coasters, designed for passengers (spacious and satisfactory for those times, however the refined effeminacy of the present generation might sneer at them), and the good fare they furnished, not a little contributed. The Calypso was one of the finest of the line of packets to which she belonged, and provided with every convenience that could be desired. She was a sloop of some ninety or one hundred tons, with a tall mast, that, to the timid eye of a landsman, seemed fitter for a vessel of twice her size, and when her enormous mainsail was raised and usual sail set, she looked more like one of those birds whose wings bear such a disproportion to the body, that in the contemplation we forget to what they are attached, than like a safe and sea-worthy craft. But the shipwright who laid her keel and shaped her ribs, knew what he was about, and the Calypso was as staunch and stiff as she was handsome. Her cabin extended full one-half the length of the vessel, and by means of a raised quarter deck, was conveniently high between joints, so that even the tallest man ran no risk of striking his head. True, it was not embellished with gilding, and mahogany, and satinwood, but the paint was virgin white, the state-rooms commodious, the berths wide, and the bedding and linen scrupulously clean. Captain Standish prided himself upon the comfort and propriety of his craft, and the good reputation he enjoyed and deserved. The length of the passage varied according to the state of the winds and tides. It might, under the most favorable circumstances, be made in less than twenty-four hours, and it might last a week. It was at a period of the world's existence, before steam and electricity had imparted a feverish impatience to the community, and men did not hurry as if they had not time enough to live.

But let it not be thought, that it is as one who peevishly resents the improvements made in mechanical and other departments of knowledge, we dwell upon these particulars. We are quite awake to the fact that the world turns round, and although the consequence is an alternation of light and darkness, are satisfied with the change. With the philosopher Pangloss we would rather believe, "dans ce meilleur des mondes possible," than to entertain any less cheerful opinion. No. It is rather to perpetuate the remembrance of what has been, or to qualify more truthfully and modestly the expression, to save it for a moment longer from oblivion. It is with a melancholy pleasure that one who has reached that stage of the journey of life, from which henceforth his progress can only be one of continued descent towards the valley whereon broods the cloud not untouched with rays of divine light, reverts to whatever, even though they may seem trifles, characterized the beginning of his career. Ah! it was the breaking of the morning. For a time the sky glowed with a deepening glory, to fade at last into the "light of common day." We never can, we never would forget that lovely dawning.

Holden, nothing doubting, was confident that the voyage would terminate for him in the restoration to his arms, of the son whom he had mourned as one dead. Nor did he seem to have a doubt of the worthiness of the long lost treasure. A hope, brilliant and beautiful, that glorified whatever it touched, had taken absolute possession of him. It would admit no fear, no uncertainty, no despondency. The new feeling penetrated all departments of his mind, and mixed itself up with and colored even his religious speculations. He began to connect, in some way, the realization of his awakened hopes with the millennium, of which it was to be a forerunner. This appeared especially on the second day of the voyage, which lasted three days.

It was a warm, bright afternoon in the latter part of the month of May, just before the setting of the sun, and Holden and Pownal had walked to the bow of the vessel, as if to be nearer the golden luminary when he should sink from sight. A gentle breeze filled the sails of the Calypso, the soft murmur from under whose cutwater seemed to testify to the delight with which she moved on her liquid way. For some time Holden had stood with folded arms, watching the sun, as by slow degrees he sunk into the waves. Pownal, himself, was thrillingly alive to the magnificence of earth, and sky, and ocean, and all fair forms and hues of nature, and noticing the exalted and rapt expression of his elder friend's face, and sympathizing in the influence that produced it, was in no mood to break the silence.

"Type of the Infinite," at last Pownal heard him say, "how have I loved to watch thy coming and departure! Chariot of fire, whose burning wheels support the throne of judgment, thy course is onward until the fullness of the time is come. Of man's impatience thou reckest not. With thee a thousand years are as a day."

He ceased speaking, and a total silence for some time succeeded. His eyes continued fixed upon the spot where the sun had disappeared, but they saw nothing. An interior struggle was going on which engrossed the faculties, and left no opportunity for the observation of external objects. Repeatedly he passed his hand over his eyes and forehead, pressing the palm forcibly, as if to concentrate the attention, and at length he addressed Pownal.

"The scoffers have long sat in the gate, and lolled out the tongue and cried aha! but of a surety the time draweth nigh. Because He delayeth, where, say they, is the promise of His coming? But doth a sparrow fall to the ground without His knowledge, and are not ye of more value than many sparrows, oh, ye of little faith? Shall not the sorrows of fathers move the heart of the universal Father?"

It is scarcely to be expected that the young man entirely understood the rhapsody of Holden, though familiar with his moods. He saw, however, it had some connection with the one idea that had mastered all others, leaving them, notwithstanding, at perfect liberty, except so far as they interfered with itself. For it cannot have escaped observation, that on all subjects but one Holden exercised an ordinary degree of judgment, a circumstance by no means singular in the case of persons affected with monomania. Pownal, therefore, did as he was accustomed, avoiding all contradiction, and falling in with the other's thoughts.

"That," said Pownal, "it seems to me, is the worthiest name that can be given to the Supreme Being."

"It is the worthiest and the dearest. Thou, young man, canst know nothing of the emotions of a father's heart. Couldst thou look into its abysses of tenderness a new world would be revealed to thee, of which now thou only dreamest. Not a drop of blood that wandereth through its channels, but would coin itself into a joy for the beloved. But what is human love to His, the Creator of love? A breath, a bubble, a sigh. One great heart comprehendeth in its embrace all hearts. Look around thee," he added, throwing up his arms, "and behold the evidence: yon blue vault filled with bright worlds, bright because they are happy; this vast ocean teeming with strange life; the green earth whence, as from an altar, the perfume of grateful flowers and chants of praising birds do ceaselessly arise. Young man, be thankful and adore."

Holden stopped, as if he expected a reply, and Pownal therefore said:

"I am not, I fear, sufficiently thankful for the favors of Providence."

"'Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth,'" pursued the old man. "How many evils had I escaped had I heeded the advice I give! But it is the old tale of human folly. The aged with his experience is counted for nothing. My son," he added impressively, laying his hand on Pownal, "behold these furrows on a withered face. They are the traces of unrestrained passion. I forgot my Creator in the days of my youth."

He turned and walked away, but presently retraced his steps and took up the train of thought he seemed to have dropped.

"But he forgot not me. His mercies are over all his works. Even when I was a great way off my Father saw me, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on my neck, and kissed me. And now will he put the best robe upon me, and a ring upon my finger, and shoes upon my feet."

Such was the excited and hoping condition of Holden's mind as the vessel approached the port of New York, which it reached the next morning. Although then a place of great trade, and giving indubitable promise of what it has since become, New York was far, very far from approaching its present splendor and magnificence, which entitle it to vie with the most brilliant capitals of the world. Even then the ships of all nations were to be found at its wharfs, but the taper masts rising into the sky, formed not a cordon so immense as that which now, like a forest stripped of its leaves, girts it round. Nor from even its most fashionable portions, the residence and resort of the wealthy and the gay, had all the humbler buildings, which belonged to its origin, disappeared. Alongside of the modern brick, or occasionally stone mansion of four stories, that style of architecture, dear yet to the heart of a genuine Knickerbocker of which Holland boasts, if not the invention, at least the perfectioning, reared its pointed gable, and rose like Jacob's ladder with parapeted roof into the sky. But slightly injured by weather in a climate singularly clear and pure, under a sky untarnished by the dismal clouds from bituminous coal fires, which enshroud less favored lands, the brave little Dutch bricks held their own with a sturdiness becoming their ancestry. Those monuments of a simpler age have almost disappeared, and the ingenuity they exhibited, and the taste of which they were the specimens, are likely soon to be remembered only as steps in the worlds pupilage.

But, however the fashions of man may change, the grand features of nature remain eternal. Beautifully bright then as now sparkled in the light of the May morning sun, the waves of that glorious bay, unrivalled but by one, while little boats and pinnaces darting about in all direction like sea-birds, gave animation to a scene, which without the accompaniment would have possessed peculiar interest to one who, like Holden, had lived so long in seclusion. As the vessel turned around Castle Garden to seek her berth in the North River, and his eyes ran over the islands and Jersey shore, and up the noble stream, and one by one he recognized the objects he had seen in his youth, it seemed as if feelings, supposed dead, were coming to life, and nature re-assuming the gala garb which she once wore.

But, independent of the causes that made the scene peculiarly attractive to our traveller, it is impossible to approach a large city after a long absence without excitement. The aggregation of a mass of human beings full of life, and instinct with its hopes, and fears, and joys, and sorrows, and passions, acts like a stimulus. Nature is beautiful, and art glorious, but the object of deepest interest to man is man himself. In his fellow beings he sees reflected his own interior world, a world of mystery and marvel, whence any news is welcome that will impart information respecting its light and shade, its harmonies and discords. He cannot stand outside, a looker-on, separate and apart, having no portion therein: he is in it and of it, an integral atom, a something which cannot be isolated if it would.

The packet, after some delay, occasioned by the occupation of her berth by a casual trader, was finally able, by advancing one vessel, and pushing another back, and shoving a third on one side, to approach the wharf at the foot of Courtlandt street, and land her passengers. A coach was presently procured, and Holden, who had been invited by Pownal, accompanied his young friend. The distance up Courtlandt street, and down Broadway to the house of the elder Pownal, which was near the Battery, was short, and therefore even had the carriage proceeded more leisurely, and the Recluse been disposed to observation, he could have seen but little, and that in an unsatisfactory manner. Pownal felt some curiosity respecting the impression which would be made by the turmoil of a large city upon one who for so many years had excluded himself from the crowded haunts of men, and therefore watched his companion with no little interest; but Holden, as if he divined his thoughts, and was displeased at the discovery, or for some other unknown reason, betrayed no change of feeling, or conduct, but was as impassive and indifferent to all passing around him as if he were in his own hut. So far from showing any emotion, he threw himself into a corner of the carriage, and shut his eyes as if desirous to exclude objects of which he was regardless, or which only annoyed him. The young man knew not exactly how to interpret the other's conduct, but was too much accustomed to his habits to feel surprise, and respected him too greatly to desire to intrude into anything he wished to conceal.

The carriage stopped before a fine, large brick mansion, worthy of a merchant prince, fronting the Battery, and, of course, commanding a view through the trees which shaded the greensward of that beautiful spot, of the blue water, and islands, and the Jersey shore sweeping away in the distance. Fashion, always capricious in her movements, has deserted the lower part of Broadway and the Battery, by far the most charming quarter of the city, to emigrate to a part of the island on which New York is built, more remote from the marts of trade. Immense warehouses occupy the sites where once stood the abodes of elegance and hospitality, and the chaffer of traffic has succeeded to social welcomes and greetings of conviviality.

The black servant who came to the door at the ringing of the bell, stared with astonishment at the unusual figure of Pownal's companion, but if disposed, as is the habit of his class, to be deficient in respect to one not bearing the conventional stamp, a glance of the young man's eye, and his marked deference toward the stranger, to say nothing of the latter's natural air of authority, soon restored his courtesy and usual obsequious attention. It was, therefore, with a gracious expression of countenance and polite bow, that Mr. Johnson ushered the two gentlemen into the parlor.

"Where is Mr. Pownal, Johnson?" inquired the young man.

"He is out of town, sir, with the whole family. I believe he went to Albany, sir."

"Is Mrs. Corning in the house?"

"Mrs. Corning is just come back from market, sir. I heard her voice only a minute ago."

"Say, I would like to speak to her."

In a few moments, Mrs. Corning, the housekeeper, a respectable-looking woman, of some forty-five years of age, made her appearance, and testified a hearty pleasure at seeing the young man, whom she kissed with great affection, and by whom she was received with every mark of regard.

The family, she said, in reply to the questions of Pownal, had been absent, at Albany, where they were, on a visit to some relatives, for three weeks, but were daily expected home. She was so sorry they were absent. They were all well, and would be so glad to see him looking so well. She thought she had never seen him looking better. There was nothing like country air to paint the cheeks.

Pownal thought this a good opportunity to commend his friend to the favorable consideration of the housekeeper, and said—

"That I am well, I probably owe to the kindness of this gentleman, who will remain with us during my stay in town," at the same time, introducing Holden to the lady.

"Your friends, Mr. Thomas," said Mrs. Corning, courtesying to Holden, "will always be welcome in this house. But, tell me, have you been sick?—I'm sure, you don't look so—or some accident, or"——

"I will tell you all about it, by-and-by. At present, a cup of coffee."

"My! what a thoughtless creature I am!" exclaimed Mrs. Corning. "The pleasure of seeing you again, put all idea of breakfast out of my mind. I never thought of asking, if you had had any. But, it shan't be long before that mistake shall be remedied."

So saying, good Mrs. Corning bustled out of the room, on hospitable thoughts intent, and, in a short time, the substantial comforts of an American breakfast were smoking on the board. Pownal partook of it with the liberal appetite of high health and youth sharpened by his little voyage, while Holden himself, though in far greater moderation, was not unmindful of the viands before him. His achievements, however, did not seem to satisfy the housekeeper, who vainly pressed her delicacies upon him, and who, subsequently, after a more thorough observation of his character at meals, expressed her wonder, to Pownal, whether the effect of a long beard was not to diminish the appetite!



CHAPTER XXX.

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth, and babe, and hoary hairs, They called me in the public squares, The fool that wears a crown of thorns.

TENNYSON'S "IN MEMORIAM."

It was without delay that Holden applied himself to the purpose of his visit to New York, in which he was seconded, to the best of his ability, by Pownal. All the time the young man could spare from his own business he devoted to his friend, though fearful that there was little probability of succeeding in the search. But who, however, convinced of the futility of the inquiries, could refuse his assistance to one engaged in an investigation of so deep and sacred an interest, and who believed with an implicit faith in ultimate success? And such is the nature of enthusiasm, or a high-wrought faith, that Pownal himself could not refrain from entering with some degree of spirit into an inquiry, which he felt would probably be in vain.

Together they sought out, in the first place, the street indicated by Esther. Formerly an obscure part of the city, it had now become, by those mutations which are constantly occurring, and nowhere with such rapidity as in this country, a considerable rendezvous of trade. By rare good luck, the name of the street had been preserved, and by luck still rarer, the house itself, corresponding in all respects to the description by Esther. It was one of those ancient Dutch houses, of which mention has been made, built of a yellowish brick, and standing with its gable-end toward the street, its steep-pointed roof, constituting at least one-half of the building, rising with an air of command, dominating the whole, and seeming, indeed, to be that portion to which all the other parts were only subsidiary, and constructed for its honor and glory. Neither Holden nor Pownal had, for an instant, doubted the honesty and truth of Esther, and yet it must be confessed, that the discovery of a building, so exactly corresponding with her description, added fresh fuel to the hopes of the former, and was not without influence on the latter. And yet, at a moment when, as it seemed to himself, he was about to realize his dear hopes—for the imagination of the Solitary leaped over all intervening difficulties, and, in the confusion of his mind, it almost appeared as if when the door opened, he should see and recognize his son—Holden laid his hand on Pownal's arm, and arrested his steps.

"Stay," he said, "let me pause a moment, and recover my wandering thoughts. There is a sound as of a tempest in my brain, and a confused noise, as of a trampling of men and horses."

He sat down on the stone step, as if unable to support himself, and rested his head on his hand.

"Here," he said, speaking to himself, with a trembling voice, "the merciful savage whose heart the Lord touched, left my child. Here his little feet trod, and against this wall his head rested. Would that these inanimate things could know my gratitude! But thou knowest it, O, all Merciful, my goodness, and my fortress, my high tower, and my deliverer, my shield, and he in whom I trust. Lord, what is man that thou takest knowledge of him! or the son of man, that thou makest account of him! Didst thou not, in the olden time, hear the voice of the perishing child, Ishmael, and say, by thine angel, unto his weeping mother, Fear not, for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is. Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand, for I will make him a great nation? Even so now hast thou done unto me and remembered me in my low estate, for thy mercy endureth for ever."

Thus the father poured out his heart, alike unconscious of the gathering crowd, which his unusual appearance and strange language had collected around him, and of the observations they made.

"I say, Haxall," said a stout boy, whose dirty and ragged clothing, and vicious expression of face, proclaimed him one of those predestined candidates for the State Prison and gallows, bred to their fate by the criminal neglect of the State, "I say," he said, addressing his companion, as wicked looking as himself, "isn't it a rum old covey."

"Why the old cuss is a crying," answered Haxall, "or, perhaps, it's the whisky leaking out he took for his morning bitters."

"Whisky be d——d," said the other. "He never got as far as that. It's nothing but sour cider. I can smell it."

Here there was a brutal laugh, in which some of the bystanders, equally degraded, joined.

"For shame, young men," said a respectable-looking person, whose broad-brimmed hat, and formal and amply cut clothing, proclaimed him a Quaker; "is an old man, in tears, a proper subject for ribaldry? It were better ye were engaged in some honest employment, than idling away your time, and disgracing yourselves by the use of profane language."

"Smoke the old quiz, Haxall," cried the boy who had first spoken. "He opens rich. Let's see what's in the prig."

"Smoke him, smoke him," cried several voices.

Thus exhorted, Haxall jerking his cap jauntily on one side of his head, throwing an additional quantity of impudence into his face, and placing his hands on the hips, so that the elbows stuck out on each side, approached the Quaker.