"Wast thou displeased with the red men O, Manito? Had the children of the Forest offended thee, that thou didst deliver them into the hand of their enemies? See, what thine inconsiderate anger hath done. Thou hast destroyed us, and injured thyself. Where are the offerings that once covered these rocks, the bears' meat and the venison, the wampum, the feathers of the eagle, and sweet-smelling tobacco? Who now honoreth the Manito of the loud voiced Yaupaae? I listen, but I hear no answer."

Thus far the voice of Ohquamehud was low and melancholy, as the wail of a broken heart, and his face sad, as of one lamenting for a friend, but now it changed to a loftier expression, and the words were hissed out with a guttural roughness, without being spoken much louder.

"O, Manito!" he continued, "I alone am left to offer thee the sacrifice of the fragrant tobacco. Behold! I will fill thy pipe many times if thou wilt assist me. Onontio hath done me much mischief. He hath burned the villages of my people, and slain our warriors. Why shouldst thou favor him? Is he not a dog which thou wilt kick away from the door of thy lodge? He cometh, sometimes, and sitteth upon the highest rock, to look down upon thy dwelling-place. It is to nourish the pride of his heart. It is to exult that, as far as his eye can see, it beholds no wigwam, nor one bringing thee gifts. Help Manito! Think upon thine own wrongs,—remember the sufferings of the red man, and give me the scalp of Onontio. Accept my offering."

Having thus spoken, and conciliated by every means that occurred to his untutored mind, the good-will of the tutelary Spirit of the Falls, recounting the generosity of the Indians, and the ingratitude of the whites, remonstrating with the Manito for his supposed anger, and pointing out its folly, trying to stimulate his indignation on account of the neglect of himself, and, to tempt his love of presents by promises, Ohquamehud threw a quantity of tobacco in the leaf, which the Indians were accustomed to raise themselves around their cabins, into the flames. But an incident took place, which, for a time, dashed his hopes to the ground, and covered him with mortification and confusion.

The day, as we have already intimated, was unusually hot, even for the month of June. As the hours advanced, a sultry and slumbrous silence filled the air, which quivered with the heat. Clouds began to collect in the northwest, and to roll up higher and higher towards the zenith, in immense waves, which darkened momently, until half the heavens seemed covered with a pall. The lightning began to play more frequently over the surging blackness, and the mutterings of the thunder became every instant louder. Ohquamehud was not altogether unaware of the approaching storm, but, engaged in the solemn rite, the appearances of the clouds had not attracted as much of his attention as otherwise they would have done. At the instant he threw the tobacco into the fire, the blackness of the clouds was intensest, and a grim silence, as if nature were waiting in anxious expectation of some grand event, brooded over the earth interrupted only by the shout of the cataract; then, a thunderbolt blazed almost in the eyes of the Indian, followed, instantly, by a crash, as if the solid rocks were splintered into fragments, and by a torrent of rain, pouring, not in drops, but, in one continuous flood. For a few moments, the rain continued falling violently, then gradually slackened and ceased. The lightning glittered less frequently; the threatenings of the thunder became less distinct, and the clouds rolled up their dark standards and dispersed, disappearing in the depths of the unfathomable sky.

The Indian, meanwhile, remained immovable, staring at the fire in which the rain hissed as it fell. Thus, like a statue, he stood, until the storm had rolled away; then, recovering from his stupefaction, he turned, despondingly, from the heap of ashes. His offering, then, had been rejected. The Manito either could not or would not assist him. Onontio bore a charmed life. He was a great medicine, beyond the power of his vengeance. Ohquamehud, with a frown upon his brow, dark as the folds of the departing clouds, strode several steps from the rock, when, turning, as if struck by a sudden thought, he commenced searching in the ashes. The surface, of course, was soaked; but, as he penetrated deeper, they were drier, and at the bottom he found unextinguished coals. He carefully searched round, to discover if any portion of the tobacco was unconsumed, but could find none. The offering had not, then, been rejected. The Manito had accepted it. It was not he who sent the storm. Perhaps, some other Manito, who, however, was unable to defeat the sacrifice. The countenance of Ohquamehud brightened, and he began again to collect the brush and scattered sticks. From hollows, in the butts of old trees, and recesses under projecting cliffs, he succeeded in finding enough dry fuel to start the fire anew, and soon it shot up a bright bold flame as before. "O, Manito!" he softly said, "thou art not angry—receive my gift." Again, he threw tobacco into the fire, and, this time, no portent interposed. The greedy flame seized upon the dry leaves, which crackled in the heat, and bore them on its shining billows high into the air. The fire continued burning till all was consumed, and the heap sent up only a spiral of indistinct smoke.

The importunity of Ohquamehud had wrung from the Genius the consent which he solicited. The gratified Indian stretched out his hand, and again spoke—

"O, Manito, thanks! The heart of Ohquamehud is strong. When he journeys towards the setting sun, his feet shall bound like those of a deer, for the scalp of Onontio will hang at his girdle."

He glided into the woods and disappeared, ignorant that any one had been a witness of his actions. But, Quadaquina, from an evergreen thicket, had watched all his motions. As the form of Ohquamehud became dimmer in the distance, the boy could not repress his exultation at the success of his ambush, but gave it vent in a whistle, imitating the notes of the whipperwill. It caught the ear of the Indian, and he turned, and as he did so, the boy threw himself on the ground. The sun had hardly set. It was too early for the bird to be heard, which never commences his melancholy chant until the shades of evening are spread over the dewy earth. The eyes of Ohquamehud sent sharp glances in the direction whence the whistle came, but he could discern nothing. He listened for awhile, but the sounds were not repeated, and wondering what they could mean—for he relied too implicitly on his senses to suppose his imagination had deceived him—he resumed his course homeward. Presently, Quadaquina slowly rose, and, perceiving no one in sight, followed in the same direction.

The boy, at first, walked deliberately along; but, after, as he supposed, a considerable interval was interposed between him and the Indian, he quickened his steps, in order to more at about the same rate as the other. He had cleared the clumps of trees next to the Falls, and crossed the open fields, and advanced some little distance into the belt of continuous woods along the river, when, suddenly, Ohquamehud, starting from behind the trunk of a large tree, stood before him. Quadaquina's heart beat quicker, but no outward sign betrayed emotion.

"What does a child like Quadaquina, mean by wandering so far in the dark away from its mother?" demanded Ohquamehud.

"Quadaquina is no longer a child," answered the boy, "to need his mother. He runs about, like a squirrel, in the woods, whenever he please."

"Quah! He is more like a bird, and it is to take lessons from the whipperwill, that he comes into the woods."

"Ohquamehud talks like a crow that knows not what he says."

"When next," said the Indian, with a laugh, "Quadaquina tries to be a bird, let him remember that the bashful whipperwill likes not the sun to hear his song."

The boy fancying that he had been discovered, and that any further attempt at concealment was vain, answered boldly,

"It is no concern of Ohquamehud, whether Quadaquina is a bird, or a squirel, or a fish. He will fly in the air, or swim in the water, or run in the woods without asking permission from any one."

"And Ohquamehud is not a rabbit to be tracked by a little dog wherever he goes. Ahque! (beware). He will strike the little dog if he presses too close upon his heels." So saying, and as if to give emphasis to his words, the Indian lightly touched the shoulders of the boy, with a small stick which he held in his hand.

It was like lightning falling in a powder-magazine, so suddenly blazed up the anger of Quadaquina, when he felt the touch of the rod. He jumped back as though bitten by a snake, and snatching up a stone, hurled it with all his strength at Ohquamehud. It was well that the Indian leaped behind a tree near which he stood, else the missile, with such true aim and vindictive force was it sent, might have proved fatal. As soon as the stone was thrown, the Indian stepped up to the boy, who stood trembling with passion, but observing no intention on the part of the latter to renew his violence, he passed close by him, with a contemptuous laugh, and pursued his way, Quadaquina following, though at some distance, in his steps. The boy came into the hut of Peena within a short time after the entrance of the Indian, nor could the most jealous eye have detected in either a trace of what had happened. Ohquamehud moved with a grave dignity to the seat he usually occupied, and his pipe presently sent grateful volumes of smoke through the cabin. He noticed, however, that when Quadaquina came in, his mother made no inquiry into the cause which had detained him beyond the hour of the evening meal, and this confirmed the suspicions that were floating in his mind. They were indeed vague, and he fancied that if for any reason he had been watched by Quadaquina, the lesson he had just given would intimidate the boy, and satisfy him there would be danger in dogging the steps of one so vigilant as himself, and who had avowed his intention to punish the offender, if he were caught again.

Quadaquina, when they were by themselves, related to his mother what he had witnessed at the Falls, but made no allusion to the quarrel betwixt Ohquamehud and himself, nor of the threats of the former. He could give no account of the address to the Manito, the distance having been too great to allow him to hear the words. His story caused no alarm to Peena, inasmuch as acquainted with the superstitions of the Indians, she ascribed the sacrifice to a desire to propitiate the Manito, in order to secure a fortunate journey to the western tribe.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

But love itself could never pant For all that beauty sighs to grant, With half the fervor hate bestows Upon the last embrace of foes, When grappling in the fight, they fold Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold; Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith: True foes, once met, are joined till death!

BYRON'S Giaour.

Pownal, upon parting with Esther, sought his father. But the expression of his apprehensions was so vague, he was so incapable of giving his fears any definite shape, that he made no more impression than the woman. The calm austerity of the Solitary's face almost melted into a smile at the idea that any event could occur except in the determined course of things. It was the pride of the human heart; it was the presumption of the human intellect that dreamed of freedom of choice or of action. If individual wills were permitted to cross and jostle each other, the universe would be a scene of confusion. Freedom was only in appearance. One grand, serene, supreme will embraced the actual and the ideal in its circle, and all things were moved by a law as certain and irresistible as that which impels worlds in their orbits. The conviction was a part of Holden's self. He could no more be convinced of its fallacy than of his own non-existence, and his son left him with the full assurance that, even were he to know that his life was menaced, he would be the last one to take any precautionary measures for its protection. But, in truth, the fears of Pownal were so slight, that after an allusion to them, he forbore to dwell upon the subject, especially as the conversation took a turn as interesting to him as it was unexpected.

"Thou art of an age, my son," said Holden, abruptly, "to take to thee a wife, and the bounty of the good man whose name I permit thee still to bear, hath placed thee in a condition to gratify an innocent and natural desire. Hath thy heart moved at all in this matter?"

The question was excessively embarrassing, and the young man blushed and hesitated as he replied, that there was yet abundant time to think of such things.

"Think not," said the Solitary, observing his son's hesitation, "that I desire to intrude into thy confidence, though the heart of a son should be like a clear stream, the bottom of which may be seen by a father's eye. I speak, because partly common fame, and partly my own observation, connect thy name in some wise with a young lady's."

"And who is the lady," inquired Pownal, laughing, "whom my indiscreet gallantry has so compromised?"

"Nay, if thou wilt not be frank with me, or choosest to reply in the language of trifling, we will drop the subject."

"I will be frank. I will answer any question you may ask."

"Tell me, then, is there any relation between thee and Anne Bernard tenderer than that of common acquaintance?"

Pownal expected the question, and was therefore prepared.

"I esteem Miss Bernard highly," he said. "I am acquainted with no young lady who is her superior. I should consider myself fortunate to attract her attention. But nothing, except the language of friendship, has passed betwixt us."

"I am satisfied," said Holden, "and it is evidence of excellence in thyself that one possessing the lovable and noble qualities of Anne should attract thee. But though, in the limited circle of the small town, thy presence may be acceptable in the withdrawing room of the wealthy lawyer, thinkest thou he will be willing to give thee the hand of his only daughter?"

"I have made no pretensions to the hand of Miss Bernard; and even if I did, I see in it no presumption. There is no distinction of patrician and plebeian in this country."

"There are no such names, and yet there is a distinction. Will it please the rich and polished Judge to ally his daughter with the son of one like me?"

"Judge Bernard is above the mean conceit of valuing himself upon his riches. I never heard anything that sounded like arrogance or superciliousness from him, and he has uniformly treated me with kindness. For yourself, dear father, though for reasons of your own you have chosen to lead hitherto this life of solitude and privation, why continue to do so? Why not leave this miserable hut for comforts more befitting your age and the society you are capable of adorning?"

"Forbear! In this miserable hut, as thou callest it, I found the peace that passeth understanding, and its walls are to me more glorious than the gildings of palaces. If thou lovest Anne Bernard, as I strongly suspect, I say not unto thee cease to love her, but wait, hoarding thy love in secrecy and silence, until the fullness of the time is come. Wilt thou not promise me this, for a short time?"

"I will do nothing, father, that may be contrary to your inclinations."

"It is enough: then let there be no change in thy conduct. If thou have the love of Anne, keep it as a precious jewel, but for the present be content with the knowledge thereof: if thou have it not, seek not thereafter. I promise thee it shall be for thy good, nor will I unreasonably try thy patience."

Here the interview ended, and Pownal departed, wondering over the mystery his father affected, though he could not but confess to himself there was a worldly wisdom (as he supposed it to be) in the advice, not to be precipitate, but to watch the course of events. Though unacquainted with the motives of his parent, he was bound to respect his wishes, and felt a natural desire to gratify him to the extent of his ability. He had never found him unreasonable, whatever might be his singularities, and besides, no plan of his own was crossed. He was obliged to admit the possibility of a failure of his suit. To break up the pleasant relations existing betwixt the Bernard family and himself; not to be allowed to approach Anne as before; a cold constraint to be substituted for a confiding friendship! No, the hazard was too great. Things should continue as they were. He and Anne were still young: there was time enough; his father was right; the counsels of age were wiser than those prompted by the rashness and impetuosity of youth.

The following morning was calm and warm, when Holden stood at the door of his cabin, on the second occasion we choose to intrude upon his devotions. Not a cloud was to be seen, and the pearly hue which overspreads a clear summer sky, just stealing out of the shades of night, had not disappeared, except in the eastern quarter of the heavens, where a faint suffusion heralded, like a distant banner, the approach of the sun, welcomed, at first, by the low twittering of the birds, which gradually increased in frequency and loudness, until they swelled into bold strains, and rose melodiously into the air.

The Solitary stood, as before, with eyes fixed steadfastly upon the kindling east. Could it be possible that an expectation, which had been so often disappointed, should still be cherished; that no experience, no arguments could dissipate the delusion? It would seem so. By that subtle process, whereby minds possessed by an engrossing idea convert facts, and language, and any circumstances, however trifling, and which, to well-balanced intellects, would seem but little adapted to the purpose, into proofs incontrovertible of their opinions, had he, by dwelling upon certain texts of Scripture, which, with a mad shrewdness, he had collated, imparted to them gigantic proportions, and a peculiar coloring, which dominated and threw light upon the context, but received no qualification or disparagement in return. Without the necessity of repetition, various passages will occur to the reader, which, taken out of connection with what precedes and follows, may easily be made to support a theory of the kind he had adopted.

Holden stood as before, obedient to the command to watch, and verily do we believe, that had he, indeed, seen the Son of Man in the clouds of heaven, the magnificent vision would have impressed him with as much joy as solemnity. But in vain he looked, and having waited until the yellow sunshine, like a shower of gold, fell all around him, he retired into his hut. Not unobserved, however. The Indian, Ohquamehud, with his rifle by his side, from his place of concealment, on the right shore, had been watching all his motions. There had he lain in ambush ever since the stars had deserted the sky. Patiently he lay, with his eyes fixed on the little island. The sun mounted higher; hour after hour passed away, and yet he moved not. The time for the noonday meal arrived, but he heeded it not. The hut of Peena was scarcely more than a couple of miles distant, and he might reach it in a few moments, but he stirred not. In the interval of his absence Onontio might leave the island, and go, he knew not whither, and his watch for the day would be in vain. And now the lengthening shadows were falling towards the east. The middle of the afternoon had arrived.

It was then Ohquamehud saw Holden, or Onontio, as he called him, leave his cabin and enter the canoe. Its bow was turned toward that bank of the river on which the Indian was concealed, but somewhat higher up the stream, and, impelled by a vigorous arm, the light boat skimmed rapidly over the water. It passed so near to the Indian, that a bullet sent from a steady aim must have brought inevitable death, and the thought crossed the mind of the lurking spy, whether it were not better to fire from his ambush, but the recollection of his adventure on the island, and of his offering to the Manito of the Falls, occurred to him, and he allowed the tempting opportunity to escape.

Holden having run the canoe upon a sandy beach that curved in between two rocks, fastened it by a rope to a heavy stone, and pursued his course along the shore in the direction of the village. The Indian followed at a distance in the woods, taking care to keep his own person concealed, but that of the pursued in sight. Ohquamehud had no means of determining from the movements of Holden, for a considerable time, what were his intentions, whether to enter the village or go to the Falls, but when he reached the spot where, if his design had been to do the latter, he would have turned to the left, to the Indian's bitter disappointment, he advanced up the road to the right. Ohquamehud pretty much gave up all hope of succeeding in his design that day, but, notwithstanding, still continued his observation. Holden did not proceed far before he entered a small house that stood by the roadside. (This delay, as we shall presently observe, was attended with important consequences.) The person whom the Solitary wanted to see was, probably, not at home, but whatever may have been the reason, he presently left the house, and retracing his steps, struck off, to the delight of Ohquamehud, across the fields, and in a direction towards the Yaupaae. The Indian waited until Holden was out of sight, hidden by the woods on the opposite side of the field, when he slowly followed, looking around, as if in search of game. Having reached the woods, he seemed to think it necessary to use greater precaution in his further approach, the nearer he came to his enemy. With this view, he moved slowly, carefully avoiding stepping on any dry sticks or fallen branches, and stopping if, by any chance, he made the slightest noise. One would have supposed such extreme caution unnecessary, for so loud was the incessant roar of the cataract, that where the Indian stood the keenest hearing could not, even within a few rods, have detected the noise made by walking. It is probable that habit, quite as much as reflection, determined the proceeding of the Indian.

With stealthy tread, creeping like the catamount of his native forests, when he is about to leap upon his prey, the wily and revengeful Indian stole along, holding his rifle in his hand, while each sense was quickened and strained to the utmost. The wood extended quite to the margin of the Falls, so that he was enabled to come near without exposing his person. At length, from behind a large oak, one of the original Sachems of the wood, he beheld his foe. Holden was unarmed, for though, at certain times of the year, when game was in season, he often carried a gun, it was not an uniform practice with him. He stood, unconscious of danger, with his back to the Indian, his arms folded, and gazing upon the water, that roared and tumbled below. The eyes of Ohquamehud gleamed with ferocious satisfaction as he beheld his foe in his power. Thrice he raised the rifle to his shoulder, after carefully examining the priming, and as often let the butt slide gently to the ground, pausing a little while each time between, and never taking his eyes off the victim. This conduct might be mistaken for irresolution. Far from it. The fell purpose of the savage never burnt more intensely; his hatred was never more bitter; and he was debating with himself whether to shoot the Solitary as he stood, nor allow him to know his destroyer, or to rouse him to his peril, to play with his agonies, and thus give him a foretaste of death. Holden was at a distance of not more than fifty feet; before him were the precipice and the Falls, behind him was the Indian; there was no retreat. The fiendish desire agitating Ohquamehud was the same as that which the savages feel when they torture a prisoner at the stake, and delay the fatal stroke that is a mercy. He felt sure of his prey, and after a short period of hesitation, determined to gratify the diabolical passion.

He stepped softly from behind the oak, and glided onwards, until the distance betwixt himself and Holden was reduced to thirty feet. The back of the latter was still towards the Indian, and he seemed absorbed in contemplations that shut his senses to the admission of outward objects. Again Ohquamehud paused, but it was only for a moment, and then uttered in a distinct tone the word, "Onontio."

The sound caught the ears of Holden, who instantly turned, and beheld the threatening looks and attitude of the savage. He comprehended, at once, the hostile purpose of Ohquamehud, and the imminence of his own danger, but betrayed not the slightest fear. His cheek blanched not. His eye lost none of its usual daring as he surveyed the assassin; nor did his voice falter, as, disguising his suspicions, he exclaimed—

"Ohquamehud! he is welcome. He hath come to listen to the voice of the Great Spirit, who speaks in the Yaupaae."

"Onontio is mistaken," said the Indian. "The eyes of Ohquamehud are sharp. They have seen the blood of his kindred on the hands of Onontio, and he will wash it off."

"Indian, thou hast discovered—I know not how—that I once bore the name you have mentioned. It was given to me in the days of madness and folly by the western tribes. But, my hands are unstained by any blood, save what was shed in fair and open warfare."

"Ha! Onontio hath forgotten the fight in the night of storms, on the banks of the Yellow Wabash, when the sister of Ohquamehud was slain and his brother pierced by the knife of the accursed pale face, with the curling-hair."

"Indian! I sought to save the maiden's life. I can show the scar I received in her defence. As for thy brother, I know naught of him. If he fell by me, it was in the manner in which one brave warrior meets another."

"It is a lie! The heart of the pale-face is fainting. He is a weasel, that tries to creep through a small hole."

"If I were armed thou wouldst not dare to speak thus," said Holden, some of the spirit of his youthful years flashing up. "But, go; thou art a coward to come armed against a defenceless man."

"Onontio is a fool! Who told him to leave his rifle in his lodge? He knoweth not so much as a beast or a reptile. When the bear roameth in the forest, doth he leave his claws in his den, or the rattlesnake, his teeth in the hole in the rocks? Let Onontio sing his death-song, but, softly, lest the north wind bear it to the cub, who is waiting for the second bullet in the pouch of Ohquamehud."

A pang of inexpressible agony cut, like a knife, through the heart of Holden. He could brave death himself, but, good God! that his son should be murdered by the savage! The thought was too horrible. For a moment, the courageous heart almost stopped, and, with quivering lips, he commended the young man to the protection of Providence. But the momentary weakness soon passed away, as the dogma of divine decrees or fate occurred to his mind. The blood flowed freer in his veins; his form straightened, and with a dignified gesture, he answered—

"Heathen! I have no death-song to sing. The Christian goeth not to his Maker, boasting of his fancied merits, but, like a child, hiding its face in its mother's bosom, and asking to be forgiven. And know that of thyself thou art powerless. Thou canst do only what is permitted."

"It is well!" exclaimed Ohquamehud, a glow of admiration, at the courage with which Holden met his fate, flashing—in spite of himself—across his countenance, and which he vainly tried to conceal. "The dog of a pale-face is tired of his life, and will thank Ohquamehud for sending him to the spirits of his fathers."

So saying, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired. The eyes of the Solitary had been intently fastened upon every motion of his foe, and, the instant before the gun was discharged, he threw his arms violently into the air. Whether the gesture disconcerted the aim of the Indian, or intemperance had weakened his nerves, the rifle was aimed too high and failed of its mark. But Holden's escape was extremely narrow. The bullet grazed his scalp, perforating the cap, and throwing it from his head. In the colloquy, he had, probably, determined upon his line of conduct; for, immediately, upon the flash, he started, with an activity which his appearance hardly promised, towards his antagonist, and before the latter could club his rifle or draw a knife, had seized him around the waist, and strove to throw him on the ground. The Indian dropped the useless gun, and returned the death-grapple.

"Child of the devil!" cried Holden, whose passions were now thoroughly roused, and who fancied himself back again to the time when he fought the red man of the West, "I will send thee, this day, to the place appointed for thee."

Ohquamehud answered not a word, but, straining the other in an embrace as close as his own, summoned all his powers to the deadly struggle.

The two were more equally matched than might at first be supposed. The Indian was more active, but Holden was stronger, and towered above him. The habits of Holden had been eminently conducive to health and strength. There was no superfluous flesh about him, and his sinews were like cord. But, on the other hand, the youth of the Indian was a great advantage, promising an endurance beyond that to be expected from one of the years of Holden.

With desperate struggles each strove to gain an advantage; but strength on the one side, and activity on the other, foiled their opposing exertions. The turf was torn up under their feet, and they were whirled round, now in this direction, and now in that, until, maddened by the contest, neither thought of his personal safety, nor heeded the frightful abyss on the brink of which they fought. At length, foaming and endeavoring to throttle each other, the foot of one tripped and he stumbled over the precipice, carrying the other down with him in his arms. The grappled foes turned over in the air, and then fell upon the edge of a projecting shelf of a rock, some half a dozen feet below. Ohquamehud was undermost, receiving the full force of the fall, and breaking it for Holden, who, as they touched the rock, threw one arm around the trunk of a small tree that grew out of a fissure. The Indian must have been stunned, for Holden felt his grasp relax, and, still clinging to the tree, he endeavored to withdraw himself from the other's hold. He had partially succeeded, when the Indian, recovering consciousness, made a movement that threw his body over the precipice, down which he would have fallen had he not blindly caught at the freed arm of Holden, which he clutched with the tenacity of despair. The Indian had now recovered from the stunning effect of the fall, and become sensible of his danger. In rolling over the edge of the rock, his moccasined feet had come into contact with a slight projection where his toes had caught, and by means of which, Holden, as well as himself, was relieved in part of the weight of his person. Using this as a support, he made repeated and frantic attempts to spring to the level surface, but the steepness of the rock, and the lowness at which he hung, combined with the exhaustion occasioned by the fierce and prolonged conflict, foiled every effort. At last, he abandoned the attempt to save himself as hopeless, and directed all his exertions to drag his enemy down with him to destruction. With this view, he strained, with all his remaining strength, upon the arm he grasped, in order to force Holden to let go his hold upon the tree. It was now a question of endurance between them, and it is probable that both would have perished, had not an unexpected actor appeared upon the scene.

The boy Quadaquina had been watching Ohquamehud. Like a trained blood-hound, he had kept faithfully on the track and scarcely let the Indian out of sight until he, came near the village. Here he was met by a playmate, with whom, like a child as he was, he stopped to amuse himself for a moment. This was the cause of his not arriving sooner, the delay corresponding nearly with the time Holden was detained by his visit. The boy now came running up, all out of breath, and gazed around, but saw no one nor heard a sound, save the roar of the Fall. His eyes fell upon the gun of the Indian, and the cap of the Solitary, lying on the trampled turf, and his mind foreboded disaster. He hastened to the margin of the beetling crag, and peering over it, saw Ohquamehud hanging by Holden's arm, and struggling to pull him down. Quadaquina stepped back, and from the loose stones lying round, picked up one as large as he could lift, and going to the edge, dropped it full upon the head of Ohquamehud. The Indian instantly let go his hold, falling a distance of eighty feet, and grazing against the side of the huge rock on his way, until with a splash he was swallowed up in the foaming water that whirled him out of sight.

Quadaquina watched the body as it went gliding down the rocks, and dashing into the torrent, until it could be seen no more, and then, as if terrified at his own act, and without waiting to see what had become of the man to whom he had rendered so timely a service, started on a run for his home.

As for Holden, upon the weight being withdrawn from his arm, he slowly gathered himself up and sat upright on the rock; nor did he know to what he owed his deliverance. He possibly ascribed it to the exhaustion of his foe. He felt jar'd and bruised, but no bones were broken: his heart swelled with thankfulness, and raising his eyes to heaven, he poured forth a thanksgiving.

"The enemy came against me," he ejaculated, "like a lion that is greedy of his prey, and as it were a young lion lurking in secret places. But thou didst arise, O Lord, thou didst disappoint him and cast him down; thou didst deliver my soul from the wicked. For thou didst gird me with strength unto the battle, thou didst enlarge my steps under me, that my feet did not slip. He was wounded that he was not able to rise. He fell under my feet. It was Thy doing, O Lord, because thou hadst respect unto the supplications of thy servant. Therefore my lips shall greatly rejoice, when I sing unto Thee, and my soul which thou hast redeemed."

After this expression of his thanks, he clambered with some difficulty, by the assistance of the shrubs that grew in the crevices along the sloping platform, until he had attained to the top of the rock whence he had fallen. He cast his eyes below, but nothing was to be seen but the wild torrent: no sign, no trace of the Indian. Holden shuddered as he thought of Ohquamehud, cut off in his atrocious attempt, and breathed a prayer that his savage ignorance might palliate his crime; then exhausted and sore, and pondering the frightful danger he had escaped, slowly took his way towards the village.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

But is there yet no other way besides Those painful passages, how we may come To death, and mix with our connatural dust? "There is," said Michael, "if thou will observe The rule of not too much, by temperance taught."

MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

Till oft converse with heavenly habitants, Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape, The unpolluted temple of the mind, And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, Till all be made immortal.

COMUS.

The shades of evening were falling as Holden entered the village. He proceeded straight to the house of Mr. Armstrong, whom he had seen twice or thrice already since his return from New York, though we have made no mention of the visits.

He found Armstrong thinner and paler than ever. The constitutional melancholy with which he was afflicted appeared to have deepened, and there was something now in the tones of his voice so sad and tender, that they moved Holden to an extraordinary degree. Other friends of Armstrong were affected by them, but, with the exception of Faith, there was no one who seemed to lay these signs of unhappiness so much to heart as the Solitary. This, perhaps, may account, in a measure, for the increased frequency of his visits.

A smile like sunshine stealing from behind a wintry cloud over the pure snow, welcomed Holden. As he took the offered hand of Armstrong, he found it extenuated and cold, and pressed it with more than ordinary feeling, before he took a seat by his side. The first inquiry of the Recluse was, as usual, after Faith.

"She is out," answered her father, "but I expect her soon."

"The sight of Faith is to me as the beauty and fragrance of days long gone," said Holden. "Unsinning Eve was not more lovely."

"She was early dedicated to her God, and is, indeed, a meet offering for his altar," said Armstrong.

"Blessed are they," exclaimed Holden, "whose feet have never strayed from the straight and narrow way. Where they tread spring up immortal flowers, and they breathe the air of Paradise."

"And, alas!" said Armstrong, "how short is usually their stay. How soon they depart for the celestial regions, to which they belong, leaving breaking hearts behind!"

"Woe to the earth-born selfishness, that riseth up in opposition! It is not agreeable to the law of God, nor can be. Down with the rebellion of ignorance and unbelief."

"But is no allowance to be made for human weakness? May we not weep over the calamities of life?"

"Aye, weep, if the tears wash out a sin, but not because the divine will is different from thine own. What callest thou calamity? There is no calamity, but sin."

"It is hard," sighed Armstrong, "to reach that height of abnegation and faith to which you would have me aspire."

"Hard, but attainable, for without faith it is impossible to please Him. There are examples set before us for imitation of what the trusting spirit can achieve. By faith Abraham offered up Isaac when he was tried, having confidence that God could raise him up even from the dead. By faith—but why should I recount the deeds of those grand souls, of whom the world was not worthy, who, through faith, subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, even from Enoch, who tasted not the bitterness of death, and Elijah, mounting on a fiery chariot, in a whirlwind, to heaven, down to these latter days, when, as said the apostle, 'faith should wax weak, and almost perish from the earth?'"

Armstrong looked at Holden, with an expression like fear.

"Who is equal to these things?" said he.

"I knew a man once," said the Enthusiast, thinking of the peril he had just escaped, and darkly shadowing forth its circumstances, "whom a ravening lion sought to destroy, and the heart of the man sunk within him, for, in view of the beast, he forgot that the Lord God omnipotent reigneth, but an angel whispered it in his ear, and strengthened him, and he defied the lion, and smote him, and killed the lion. Thus doth the Lord continue to perform his marvellous works, for he is faithful and true, and his mercy endureth for ever to them that love him."

Of course, Armstrong could have no correct idea of what Holden alluded to, nor did he inquire. It was to him only another instance, added by his enthusiastic friend, to the long catalogue of those in the sacred record, for whom faith had triumphed over danger, and wrought deliverance.

"It is, indeed," he said, "a mighty means to bring down the divine blessing."

"As is the law of gravitation to the worlds," said Holden, looking out upon the clear sky, filled with stars, "which is the constant force flowing from the living centre of all things, and retaining them in harmonious movement in their orbits; so is faith to the human soul. When it is present all is peace, and harmony, and joy; when it is absent, a wild chaos, whirling in darkness and confusion, over which the Spirit hath never brooded like a dove."

At this moment the door opened, and Miss Armstrong, attended by William Bernard, entered the room. She advanced towards Holden, and gave him her hand, which he took into both of his, and looking fondly at her, said:

"Dear child, thy mother's image, the room is brighter for thy presence."

"There, William," said Faith, smiling, "a lady seldom receives so delicate a compliment."

"Mr. Holden," said Bernard, "belongs to the old school of politeness, of which Sir Charles Grandison is the model. Modern degeneracy might strive in vain to compete with it."

There was a slight, a very slight, an almost imperceptible tone of irony about the words, which did not escape the sensitive ear of Holden. He turned towards Bernard, and fastened his large eyes upon him, in silence, awhile, before he said:

"The secret of politeness is to be found in warmth and goodness of heart. Flame blazes not up from ice." The words, the tone, the look, conveyed his estimate of the character of the young man, and was not without influence on one, at least, of his auditors. "But," continued he, "thy presence, Faith, is truly, to me, as light. Deemest thou me capable of unmeaning compliments?"

"No," answered Faith, suspecting the little feeling of resentment, and desirous to soothe it, "I do not. Forgive my absurd observation."

"And I hope," said Bernard, in his most engaging manner, "that Mr. Holden is not offended at my classing him among those who for delicacy and refinement were never surpassed."

"I like not," said Holden, "to be made a subject of conversation. We will find a fitter topic."

"You spoke of Faith's resemblance to her mother," said Mr. Armstrong, "whose quick sensibility had also detected the jarring string; how did you discover it?"

"You forget," answered Holden, "that in conversation with me you have spoken of her."

"But not described her appearance."

"The resemblance of a child to a parent, may be oftentimes deduced from qualities of the mind, and traits of character. The outer garment is fitted to the interior man. The exterior and transient is the product of the interior and permanent. But I mean not that it was thus I discovered the likeness; and if for a moment I misled thee, let me correct my error and thy mistake. You will consider these as the speculations of a visionary."

"I do not consider them without foundation," said Armstrong, who, in the turn given to the conversation, seemed to have forgotten his question.

"It is a speculation which, followed out, might lead to many interesting conclusions," said Bernard. "Mr. Holden would greatly oblige us with his ideas."

"Do," said Faith, who delighted in the Solitary's flights. "Explain, dear Mr. Holden, your theory."

Holden looked at Mr. Armstrong, who bowed.

"The first man, Adam," said Holden, "was created perfect, perfect in body as in mind. The dignity and beauty of his person corresponded to the grandeur and purity of his soul, of which it was the outward expression. All graces and harmonies, and perfections of creation centered in him, for he was the image of his Maker. He was incapable of disease, because disease is disharmony and the fruit of sin, which as yet existed not. And he was obedient unto the voice of the Lord, nor did he transgress His laws in anything. His meat was the herb of the field and the fruit of the tree, and his drink the running brook. He had no permission to eat of flesh. But in an evil hour he fell; a leprosy overspread his body and his soul; the divine purity could not approach as before; and to his closed spiritual eyes, the holy Presence once visible, became shrouded in clouds and thick darkness. And as the spirit of man waxed more corrupt and he withdrew himself further from his heavenly source, so did his outward appearance, by a necessary law, whereby the outer and superficial conformeth itself, to the inner and hidden, become deformed and hideous. Hence is man now but a shadow, a skeleton of original beauty. The primeval perfection and present degeneracy of man, are the tradition of centuries."

Holden paused; and Faith said, gently, "There is a way to regain the happiness we have lost."

"There is a way," said Holden, "through Him, the second Adam, the Lord from heaven. But mark: like him, must man be obedient. A faith without works is fruitless and naught. How many imagine they have faith, and have it not! Will they give their bodies to be burned? Will they sacrifice the dearest thing they have, if it is His will? Nay, but faith hath almost perished from the earth."

Bernard observing Holden wandering from his subject, here inquired, "And by a reversal of the process by which it was lost, the outward beauty may be recovered?"

"Yes. By the restoration of internal beauty. It is the latter that shapeth and shineth through the former. But the eyes of men are blinded, and they cannot, because they will not, see the truth. The crust of inherited corruption interposeth betwixt them and the light. Hence, having eyes they see not, and ears, and they cannot hear. There is a law to control the spiritual, and a law for the material, and it is by observance of these two laws, that man's first estate is to be regained. He must, therefore be temperate, and sober, and wise in the regulation of his appetites and passions, banishing those pernicious inventions, whereby he degradeth and engendereth disease in a glorious structure that ought to be the temple of the Holy Ghost, and must diligently cultivate all noble aspirations, weeding out selfishness and gross desires, loving his neighbor as himself, and the Lord his God with all his heart, which latter is the admiration and love of beauty, and truth and justice, and of whatever is excellent. Thus both outwardly and inwardly will gradually be transformed, the marred and defaced image of humanity into the glorious likeness of the Son of God."

"That day so longed for and so glorious, is far distant I fear," said Mr. Armstrong.

"Nay, but the signs of His coming are kindling in the Eastern sky," exclaimed Holden, "and soon amid the hymns and hallelujahs of saints shall he establish His benign and resplendent empire. Then shall commence the upward career of the race, whose earthly goal is the state of primeval perfection; whose heavenly it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive. Then in that bright Millennium, whose radiance streams through the advancing ages, shall man cast off the slough of ignorance and sin, and rise like the painted butterfly, on the wings of faith, into the serene air of truth."

Our readers must not hold us responsible for the sentiments of Holden. They are his own, and no one's else, and expressed in his own words, with all their wildness and incoherence. Opinions like these seem to have prevailed at all periods of the Christian era. They were entertained in the times of the Apostles, and are cherished now by a modern sect. Milton alludes to them in his treatise "Of Reformation in England" in language which for its stately eloquence, deserves to be transcribed to enrich this page. He speaks "of that day when Thou, the eternal and shortly-expected King, shalt open the clouds to judge the several kingdoms of the world, and distributing national honors and rewards to religious and just commonwealths, shalt put an end to all earthly tyrannies, proclaiming thy universal and mild monarchy through heaven and earth; when they undoubtedly, that by their labors, counsels, and prayers, have been earnest for the common good of religion, and their country, shall receive above the inferior orders of the blessed, the regal additions of principalities, legions, and thrones, into their glorious titles, and in super-eminence of beatific vision, progressing the dateless and irrevoluble circle of eternity, shall clasp inseparable hands with joy and bliss in over-measure for ever."

His auditors never thought of reasoning with or contradicting the Enthusiast. They listened in silence, only when he paused, making some inquiry or suggestion, in order to induce him to develop his notions still further; and so in conversation of this kind passed the evening.

Upon the departure of Bernard, Holden was pressed to pass the night at his host's, and accepted the invitation. The events of the day had proved to be too much for even his iron frame, and he was not unwilling to be relieved of the long walk to his hut. Before retiring, he listened reverently to a chapter from the Bible, read by Armstrong, and joined with him and Faith, in their customary devotions.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

No man who sinks to sleep at night Knows what his dreams shall be; No man can know what wonder-sight His inner eye shall see.

THOMAS L. HARRIS.

When Holden was left alone in his chamber, he sank into a seat and covered his face with both hands. He remained in this position for some time, and when he removed them, it was very pale, and exhibited traces of strong emotion. He cast his eyes slowly around the room, examining every part, not even the furniture escaping minute observation. But of all the objects a portrait that hung over the fire-place attracted the most attention. It was that of a man, past the prime of life, and who in youth must have possessed considerable beauty. The features were regular and well-formed, the forehead high and broad, and the hair long and abundant, waving in curls over the shoulders. What was the age designed to be portrayed, it was difficult to determine with any degree of exactness, for there was a contradiction between the parts which appeared scarcely reconcilable with one another. Looking at the furrows that seamed the face, its pallor, and the wrinkles of the brow, one would have said that the original must have been a man between sixty and seventy, while the hair, dark and glossy, indicated much less age. Yet, the perfection of the drawing, the flesh-like tints that melted into each other, and the air of reality that stamped the whole, proclaimed the portrait the work of a master, and it was impossible to avoid the conviction that it was an authentic likeness.

Holden placed the candle on the mantelpiece in such a manner as best to throw light upon the picture, and stood at a little distance to contemplate it. As he gazed, he began to fancy he discovered traits which had at first escaped his observation. An expression of pain and anxious sadness overspread the face, and gleams of light, like the glare of insanity, shot from the eyes. So strong was the impression, and so deeply was he affected, that as if incapable of enduring the sight, he shut his eyes, and turning away, paced several times backwards and forwards, without looking up. After a few turns, he stopped before the portrait, and fixed his eyes upon it again, but only for a moment, to resume his walk. This he did repeatedly, until at last, with a groan, he dropped into a chair, where, crossing his arms upon his breast, he remained for awhile lost in thought. Who can say what were the reflections that filled his mind? Was he considering whether the painter meant to delineate insanity, or whether it was not a delusion springing from his own disordered intellect?

It was a long time before sleep visited the Solitary in his soft and curtained bed. It might be owing to the events of the day, so startling and unusual; it might be on account of the yielding bed, so different from his own hard couch; or in consequence of the effect produced by the portrait; or of all these causes combined, that sleep was long in coming, and when it did come, was disturbed with dreams, and unrefreshing. Before, however, Holden fell asleep, he had lain, as if under the influence of a spell, looking at the picture on which the beams of the moon, stealing through the branches of the large elm that shaded the house, flickered uncertainly and with a sort of wierd effect, as the night wind gently agitated the leaves.

It seemed to Holden, so insensibly glided his last waking thought into his dreams making one continuous whole, that the portrait he had been looking at was a living person, and he was astonished that he had mistaken a living being for a piece of painted canvas. In a stern, deep voice the man who had taken possession of the chair in which he himself had been sitting, ordered him to approach. If Holden had been so disposed, he had no ability to disobey the command. He, therefore advanced towards the figure, and at a signal knelt down at his feet. The man, thereupon, stretching out his hands, laid them upon his head in the attitude of benediction. He then rose from his seat, and making a sign to Holden to follow him, they noiselessly descended the stairs together, and passed into the moonlight. The man constantly preceding him, they went on, and by familiar paths and roads, and in the ordinary time that would be required to accomplish the distance, arrived at a spot on the banks of the Wootuppocut well known to Holden. Here the stranger stopped, and seating himself upon the trunk of a felled tree, motioned to his companion to be seated. Holden obeyed, waiting for what should follow. Presently he saw two figures, a male and female, approaching. The latter was veiled, and although the face of the man was exposed, it swam in such a hazy indistinctness that it was impossible to make out the features. Still it seemed to him that they were not entirely unknown, and he tormented himself with ineffectual attempts to determine where he had seen them. He turned to his guide to ask who they were, but before he could speak the stranger of the portrait placed his fingers on his lips, as if to require silence. The two persons advanced until they reached a small brook that babbled down a ravine, and fell into the river. Suddenly something glittered in the air; the figures vanished; and upon looking at the brook Holden beheld, to his horror, that it was red like blood. He turned in amazement to his guide, who made no reply to the look of inquiry, unless the word "Friday," which he uttered in the same deep tone, can be so considered.

Holden awoke, and the sweat was standing in great drops on his forehead. As his senses and recollection were gradually returning, he directed his eyes towards the place where the portrait hung, half in doubt whether he should see it again. The beams of the moon no longer played upon it, but there was sufficient light in the room to enable him to distinguish the features which now, more and more distinctly emerged to sight. The hollow eyes were fixed on his, and the word "Friday" seemed still quivering on the lips.

Holden lay and thought over his dream. With the young and imaginative, dreams are not uncommon, but with the advanced in life they are usually unfrequent. As the fancy decays,—as the gay illusions that brightened our youth disappear, to give place to realities,—as the blood that once rushed hurriedly, circulates languidly—farewell to the visions that in storm or sunshine flitted around our pillows.

It cannot, indeed, be said that Holden never had dreams. The excitable temperament of the man would forbid the supposition, but, even with him, they were uncommon. He turned the one he had just had over and over again, in his mind; but, reflect upon it as he pleased, he could make nothing out of it, and, at last, with a sense of dissatisfaction and endeavoring to divert his mind from thoughts that banished sleep, he forgot himself again.

His slumbers were broken and harassed throughout the night, with horrid dreams and vague anticipations of further evil. At one time he was at his cabin, and his son lay bleeding in his arms, pierced by the bullet of Ohquamehud. At another, Faith was drowning, and stretching out her hands to him for succor, and as he attempted to hasten to her assistance, her father interfered and held him violently back. And at another, he was falling from an immeasurable height, with the grip of the Indian at his throat. Down—down he fell, countless miles, through a roaring chaos, trying to save himself from strangulation, until, just as he was about to be dashed to pieces against a rock, he awoke sore and feverish.

The sun was already some distance above the horizon as Holden rose from his troubled slumbers. The cool air of morning flowed with a refreshing sweetness through the open window, and the birds were singing in the branches of the large elm. With a feeling of welcome he beheld the grateful light. He endeavored to recall and reduce to some coherency the wild images of his dreams, but all was confusion, which became the more bewildering, the longer he dwelt upon them, and the more he strove to untangle the twisted skein. All that he could now distinctly remember, were the place whither he had been led, and the word spoken by the portrait.

When he descended to breakfast, both Mr. Armstrong and his daughter remarked his disordered appearance, and anxiously inquired, how he had passed the night. To these inquiries, he frankly admitted, that he had been disturbed by unpleasant dreams.

"You look," said Mr. Armstrong, "like the portrait which hangs in the chamber where you slept. It is," he continued, unheeding the warning looks of Faith, "the portrait of my father, and was taken a short time before he was seized with what was called a fit of insanity, and which was said to have hastened his death.

"How is it possible, dear father, you can say so?" said Faith, anxious to prevent an impression she was afraid might be made on Holden's mind.

"I do not mean," continued Armstrong, with a singular persistency, "that Mr. Holden's features resemble the portrait very much; but there is something which belongs to the two in common. Strange that I never thought of it before!"

Holden during the conversation had sat with drooping lids, and a sad and grieved expression, and now, as he raised his eyes, he said, mournfully—

"Thou meanest, James, that I, too, am insane. May Heaven grant that neither thou nor thine may experience the sorrow of so great a calamity."

Faith was inexpressibly shocked. Had any one else spoken thus, with a knowledge of Holden's character, she would have considered him unfeeling to the last degree, but she knew her father's considerateness and delicacy too well to ascribe it to any other cause than to a wandering of thought, which had of late rapidly increased, and excited in her mind an alarm which she trembled to give shape to. Before she could interpose, Armstrong again spoke—

"Insane!" he said. "What is it to be insane? It is to have faculties exalted beyond the comprehension of the multitude; to soar above the grovelling world. Their eyes are too weak to bear the glory, and, because they are blind, they think others cannot see. The fools declared my father was insane. They say the same of you, Holden, and, the next thing, I shall be insane, I suppose. Ha, ha!"

Holden himself was startled. He muttered something indistinctly before he answered—

"May the world never say that of thee, dear James!"

"Why not?" inquired Armstrong, eagerly. "Alas! you consider me unworthy to be admitted to the noble band of misunderstood and persecuted men? True, true! I know it to be true. My earthly instincts fetter me to earth. Of the earth, I am earthy. But what shall prevent my standing afar off, to admire them? What a foolish world is this! Were not the prophets and apostles denounced as insane men? I have it, I have it," he added, after a pause, "inspiration is insanity."

Holden looked inquiringly at Faith, whose countenance evinced great distress; then, turning to Armstrong, he said—

"Thou art not well, James. Perhaps, like me, thou hast passed a disturbed night?"

"I have, of late been unable to sleep as well as formerly," said Armstrong. "There is a pain here," he added, touching his forehead, "which keeps me awake."

"Thou needest exercise. Thou dost confine thyself too much. Go more into the open air, to drink in the health that flows down from the pure sky."

"It is what I urge frequently on my dear father," said Faith.

"Faith is an angel," said Holden. "Listen to her advice. Thou canst have no better guide."

"She shall redeem my soul from death," said Armstrong.

When Holden left the house of his host, he determined to carry into effect a resolution which, it appeared now to himself, he had strangely delayed, such was the influence what he had just seen and heard exercised over him. That Fate or mathematical Providence, however, in which he so devoutly believed, notwithstanding he acted as though none existed, seemed as if, tired out with his procrastination and irresolution, determined to precipitate events and force him to lift the veil, that for so many years—with a wayward temper and love of mystery, inexplicable by any motives that regulate the movements of ordinary minds—he had chosen to spread around himself. What followed only convinced him more thoroughly, if that were possible, of his helplessness on the surging tide of life and of the delusion of those who imagine they are aught but bubbles, breaking now this moment, now that, according to a predetermined order.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

We receive but what we give And in our life alone does nature live.

COLERIDGE.

Mr. Armstrong was disposed to gratify his daughter, and to follow the advice of Holden. That very morning, soon after the departure of the Solitary, he accepted an invitation from Judge Bernard, to take a drive with him to one of his farms in the afternoon. Accordingly, the one-horse chaise, which was the usual vehicle in those days, of gentlemen who drove themselves, stopped, late in the day, at Armstrong's door.

"Anne hopes," said the Judge, as they were about to start, "that in retaliation for my capture of your father, Faith, you will come and take possession of her. For my own part, if I can bring him back with a little more color in his cheeks, I shall expect a kiss or two."

"You shall have three, dear Judge, for every smile you can win from father," exclaimed Faith.

The road which the gentlemen took, led, at first, after leaving the table-land on which their houses were situated, through the thickly-settled and business part of the town, at the head of the Severn, the whole of which it traversed, and then approaching the banks of the Wootuppocut, followed its windings in a direction towards its source. The country through which the river flowed presented an appearance of soft and varied beauty, the view of which, while the cool breeze across the stream fanned the fevered brain of Armstrong, ought, if anything could, to have soothed his jarring nerves, and breathed a portion of its own tranquillity into his heart. Is it not true what the sweet poet sings of Nature and her lover, that

"She glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware?"

The river, for the greater part of the drive, flowed through a valley, which it divided into two very unequal portions, skirting occasionally with its left bank the woods that ran quite down the sides of the hills to the water, and then winding away to the right, leaving considerable intervals of level land betwixt itself and the woods above mentioned, but, almost invariably, having still wider expanses of champaign, that gradually ascended from the stream, until it met the forest-covered hills that bounded the valley, on the right. In some instances, the woods extended on both sides down to the river, throwing an agreeable shade over the way-farers, and shedding abroad a cool, moist freshness, that brought with itself a woodland-scent, compounded of the fragrance of sassafras, and fern, and sweet-briar, and mosses, and unknown plants. Then, again the road would run for a considerable distance through an open space, unshaded by trees, to cross, a little further on, another belt of woods, thus making their darkened recesses doubly grateful from the contrast of alternating light and shade, while all along the stream murmured a soft expression of thanks for the lovely country it irrigated, for the blue sky, that mirrored itself in its bosom with floating clouds, for the sunshine sparkling on its ripples, and for the overhanging woods, and birds, that sung among the branches.

The disordered spirit of Armstrong was not insensible to the charm. He gazed round, and drank in the beauty by which he was surrounded. He scented the sweetness of the woods, and it seemed to impart an agreeable exhilaration. In the pauses of the conversation, hitherto carried on almost entirely by Judge Bernard, he listened to the monotonous, yet soothing flow of the water, and it sounded like an invitation to cast off trouble. As he listened the shooting pain in his head diminished, his thoughts became less sombre, and he surrendered himself to something like enjoyment. Very soon it seemed as if he were exerting himself to be agreeable to his companion, and to make up, by taking a more active part in the conversation, for former silence and neglect.

"This clear river," he said, "this beautiful valley, with its quiet woods, are a blessing to me to-day. It is a pleasure to breathe the air. Has Italy bluer skies?"

"The encomiums of travellers on the skies of Italy are to be received by us with some qualification," answered the Judge. "They are mostly written by Englishmen, and the comparison is between the humid climate of England and the drier one of Italy. This being borne in mind, the praises lavished on Italian skies are just. But as compared with ours, they can boast of little or no superiority in beauty. I have seen as gorgeous heavens in my own country as ever glorified the land of the Caesars."

"And how is it with the landscape?"

"There we must yield to Europe. We have nothing to be compared with the grandeur of the Swiss mountains, or the combination of loveliness and magnificence around the lake of Geneva."

"But Niagara!"

"Aye, Niagara! unequalled and alone. There can be but one Niagara."

"And the Alleghany and White Mountains?"

"Fine scenery, but hills in comparison with the mountains of Switzerland."

"And now for the works of man. You must have been struck by the contrast between the towns in our own country and in Europe."

"Yes, certainly, the difference is great."

"In what does it consist?"

"Principally in the newness of the one, and the oldness of the other. There, what one sees reminds him of the past; here, he beholds only presentiments of the future."

"There is a great difference, I am told, and read too, in the style of building."

"You may well say that. Here there is no style. Our houses are models of bad taste, and pretty much all alike. The time will undoubtedly come when we shall have a domestic architecture, but it will require some years before we get rid of narrow cornices, innumerable small windows, and exclusive white paint."

"You should make allowances for us," said Armstrong, deprecatingly. "Consider the poverty of a new country, and the material that poverty compels us to use."

"I am willing to allow the excuse all the weight it deserves, but I cannot understand how poverty can be an excuse for bad taste, or why because wood is used, a house may not be made to have an attractive appearance. I think there are other reasons more efficacious than the plea of poverty, which can, indeed, no longer be made."

"Come, come," said Armstrong, "you do not love anything about us Puritans, and your objections, if politeness would allow you to speak them out plainly, would be found to contain a fling at Calvin's children; but hearken, if I cannot find excuses to satisfy even you."

"I shall listen eagerly, but must correct you in one thing. I not only love some things about the Puritans, but some Puritans themselves."

"Surely, I know it. But now listen to my defence. The first settlement of the country was attended with a great many hardships. The country was colder than the immigrants were accustomed to; they arrived in the winter, and the first thing to be attended to was to secure shelter. Under these circumstances you will admit that attention to the principles of architecture was not to be expected. They knocked up houses as cheaply, and plainly, and rapidly as possible, content if they kept out wind and weather. Wood was preferred, because it was cheaper, and quicker worked. Thus lived the first generation. The condition of the second was somewhat improved; they had become accustomed to their houses and were tolerably satisfied. The third had never seen anything better, and not having the means of comparison, could not make it to their own disadvantage, and finally, as man is a creature of custom and habit, and reverence, they learned to regard a style of building that had sprung out of the necessities of their ancestors, as an evidence not only of good sense, but of good taste. The immigrants, arriving from time to time, might have disabused them, but these would naturally fall into the ways and sentiments of the people, and were their tastes ever so ambitious, probably had not the means to gratify them. This is the origin, and thus is to be explained the continuance of American architecture."

"An architecture," said the Judge, "that would have driven a Greek out of his senses. But though I will not quarrel with you about its origin, does not its perpetuation for so long a time affect the character of our countrymen for taste?"

"It will pass away," said Armstrong, gloomily, "and with it the stern virtues that are of more importance than a trifle like this."

"There can be no connection between an improvement in architecture, and a deterioration of morals."

"Prosperity brings wealth, and wealth is the means to gratify the caprices of luxury and taste. Perhaps, at some future day when stone and marble shall have susperseded wood and brick; and magnificent Grecian and Gothic temples, resplendent in stained glass, taken the places of the humble, unpretentious meeting-houses, the thoughtful and judicious will sigh for those times of primitive simplicity, when an humble heart was more than an ostentatious offering, and God's word was listened to devoutly on hard seats instead of being dozed over in cushioned pews."

"You are becoming gloomy, Armstrong," said the Judge. "This will never do. Progress, man, progress I tell you is the word. The world is improving every day. Banish these sick fancies."

Armstrong shook his head. "I envy you," he said, "your hopeful and joyous spirit, while I know you are mistaken."

"Well, well, my friend, I wish I could give you a portion of it. But to come back to where we started from. After finding so much fault, it is time to praise. However we may ridicule the ugliness of our houses, this much must be admitted in favor of our villages and country towns, that in cleanliness and an appearance of substantial comfort, they infinitely surpass their rivals in Europe. I do not except the villages in England. Who can walk through one of our New England country towns, where majestic elms throw their shadows over spacious streets, and the white rose clambers over the front doors of the neat, white painted houses, standing back a rod or two from the street with gardens stretching behind, while Peace and Plenty bless the whole, and not be grateful for a scene so fair, for a land so fortunate!"

They had now arrived in sight of the Judge's farm-house, which stood at some distance from the main road, from which a lane planted on both sides with maples, led to it. As they drove along the Judge pointed out the changes he had made since he became the owner.

"When I purchased the property," he said, "the house looked very differently. It was stuck full of little insignificant windows that affected me like staring eyes; its two or three inches of cornice stole timidly out, as if ashamed of itself, over the side, and the whole wore an awkward and sheepish air. It made me uncomfortable every time I looked at it, and I resolved upon an alteration. So I shut up half the windows, and increased the size where I could, and threw out a cornice, which, besides the merit of beauty, has the practical advantage (that is the national word, I believe) of acting as an umbrella to protect the sides against the mid-day heat of the sun in summer, and the storms in winter. Besides, I added the veranda, which runs nearly the whole length of the front."

"I confess it is an improvement upon the ancestral style," said Armstrong.

"I expected the acknowledgment from your natural taste, which is excellent," said the Judge laughing, "except when corrupted by traditional prejudices. I must take care of my horse myself, I suspect," he added, as they drove up to the door: "the men are probably all in the fields. He will stand, however, well enough under this shed." So saying, and after Armstrong had alighted at the door, he drove the horse under a shed, near the barn, and fastened him; then joining Armstrong, the two entered the house.

"La, Judge!" said Mrs. Perkins, the farmer's wife who received them, smoothing down her check apron, "you take us by surprise to-day. We didn't expect you, and the men-folks is all in the lot. Didn't you find your ride very warm?"

"Not very; and if it had been, the pleasure of seeing you, Mrs. Perkins, would more than compensate for any annoyance from the heat."

"You are so polite, Judge," replied Mrs. Perkins, simpering. "I declare you are equal to a Frenchman."

With all his French education, this was a remark the Judge would have been willing to dispense with; however on the French principle of considering that as a compliment, the meaning of which is equivocal, he bowed and introduced Mr. Armstrong.

Mrs. Perkins courtesied. "She'd heard," she said, "of Mr. Armstrong, and that he had the handsomest daughter, in the town of Hillsdale."

"It is your turn now," whispered the Judge. "Let me see how you will acquit yourself."

But Armstrong was not a man for compliments.

"Faith looks as well as young ladies generally I believe," he said.

Mrs. Perkins did not like to have her pretty speech received with so much indifference, so she answered,

"I was, perhaps, too much in a hurry when I called Squire Armstrong's daughter, the handsomest: I forgot Anne, and she's a right to be, sence she's got her father's good looks."

"Dear Mrs Perkins, you overwhelm me!" exclaimed the Judge, bowing still lower than before. "I think higher than ever of your taste."

"Ah! You're poking fun at me, me now," said Mrs. Perkins, hardly knowing how to receive the acknowledgment. "But wouldn't you like to take something after your ride?"

Those were not the days of temperance societies, and it would have been quite secundum regulas, had the gentlemen accepted the offer as intended by their hostess. The Judge looked at Armstrong, who declined, and then turning to Mrs. Perkins said,

"The strawberry season is not over, I believe"—

"Oh! I can give you strawberries and cream," interrupted the hospitable Mrs. Perkins.

"And would you be so kind as to give them to us in the veranda? The sun does not shine in, and it will be pleasanter in the open air."

"Sartainly. Eliza Jane!" she cried, elevating her voice and speaking through an open door to one of her little daughters, with a blooming multitude of whom Providence had blessed her,

"Eliza Jane, fetch two cheers into the piazza. That piazza, Judge, is one of the grandest things that ever was. The old man and me and the children, take ever so much comfort in it."

"I am glad you like it. But we will spare your daughter the trouble of taking out the chairs, and carry them ourselves."

"Not for the world, Judge, for I think it's best to make children useful."

Accordingly Eliza Jane brought the chairs, and the mother retiring with her, soon returned with the little girl, bearing in her hands a tray containing the strawberries and cream. The Judge kissed the child, and gave her a half dollar to buy a ribbon for her bonnet.

"I do declare Judge!" cried the mother, whose gratified looks contradicted the language, "you'll spoil Eliza Jane."

"A child of yours cannot be spoiled, Mrs. Perkins," said the Judge, "as long as she is under your eye. With your example before her, she is sure to grow up a good and useful woman."

"Well, I try to do my duty by her," said Mrs. Perkins, "and I don't mean it shall be any fault of mine, if she ain't."

It was nearly sunset by the time the gentlemen had finished, when the Judge proposed to visit a piece of wood he was clearing at no great distance from the house. Armstrong acquiesced, and they started off, Mrs. Perkins saying, she should expect them to stop to tea.

Their route lay through some woods and in the direction of the Wootuppocut, on whose banks the clearing was being made. As they approached, they could hear, more and more distinctly, the measured strokes of an axe, followed soon by the crash of a falling tree. Then, as they came still nearer, a rustling could be distinguished among the leaves and the sound of the cutting off of limbs. And now they heard the bark of a dog, and a man's voice ordering him to stop his noise.

"Keep still, Tige!" said the voice. "What's the use of making such a racket? I can't hear myself think. I say stop your noise! shut up!"

"It is Tom Gladding, whom Perkins hired to make the clearing, one of the best wood-choppers in the country. It is wonderful with what dexterity he wields an axe."

As the Judge uttered these words, the two gentlemen emerged from the wood into the open space, denuded of its sylvan honors, by the labors of Gladding.

The clearing (as it is technically termed), was perhaps a couple of acres in extent, in the form of a circle, and surrounded on all sides by trees, only a narrow strip of them, however, being left on the margin of the river, glimpses of which were caught under the branches and the thin undergrowth. A brook which came out of the wood, ran, glistening in the beams of the setting sun, and singing on its way across the opening to fall into the Wootuppocut. The felled trees had been mostly cut into pieces of from two to four feet in length, and collected into piles which looked like so many altars scattered over the ground. Here it was intended they should remain to dry, during the summer, to be ready for a market in the fall.

"So it's you, Judge and Mr. Armstrong," exclaimed Gladding as the two came up. "I guessed as much, that somebody was coming, when I heard Tige bark. He makes a different sort of a noise when he gits on the scent of a rabbit or squirrel."

"I dare say, Tiger knows a great deal more than we fancy," said the Judge. "Why, Gladding you come on bravely. I had no idea you had made such destruction."

"When I once put my hand to the work," said Tom, laughing, "down they must come, in short metre, if they're bigger than Goliah. Me and my axe are old friends, and we've got the hang of one another pretty well. All I have to do, is to say, 'go it,' and every tree's a goner."

After this little bit of vanity, Tom, as if to prove his ability to make good his boast by deeds, with a few well-directed blows, that seemed to be made without effort, lopped off an enormous limb from the tree he had just cut down.

"I've heard tell," said Tom, continuing his employment of cutting off the limbs, "that the Britishers and the Mounseers don't use no such axes as ourn. You've been across the Big Pond, and can tell a fellow all about it."

"It is true, they do not. The European axe is somewhat differently shaped from your effective weapon."

"The poor, benighted critturs!" exclaimed Tom, in a tone of commiseration. "I saw one of them Parleyvoos once, try to handle an axe, and I be darned, if he didn't come nigh cutting off the great toe of his right foot. If he hadn't been as weak as Taunton water—that, folks say, can't run down hill—as all them outlandish furriners is, and had on, to boot, regular stout cowhiders, I do believe he'd never had the chance to have the gout in one toe, anyhow. Why, I'd as soon trust a monkey with a coal of fire, in a powder-house, as one of them chaps with an axe."

"We have the best axes, and the most skillful woodmen in the world," said the Judge, not unwilling to humor the harmless conceit of the wood-chopper.

"It's plaguy lucky we have, seeing as how we've got so many thousands and thousands of acres to clear up," said Tom, with a sort of confused notion, that the skill of his countrymen was a natural faculty not possessed by "furriners." "But, Judge," he added, "I'm astonished at your cutting down the trees at this season of the year, and it kind o' goes agin my conscience to sling into 'em."

"I know what you mean. You think they ought not to be cut when the sap is rising. I suppose, the fire-wood is not so good?"

"Not half. Turn the thing as you choose, and you'll see you're wrong. In the first place, the wood ain't nigh as good; then, you lose the growth the whole summer, and, lastly, you take away a fellow from business that's more profitable."

"How?" said the Judge. "Do I not give you full wages? Can you get higher wages elsewhere?"

"No fault to find with the pay," answered Tom; "that's good enough. But, that ain't the idee. What I'm at is, that when I work, I like to see something useful come to pass. Now, every time I strike a blow, it seems to go right to my heart; for, I says to myself, this ain't no season for cutting wood. The Judge don't understand his own interest, and he's only paying me for injuring him."

Judge Bernard was too well-acquainted with the honest independence of Gladding to be offended at his uncomplimentary frankness. Nor, indeed, looking at it from Tom's point of view, could he avoid feeling a certain respect for that right-mindedness, which regarded not merely the personal remuneration to be received, but, also, the general benefit to be produced. He laughed, therefore, as he replied—

"You do not seem to set much value on my judgment, Gladding. Perhaps, I have objects you do not see."

"It ain't to be expected," said Tom, "and it ain't rational to suppose, that a man, who, when he was young, spent his time travelling over all creation, and then when he come home, took to the law, should know much about these matters; though, I guess you know as much as most folks, who ain't been brought up to 'em. But, as you say, it's likely you've got reasons of your own, as plenty as feathers in a bed, and I've been talking like most folks whose tongues is too long, like a darned fool."

"You are too hard on yourself, now. But, for your consolation, we will stop to-day with this piece of work, and you shall not be pained to cut down any more trees out of season. The clearing is as large as I wish it, and we will see to the burning of the brush, when it is drier. But, where is Mr. Armstrong?"

Armstrong, at the commencement of the conversation, had strayed away by himself, and sat down by one of the altar-like piles of wood, near the margin of the brook. Here he leaned his head on his hand, and seemed lost in meditation. He was in this posture when the exclamation was made by the Judge, who, on looking round, discovered the missing man, and immediately advanced toward him. So deep was his abstraction, that it was not until his friend's hand rested on his shoulder that he was aware of the other's presence. He arose, and the two retraced their steps together. The sun, by this time, had sunk behind the horizon, and, as they passed, Gladding threw his axe on his shoulder and joined their company.

"I'm glad," said the wood-chopper, as they stepped out of the clearing, and turned to look back upon what he had accomplished, "that job's done, and I can turn my hand to something else more like summer work."

"Do you mean to proceed no further with your chopping?" inquired Armstrong.

"Not at present. All has been done that I desired, and I ought to respect Gladding's conscientious scruples."

Armstrong looked inquiringly from one to the other, but asked no question.

The hospitable invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Perkins was too pressing to be resisted, and it was not until the full moon had risen, that the gentlemen departed. The soft beauty of the delicious evening, or some other cause, exercised an influence over Armstrong, that disposed him to silence and meditation, which his companion perceiving, they returned home without exchanging scarcely a dozen words.



CHAPTER XL.

Man is a harp, whose cords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony disposed aright; The screws reversed (a task which if he please, God in a moment executes with ease), Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.

COWPER

The aberration of mind of the unhappy Mr. Armstrong was at last with inevitable and steady step approaching its dreaded culminating point. To the outward eye he exhibited but little change. He was indeed, at times more restless, and his eyes would wander round as if in quest of some object that was trying to elude his sight; at one moment listless, silent, and dejected, and again animated, almost gay, like one who, ashamed of an exhibition of moody temper, tries to atone by extraordinary efforts of amiability for the error. His intimate friends had some knowledge of these changes, and to Faith, above all, living with him in the same house, and in the tender relation of a daughter to a parent, each of whom idolized the other, they were painfully apparent, and great was the anxiety they occasioned. How bitter were the tears which in solitude she shed, and frequent and fervent her supplications to the universal Father to pity and protect her father! How willingly, even at the sacrifice even of her own life, would she have restored peace and happiness to him!

But to the neighbors, to those who saw Armstrong only in public, no great change was manifest. He was thinner and paler than usual, to be sure, but every one was liable to attacks of indisposition, and there was no reason why he should be exempt; he did not speak a great deal, but he was always rather taciturn, and when he did converse, it was with his usual sweetness and affability. They guessed he'd be better after a while.

Such was the common judgment in the little community among those who had any knowledge of Armstrong's condition. They saw him daily in the streets. They conversed with him, and could see nothing out of the way. But some few who recollected the history of the family, and the circumstances attending the latter years of Armstrong's father, shook their heads, and did not hesitate to intimate that there had always been something strange about the Armstrongs. Curious stories, too, were told about the grandfather, and there was a dim tradition, nobody knew whence it came, or on what authority it rested, that the original ancestor of the family in this country, was distinguished in those days of ferocious bigotry, when the Indians were regarded by many as Canaanites, whom it was a religious duty to extirpate, as much for an unrelenting severity against the natives, bordering even on aberration of mind, as for reckless courage.

It is sad to look upon the ruins of a palace in whose halls the gay song and careless laugh long ago echoed; to contemplate the desolation of the choked fountains in gardens which were princely; and with difficulty to make one's way through encroaching weeds and tangled briers, over what once were paths where beauty lingered and listened to the vow of love; or to wander through the streets of a disentombed city, or seated on a fallen column, or the stone steps of the disinterred amphitheatre, to think of the human hearts that here, a thousand years agone, beat emulously with the hopes and fears, the loves and hates, the joys and sorrows, the aspiration and despair that animate or depress our own, and to reflect that they have all vanished—ah, whither? But however saddening the reflections occasioned by such contemplations, however much vaster the interests involved in them, they do not affect us with half that wretched sorrow with which we gaze upon the wreck of a human mind. In the former case, that which has passed away has performed its part; on every thing terrestial "transitory," is written, and it is a doom we expect, and are prepared for; but in the latter it is a shrouding of the heavens; it is a conflict betwixt light and darkness, where darkness conquers; it is an obscuration and eclipse of the godlike. We therefore feel no desire to dwell upon this part of our history, but, on the contrary, to glide over it as rapidly as is consistent with the development of the tale.