Next after Faith, the faithful Felix noticed, with disquietude, the alteration in his master, and many were the sad colloquies he held with Rosa on the subject. Holden in some way or another was connected in his mind with the cause of Mr. Armstrong's melancholy, for although for several years the latter had not been remarkably cheerful, yet it was only since Holden's acquaintance had become intimacy, that that melancholy deepened into gloom. The simple fellow naturally looked round for some cause for the effect, and none presented itself so plausible as the one he adopted.

"I wish," he had repeatedly said to Rosa, "that the old man would stay away. I'd see the divil with as much satisfacshum as him. Miss Faith too, I am sorry to say, is out of her wits."

One morning when Felix went up stairs, in answer to his master's bell, he could not avoid remarking on his altered appearance.

"I hope you will 'scuse me, sir," he said, "but me and the servants very much alarm about you, sir."

"I am obliged to you, Felix, and to all of you, but really there is no occasion for any alarm," said Mr. Armstrong.

"The case is the alarmingest when the patient doesn't know how sick he is. There was my old friend, Pompey Topset. He was setting up on the bed, when I come in to see him, smoking a pipe. And says he, says Pompey to me, says he, Felix, how do you do? this child never feel better. Then he give one puff and his head fall on the breast, and the pipe jump out of his mouth and burnt the clothes, and where was Pompey! He never," added Felix, shaking his head, "was more mistaken in all his life."

Mr. Armstrong was obliged to smile. "So you think me in as dangerous a condition as Pompey was, when he took his last smoke."

"Bless you, Mr. Armstrong for the sweet smile," exclaimed, the negro. "If you know how good it make me feel here, (laying his hand on his heart) you would smile pretty often. I can remember when the wren wasn't merrier than you, and you laughed almost as much as this fool Felix." At the recollection of those happy days, poor Felix pressed his hands upon his eyes, and tried to hide the tears, that in spite of his efforts stole through the fingers. "But," continued he, "I hope in the name of marcy, that you ain't so bad off as Pompey. That can't be. I only spoke of him for the sake of—of—the illumination."

"And what would you have me do?" inquired Armstrong, desirous to take all possible notice of the affectionate fellow.

"I pufess a high 'pinion of the doctor," answered Felix. "There is no man who gives medicine that tastes worse, and therefore must be the powerfullest. I would proscribe the doctor, sir."

"You would prescribe the doctor? Ah, Felix, I am afraid my case has nothing to do with his medicines."

"There is one other thing I should like to mention if I wasn't 'fraid it might offend Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, hesitatingly.

"And what is that, Felix? I will promise not to be offended."

Thus encouraged, Felix ventured to say.

"I have remark that Mr. Holden come often to see you, and you go to see him. His visits always seem to leave you kind o' solemncolly like, and all the world is surprise that you are so condescensious to the basket-man."

"Enough of this," said Armstrong, abruptly and sternly. "You permit too much freedom to your tongue respecting your superiors. Leave the room."

Poor Felix, aghast at the sudden change in the manner of his master, precipitately retired, casting back a grieved look, and ejaculating under his breath, as he closed the door, "Good Lord!"

"What is the matter with me?" said Armstrong, presently to himself, upon being left alone. "I invite this poor fellow, whose only fault is that he loves me too much, to speak freely, and then treat him harshly for his unintentional impertinence, assuming an importance that belongs to no one, and as if we were not worms creeping together towards the edge of that precipice from which we must fall into eternity. Whence springs my conduct but from pride, self-will, selfishness? I would arrogate a superiority over this poor negro. Poor negro! There spoke the pride of your heart, James Armstrong! But well is he called Felix in comparison with you. Happy in being born of a despised and persecuted race; happy in being condemned to the life of a servant, to an ignorance that diminishes responsibility; happy in receiving no good thing here. Strut about, James Armstrong, in purple and fine linen, but know that for all these things, God will assuredly call thee to judgment."

That whole day Armstrong seemed debating some question with himself. He paid less than even his usual attention to what was passing around, and more than once was spoken to without heeding the address. In the afternoon, he started off by himself, saying he might not return until evening. Felix, whose anxiety the rebuff in the morning had strengthened and confirmed, watched his master as he left the house, and would have followed to guard him against a danger, the approach of which he instinctively felt, but which he could not see, unless Faith, to whom he thought proper to communicate his intention, had forbidden him. She found it difficult to prevent him, so greatly were the fears of the black excited, on whose mind the motives of delicacy that induced Faith to desire to guard the movements of her father from observation, cannot be supposed to have exerted so much force. Much doubting and questioning the wisdom of the young lady, yet not venturing to disobey her, Felix blamed himself for making her acquainted with his design.

"This child head," he said, apostrophizing himself, "ain't no better than a squash. What made me tell Miss Faith what I were going to do?"

After Armstrong left the house, he continued in the street only a little way, soon striking across the fields and thus greatly abridging the distance he must have passed over had he pursued the high road. The truth is, he was directing his steps towards the very spot he had visited with Judge Bernard. He reached it, notwithstanding he was afoot, in much less time than the drive had taken, so rapidly did he walk when out of sight, and so much was the length of the way shortened. Upon arriving at the place, he sat down upon the same log which had been his former seat, and folding his arms sunk into a reverie. After the space of an hour, perhaps, thus passed, he rose and commenced piling up near the brook some pieces of wood which he took from the heaps about him, making another, differing from them principally in being smaller. As he crossed the sticks laid regularly at right angles upon each other, he filled up the intervals with the loose leaves and dry brush lying around. In this way he proceeded until he had raised a cube, perhaps six feet long, four wide, and four high.

During the whole time the work was progressing he seemed to be contending with violent emotions and driven along by some power he vainly tried to resist. Terror, awe, and repugnance were all portrayed upon his countenance. But still the work went on. When it was finished he stood off a few steps, and then, as in a sudden frenzy, rushed at, and seizing upon the several sticks of wood, hurled them in every direction around until the whole pile was demolished. Neglecting his hat that lay upon the ground, he then ran with a wild cry, and at the top of his speed, bounding, like a wild animal, over the brush and trunks of trees, as if in haste to remove himself from a dreadful object, until he reached the woods, when falling upon his face, he lay quite still. After a time he appeared seized with a hysterical passion; he pressed his hand on his side as if in pain, and heavy sobs burst at irregular intervals from his bosom. These finally passed away, and he sat up comparatively composed. A struggle was still going on, for several times he got up and walked a short distance and returned and threw himself down on the ground as before. At length, indistinctly muttering, unheeding the blazing sun that scorched his unprotected head, and lingering as though unwilling to advance, he returned to the scene of his former labors. And now, as if unwilling to trust himself with any delay, lest his resolution might falter, he proceeded, with a sort of feverish impatience, to reconstruct the pile. Shortly, the pieces were laid symmetrically upon each other as before, and the dead leaves and brush disposed in the intervals. After all was done, Armstrong leaned over and bowed his head in an attitude of supplication. When he raised it the eyes were tearless, and his pale face wore an aspect of settled despair. Resuming the hat, that until now had lain neglected in the leaves, he went to the brook and washed his hands in the running water.

"Could man wash out the sins of his soul," he said, "as I wash these stains from my hands! But water, though it may cleanse outer pollution, cannot reach the inner sin. Blood, blood only, can do that. Why was it that this dreadful law was imposed upon our race? But I will not dwell on this. I have interrogated the universe and God, and entreated them to disclose the awful secret, but in vain. My heart and brain are burnt to ashes in the attempt to decipher the mystery. I will strive no more. It is a provocation to faith. I dare not trust to reason. There is something above reason. I submit. Dreadful, unfathomable mystery, I submit, and accept thee with all the consequences at which the quivering flesh recoils."

Upon the return of Armstrong, all traces of violent emotion had disappeared, and given place to exhaustion and lassitude. Faith had, by this time, become so accustomed to the variable humors of her father, that, however much they pained her, she was no longer alarmed by them as formerly. It was her habit, whenever he was attacked by his malady, to endeavor to divert his attention from melancholy thoughts to others of a more cheerful character. And now, on this day, so fraught with horrors of which she was ignorant, although the silence of the unhappy man interrupted by fits of starting, and inquiries of the time o'clock, revealed to her that he was suffering to an unusual degree, she attempted the same treatment which, in more than one instance, had seemed to be attended with a beneficial effect. Armstrong was peculiarly sensitive to music, and it was to his love of it that she now trusted to chase away his gloom. When, therefore, in the evening, she had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation, receiving only monosyllables in return, she advanced to the piano, and inquired if he would not like to hear her sing?

"Sing! my child?" said Armstrong, as if at first not understanding the question; "Oh, yes—let me hear you sing."

Faith opened the piano, and turning over the leaves of a music book, and selecting a sacred melody as best befitting the mood of her father, sung, with much sweetness and expression, the following lines:

How shall I think of Thee, eternal Fountain Of earthly joys and boundless hopes divine, Of Thee, whose mercies are beyond recounting, To whom unnumbered worlds in praises shine?

I see thy beauty in the dewy morning, And in the purple sunset's changing dyes; Thee I behold the rainbow's arch adorning; Thee in the starry glories of the skies.

The modest flower, low in the green grass blushing, The wondrous wisdom of the honey bee, The birds' clear joy in streams of music gushing, In sweet and varied language tell of Thee.

All things are with Thy loving presence glowing, The worm as well as the bright, blazing star; Out of Thine infinite perfection flowing, For Thine own bliss and their delight THEY ARE.

But chiefly in the pure and trusting spirit, Is Thy choice dwelling-place, Thy brightest throne. The soul that loves shall all of good inherit, For Thou, O God of love art all its own.

Upon Thine altar I would lay all feeling, Subdued and hallowed to Thy perfect will, Accept these tears, a thankful heart revealing, A heart that hopes, that trembles, and is still.

At the commencement of the hymn, Armstrong paid but little attention, but as the sweet stream of melody flowed on from lips on which he had ever hung with delight, and in the tones of that soft, beloved voice, it gradually insinuated itself through his whole being, as it were into the innermost chambers of his soul. He raised the dejected eyes, and they dwelt on Faith's face with a sort of loving eagerness, as if he were seeking to appropriate some of the heavenly emotion that to his imagination, more and more excited, began to assume the appearance of a celestial halo around her head. But it is not necessary to assume the existence of insanity to account for such an impression. If there be anything which awakens reminiscences of a divine origin, it is from the lips of innocence and beauty, to listen to the pure heart pouring itself out in tones like voices dropping from the sky. The sweetness, the full perfection of the notes are not sufficient to account for the effect. No instrument made by human hands is adequate to it. There is something more, something lying behind, sustaining and floating through the sounds. Is it the sympathy of the heavenly for the earthly; the tender lamentation not unmixed with hope; the sigh of the attendant angel?

Upon the conclusion of the piece, Faith rose and took a seat by her father.

"Shall I sing more, father?" she inquired.

"No, my darling," answered Armstrong, taking her hand into his. "Dearly as I love to hear you, and although it may be the last time, I would rather have you nearer me, and hear you speak in your own language; it is sweeter than the words of any poet. Faith, do you believe I love you?"

"Father! father!" cried she, embracing him, "how can you ask so cruel a question? I know that you love me as much as father ever loved a daughter."

"Promise me that nothing shall ever deprive you of a full confidence in my affection."

"I should be most wretched, could I think it possible."

"But suppose I should kill you this instant?"

"Dear father, this is horrid! You are incapable of entertaining a thought of evil towards me."

"You are right, Faith, but only suppose it."

"I cannot have such a thought of my own father! It is impossible. I would sooner die than admit it into my mind."

"I am satisfied. Under no circumstances can you conceive a thought of evil of me. But this is a strange world, and the strangest things happen in it. I speak in this way because I do not know what may come to pass next. I have always loved my fellow-men, and desired their good opinion, and the idea of forfeiting it, either through my own fault or theirs, is painful to me. But men judge so absurdly! They look only at the outside. They are so easily deceived by appearances! Do you know, that of late I have thought there was a great deal of confusion in the ordinary way of men's thinking? But I see clearly the cause of the errors into which they are perpetually falling. All the discord arises from having wills of their own. Do you not think so?"

"Religion teaches, father, that our wills are sources of unhappiness only when opposed to the Divine will."

"I knew you would agree with me. And then think of the folly of it. The resistance must be ineffectual. That is a sweet song you sung, but it seems to me the theology of it is not altogether correct. It celebrates only the love of God, and is, therefore, partial and one-sided. He is also a consuming fire."

"A consuming fire to destroy what is evil."

"I hope it is so. But do you know that I have been a good deal troubled lest there might be truth in the doctrine, that Necessity, an iron Necessity, you understand, might control God himself?"

"Why will you distress yourself with these strange speculations, father? There are some things, it was intended, we should not know."

"Why," continued Armstrong, "it is an opinion that has been entertained for thousands of years, and by the wisest men. The old philosophers believed in it, and I do not know how otherwise to explain the destiny of the elect and reprobate. For you see, Faith, that if God could make all men happy, he would. But he does not."

"I think we ought not to engage our minds in such thoughts," said Faith. "They cannot make us wiser or better, or comfort us in affliction, or strengthen us for duty."

"They are very interesting. I have spent days thinking them over. But if the subject is unpleasant we will choose another. I think you look wonderfully like your mother to-night. I almost seem to see her again. It was very curious how Mr. Holden discovered your likeness to her."

"I was quite startled," said his daughter, glad to find her father's mind directed to something else. "I wonder if he could have seen my mother."

He explained the way in which he found it out. "Was it not ingenious? No one else would have thought of it. He has a very subtle intellect."

"I was not quite satisfied," said Faith. "His explanation seemed far fetched, and intended for concealment. I think he must have seen my mother."

"If that is your opinion, I will inquire into it. But I do not wish to speak of Holden. You have been to me, Faith, a source of great happiness, and when you are gone, I know I shall not live long."

"We shall live many happy years yet, dear father, and when our time comes to depart, we will thank God for the happiness we have enjoyed, and look forward to greater."

"Your time is at the door, my daughter," said Armstrong, solemnly.

"I know that at any moment I may be called, but that does not affect my happiness, or diminish my confidence, that all is well according to the counsel of His will."

"I see thee in the shining raiment of the blessed! I behold thee in the celestial city!" exclaimed Armstrong.

It was later than usual when the father and daughter separated that night. It seemed as if he were unwilling to allow her to depart, detaining her by caresses when she made suggestions of the lateness of the hour, and assenting only when the clock warned that midnight was passed. Then it was he said:

"I do wrong to keep you up so long, Faith. You should be bright and well for an excursion I intend to take with you to-morrow. You will go with me, will you not?"

"I shall be delighted. The clear sky," she added, walking to the window, "promises a fine day."

"Upon how many new-made graves will to-morrow's sun shine? I wish mine was one of them"

"O, do not say so. You will break my heart."

"Not willingly. O! I do not pain you willingly. You were not born to suffer much pain. Living or dying, you will be a pure offering to your Maker, my daughter."

"Father, how strangely you talk! You are ill."

"As well as I shall be in this life. But do not be troubled. To-morrow will make a change."

He was near the door when he uttered the last words; and now, as if not daring to trust himself in a longer conversation, he hastily opened it, and proceeded to his chamber. Faith followed his example, pondering sadly over the conversation. It did not escape her, that it was more incoherent than usual, but she had seen persons before under great religious distress of mind, whose peace was afterwards restored, and she doubted not that, in like manner, her father's doubts would be solved, and his spirit calmed. With, her heart full of him, and her last thought a petition on his behalf, she fell asleep.



CHAPTER XLI.

'Tis necessity To which the gods must yield; and I obey, Till I redeem it by some glorious way.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The next morning was beautiful, like most June mornings. Armstrong, who had not closed his eyes during the whole night, rose with the dawn to wander through his garden, which was a favorite resort. His walk, at first rapid and irregular, as if he were trying to work off a nervous excitement, gradually slackened, until it became a firm, composed step. With folded arms and compressed, resolved lips, he paced up and down the paths. He was living in an interior world. He heard not the singing of the birds, which, in great numbers, frequented the spacious gardens and orchards lying around; he saw not the beautiful flowers, burdening the air with sweetness; nor the young fruit, whose progress, through the various stages of its growth, he had once watched with so much pleasure. His mind went back to the time when he was a school-boy with his brother George; when they slept in the same bed, and associated in the same sports; it then advanced to their college days, and the face of the beautiful girl, who became his wife, flitted by him. He thought of that fair face now for many a long day, mouldering in the grave, into which he had seen the coffin lowered; then his thoughts reverted to his brother George, so brave, so generous, so strong once, but who presented himself to his vision now, a livid corpse, dripping with water. Next came his mother, of whom his recollection was faint; and then his father, with insanity in his eyes. He felt, as it were, their presence around him, but it was a companionship which afforded no pleasure. There seemed to be something about himself that invincibly held them off, notwithstanding their attempts to approach—a sullen sphere, which projected a dark shadow, only to the edge of which the spirits could come, and which they made repeated efforts to cross.

While Armstrong was suffering under these strange delusions, Felix approached, to call him to breakfast. The black beheld him walking backwards and forwards, with orderly and composed steps, and congratulated himself upon the change since the day before. He had not, however, ventured to address his master since being ordered away, and uncertain how he would be received, preferred to be spoken to first. With this view, he drew nigh one of the flower-beds, which Armstrong was passing and re-passing, and pretended to busy himself with tying up one of the rose bushes, then in full bloom. Armstrong did not see Felix as he passed, so deep was his reverie, but on retracing his steps, he observed a shadow on the path, which occasioned him to lift his eyes, when he discerned the black. He stopped and spoke.

"Felix," he said, "I was unkind to you yesterday. I ask your pardon."

"O, Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, his eyes protruding with astonishment, "there is no 'casion. I say so many foolish things, it is no wonder you out of patience sometime."

"No, Felix; it was a fancied superiority that made me speak harshly. You have always been a good and faithful servant," he continued, taking out his pocket-book, which he opened mechanically, as from the force of habit, "and I wish I had it in my power to express better my sense of the obligation. But why do I open it?" he said, closing at the same time, and offering it to Felix. "You will find here what may be of use to you, though I think there is little enjoyment purchasable with money."

"Why! Mr. Armstrong," cried Felix, stepping back. "What for do I want more money? I have enough, and you will please keep it, sir, to give some poor man if you wish."

"You are right to despise it," said Armstrong. "It shows a superiority of soul. Now here is this poor black," he went on soliloquizing, though all the time Felix stood before him, "who has learned that lesson of contentment which the generality never learn. Rich in his poverty here, an inheritor of the skies, I have only insulted him by so contemptible an offer." His head sunk upon his breast, his eyes fell upon the ground, his pocket-book dropped from his unconscious hand, and he resumed his walk. The negro stooped and picked it up, saying, to himself:

"Very strange! Mr. Armstrong act as if pocket-book chock full o' bank-bills grow like chick-weed, but I will take him under my protecshum till I give him to Miss Faith."

Upon Armstrong's return from the end of the walk, Felix delivered himself of his errand, and his master directed his steps towards the house.

He found his daughter with the breakfast apparatus before her, and looking as fresh and charming as the morning itself.

"You have shown better taste than I, father," she said. "You have been enjoying the beauty of nature, while I was lying on a downy pillow."

"Sleep is sweet to the young and healthy," said Armstrong, "and my selfishness kept you up so late last night, that I do not wonder you are not as early as usual."

"My late hours have done me no harm. But when shall we take the drive you promised me?"

"At any time that is most agreeable to yourself."

"If you refer it to me, I shall not long hesitate."

"It will make no difference with me. Choose, yourself, my darling."

"Then, why not this morning, while the air is fresh with the dews of night, and before the roads are filled with dust? I anticipate a great deal of pleasure, for it seems to me some mystery hangs about this drive, and that you are preparing for me a delightful surprise."

Armstrong started, and an expression of pain gathered over his face.

"That was earlier than I intended," he said, "but a few hours can make no difference."

"If it is not perfectly convenient; if you have another engagement, put it off later. It was only the loveliness of the morning which made me select it."

"I have no other engagement so important," said Armstrong; "it is of great importance to us both: I ought to gratify any request you can make, but"—

"Why hesitate, dear father, to make your own choice without regard to a chance expression of mine? I really have no preference contrary to yours."

"There is no such thing as chance. We will go this morning, my darling," said Armstrong, with decision. "I have observed, there are some persons controlled by a heavenly influence, which prevents their erring. I have felt it sometimes, and, I think I feel it now. You were always right from infancy. The influence upon us both is the same, and, I am convinced, we should follow it."

Accordingly, shortly after breakfast, Faith and her father entered the coach, which was driven by Felix. The route they passed over was the same taken by the Judge and Armstrong, and we are, therefore, relieved from the necessity of a description. Besides, we are now too much interested in Armstrong, to allow us to pay much attention to the beauties of external nature. Of such infinite worth is a human being; so incalculably grand and precious those faculties and powers which connect him with his magnificent source; so fraught with mystery the discipline he endures, a mystery in which each one endowed with the same nature, has part, that the natural and the visible shrink into insignificance in comparison with the unseen and spiritual. Of what consequence is a world of insensate matter, when brought into competition with the immortal spirit?

Vain would be the attempt to describe the tumult of feelings that, like billows of fire, dashed through the soul of the unfortunate man. Sitting, as he supposed, for the last time, by the side of one dearer than life, his eyes no longer dwelt upon Faith, with that expression of calm and boundless love, whence she had been accustomed to drink in so much happiness. Yet, was the love all there, but it was a troubled love, a love full of anguish. What sweetness! what confidence in him he read in her face! It was like the placid surface of a mountain lake, in which the skies delight to mirror themselves—no emotion hidden, no thought concealed—and, for all this innocent confidence, what was his return? He was entertaining, in his mind, a dreadful purpose; carefully concealing it so that it should be beyond the power of suspicion, and inveigling her into a snare, which, upon being discovered, must fill her young heart with an agony worse than death. But no thought of swerving from his purpose crossed now the mind of Armstrong. Considerations like these had long been reflected upon, and in connection with others, been able, indeed, to retard the execution of his design, but not, as it seemed, to defeat it. Whatever weight they might have had, they were obliged to yield to more powerful antagonists. He was no longer a free agent. A force, as with the grip of a vice, held him fast. A scourge, whose every lash drew blood, as it were, from his heart, drove him on. Beautiful, magnificent, the harmonious and healthy play of the human faculties; horrid, beyond conception, the possible chaos of their diseased action!

Meanwhile, Faith, ignorant of what was passing in her father's mind, endeavored to interest him in the objects which attracted her attention, but in vain. The moment was nigh which was to accomplish a deed, at the bare contemplation of which his whole being revolted; but, to whose execution he felt drawn by a power, as irresistible by him as is that force which keeps the worlds in their places, by those rolling spheres. Engrossed, absorbed by one dominating idea, there was no room in his mind for another. The musical tones of Faith's voice; the smiles evoked for his sake, that played around those lips sweeter than the damask rose, clustered inevitably about that one thought. But, he felt them as a swarm of angry bees, that eagerly settle upon a living thing to sting it into torture. That living thing was his burning, sensitive heart, quivering, bleeding, convulsed, longing for the bliss of annihilation. And thus, in an agony far greater than that which the martyr endures in the chariot of flame which is to waft him to heaven, as the sufferings of the immortal spirit can exceed those of the perishable body, the insane man pursued his way. How unending seemed that road, and yet, how he longed that it might extend on for ever! Within the time of each revolution of the wheels, an age of torment was compressed; yet, how he dreaded when they should stop!

But this could not last, and, at length, the coach reached a spot where Armstrong proposed they should alight. Accordingly, he assisted Faith out, and, preceding her, they took their way across the fields. Faith, unable to resist the attraction of the wild-flowers scattered beneath her feet, stooped occasionally to pick them, and soon had her hands full.

"What a pity it is, father," she said, "that we should step upon these beautiful things! They seem little fairies, enchanted in the grass, that entreat us to turn aside and do them no harm."

"It is our lot, in this world, cursed for our sakes," said Armstrong, hoarsely, "to crush whatever we prize and love the dearest."

"The flower is an emblem of forgiveness," said Faith. "Pluck it, and it resents not the wrong. It dies, but with its last breath, exhales only sweetness for its destroyer."

"O, God!" groaned Armstrong. "Was this, too, necessary? Wilt thou grind me between the upper and the nether millstone?"

"What is the matter, father?" inquired Faith, anxiously, catching some words between his groans. "O, you are ill, let us return."

"No, my daughter, there is no return. It was a pang like those to which I am subject. Will they ever pass off?"

They had reached the open space of ground or clearing made by Gladding, and Armstrong advanced, with Faith following, directly to the pile he had built near the brook.

"What a beautiful stream!" exclaimed Faith. "How it leaps, as if alive and rejoicing in its activity! I always connect happiness with life."

"You are mistaken," said Armstrong. "Life is wretchedness, with now and then a moment of delusive respite to tempt us not to cast it away."

"When your health returns, you will think differently, dear father. Look! how enchanting this blue over-arching sky, in which the clouds float like angels. With what a gentle welcome the wind kisses our cheeks, and rustles the leaves of the trees, as if to furnish an accompaniment to the songs of the birds which flit among them, while the dear little brook laughs and dances and claps its hands, and tells us, like itself, to be glad. There is only one thing wanting, father, and that is, that you should be happy. But I wonder why this pile of wood was built up so carefully near the edge of the water."

"It is the altar on which I am commanded to sacrifice thee, my child," said Armstrong, seizing her by the arm, and drawing her towards it.

There was a horror in the tones of his voice, a despair in the expression of his face, and a lurid glare in his eyes, that explained all his previous conduct, and revealed to the unhappy girl the full danger of her situation; even as in a dark night a sudden flash of lightning apprises the startled traveller of a precipice over which his foot has already advanced, and the gleam serves only to show him his destruction.

"Father, you cannot be in earnest," she exclaimed, dreadfully alarmed at being in the power of a maniac, far from assistance, "you do not mean so. Oh," she said throwing herself into his arms, "I do not believe my father means to hurt me."

"Why do you not fly? Why do you throw your arms about me? Do you think to defeat the decree? Unwind your arms, I say, and be obedient unto death."

So saying, with a gentle force he loosed the hold of the fainting girl, who with one hand embracing his knees, and the other held up to deprecate his violence, sunk at his feet.

"God have mercy upon us! Christ have mercy upon us," her pale lips faintly gasped.

"Faith, my precious, my darling," said Armstrong, with a terrible calmness, as he drew a large knife out of his bosom, "You know I do not this of myself, but I dare not disobey the command. It might endanger the soul of my child, which is dearer than her life. Think, dear child, in a moment, you will be in Paradise. It is only one short pang, and all is over. Let me kiss you first."

He stooped down, he inclosed her in his arms, and strained her to his heart—he imprinted innumerable kisses on her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead—he groaned, and large drops of sweat stood on his face, pressed out by the agony.

"You will see your mother and my brother George, Faith. Tell them not to blame me. I could not help it. You will not blame me, I know. You never blamed me even in a thought. I wish it was for you to kill me. The father, it would seem ought to go first, and I am very weary of life."

He raised the knife, and Faith, with upturned and straining eyes, saw it glittering in the sunshine. She strove to cry out, but in vain. From the parched throat no sound proceeded. She saw the point about to enter her bosom. She shut her eyes, and mentally prayed for her father. At that moment, as the deadly instrument approached her heart, she heard a voice exclaim, "Madman forbear!" She opened her eyes: the knife had dropped from her father's hand; he staggered and leaned against the altar. A few words will explain the timely interruption.

When Armstrong and his daughter left the carriage to cross the field, the mind of Felix was filled with a thousand apprehensions. He would have followed had he dared to leave the horses, but this, his fear of the consequences if the high-spirited animals were left to themselves, forbade. With anxious eyes he pursued the receding foot-steps of his master and young mistress until they were lost to sight, and then, with a foreboding of evil, hid his face in the flowing mane of one of the horses, as if seeking comfort from his dumb companion. Some little time passed, which to the fearful Felix seemed hours, when, whom should he see but the man whom of all the world he dreaded most. It was Holden, bounding along with strides which showed that the habits of his forest-life were not forgotten. At any other time the apparition of the Solitary would have imparted anything but pleasure, but now it was as welcome as a spar to a shipwrecked sailor. Holden advanced straight to the carriage, but before he could speak the black addressed him,

"Oh, Mr. Holden, if you love Mr. Armstrong and Miss Faith, go after them quick; don't stop a minute."

"Where are they?" said Holden.

"They go in that direcshum," answered Felix, pointing with his chin, across the field.

"How long ago?"

"Ever so long; Oh, good Mr. Holden, do hurry," said Felix, whose anxieties made him magnify the progress of time.

Holden asked no further questions, but increasing his speed, hastened on an Indian lope in the direction indicated, following the traces in the grass.

As he hurried on, his dream occurred to him. The features of the country were the same as of that he had traversed in his sleep: he remembered also, that the day of the week was Friday. As these thoughts came into his mind, they stimulated him to press on with increased speed, as if something momentous depended upon the swiftness of his motions. It was well he did so. A moment later might have been too late; a moment more and he might have seen the fair creature he so loved weltering in her blood. Too late to stay the uplifted hand of the deranged man with his own, he had uttered the cry which had arrested the knife.

Holden stooped down, and taking into his arms the insensible form of Faith, bore her to the brook. Here he lavishly sprinkled her face with the cool water, and sobs and deep drawn sighs began, after a time, to herald a return to consciousness. Armstrong followed, and as he saw the pale girl lying like a corpse in the arms of Holden, he threw himself down by her side upon the grass, and took her passive hand, which lay cold in his own.

"She is not dead, is she?" said he. "O, say to me, she is not dead. I thought I heard a voice from heaven—I expected to hear it—which commanded me to forbear. Did I disobey the angel? Was he too late? Too late, too late, too late! Oh, she is dead, dead. My Faith, my daughter, my darling! O, God, it was cruel in thee!"

But presently, as we have said, sighs and sobs began to heave the bosom of Faith, and as she opened her languid eyes their soft light fell upon the face of her father.

With a cry of delight he sprang from the ground. "She is not dead," he exclaimed, "she is alive! I knew it would be so. I knew it was only a trial of my faith. I knew God would send his angel. He has angels enough in heaven. What does he want of Faith yet? My darling," he said, getting down and leaning the head of his daughter upon his bosom, "God did not mean it in earnest. He only meant to try us. It is all over now, and hereafter we shall be so happy!"

Holden, who, when Faith began to revive, had surrendered her to her father, stood looking on, while tears streamed down his face. Faith had now so far recovered as to sit up and look about her, and throwing her arms around her father's neck, she hid her face in his bosom."

"My brain whirls," she said, "and it seems to me as if I had had a dreadful dream. I thought you wanted to kill me, father."

"No, no, no!" cried Armstrong, "I never wanted to. It was my trial," he added, solemnly, "and I shall never have another, Faith. God is too merciful to try a man twice, so."

"James," said Holden, and his voice sounded with unusual magnificence, "dost thou know me?"

"Certainly," said Armstrong; "it is a strange question to ask me. You are Mr. Holden."

"I am thy brother George."

Without a doubt, without a misgiving, Armstrong, still holding his daughter, extended his hand to Holden.

"So, George," he said, "you have risen from the dead to save Faith's life. I knew God would work a miracle if it was necessary."

"I trust I have risen from the death of sin but I have never been in the grave of which thou speakest. Know that in veritable flesh and blood, I am thy brother George, who hath never tasted of death."

But this was an idea which Armstrong was incapable of receiving. He shook his head, and muttering to himself, "Can the dead lie?" looked suspiciously at Holden.

The announcement of the Solitary struck Faith, at once, as the truth. Her mind was in no condition to reason and compare proofs. She only felt how sweet had been her intercourse with him, and how he had contrived to make her love and reverence him. She hoped it was true, he was her long lost uncle, and she believed it because she hoped it.

"My Uncle George!" she said, as attempting to rise she received his embrace. She could say no more. The agitation of her feelings choked her voice and vented itself in a flood of tears.

"What, crying, my darling?" said Armstrong. "This is no time for tears. You should rejoice, for is not George here, who left his grave to save your life, and has not our faith received its triumphant crown?"

"Alas!" exclaimed Holden, by a word and look conveying his meaning. "As soon as you are able to walk, dear Faith, we had better return to your home."

"I think I am sufficiently restored," she replied, "if you will assist me."

Holden gave her his arm, and supported her to the carriage, followed with great docility by Armstrong, who broke out into occasional snatches of music, once a common habit, but in which he had not been known to indulge for a long time.



CHAPTER XLII.

O, you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! The untuned and jarring senses O, wind up!

KING LEAR.

As soon as they reached the house of Armstrong, Dr. Elmer was sent for, and to him Holden communicated the events of the morning, not concealing his own relationship. This last particular was a case not provided for in the books, or coming within the scope of the good doctor's practice. Contenting himself, therefore, with ejaculating,

"Is this the lord Talbot, Uncle Gloster, That hath so long been resident in France?"

he shook Holden by the hand as an evidence of welcome, and, without hesitation, assented to the propriety of the Solitary's suggestion, that the insanity of Armstrong and his attempted violence, should be kept secret. Rest was prescribed by the doctor for Faith, whom, contrary to her inclinations, he compelled to retire to her chamber, whither he sent a composing draught, with assurances that her father was doing well, which declaration, probably, had quite as much effect in inducing the slumbers that succeeded, as the anodyne. He next turned his attention to her father.

No one, without particular observation, would have remarked any change in him. Upon returning home, he had quietly entered the parlor and sat down in a large arm-chair, which was a favorite seat, looking first around with a grave and pleased expression. His daughter was with him then, who, indeed, until the arrival of the physician, had remained by his side, and nothing seemed to please Armstrong so much as retaining her hand in one of his, to pass the other over her silken hair, and let it slide down over the pale cheeks, all the time gazing at her with an appearance of infinite affection. But when the doctor felt his pulse, he found it bounding like a frightened steed; and this symptom, together with the heightened crimson of the cheeks, and deepening blackness of the eyes, but too plainly revealed the access of violent fever. Bleeding was in vogue in those days, and much practised, and the skill of Elmer could suggest nothing better for the pressure of blood on the brain, than letting blood. Having had, therefore, Armstrong conducted to his chamber, he opened a vein, and bleeding him till he fainted, he afterwards administered the medicines he thought proper, enjoining the strictest quiet, promising to be with him every moment that his professional engagements permitted. During the whole Armstrong was passive, yielding himself like a child to all that was required, and seeming to be in a beatitude, which made whatever might occur of but little concernment. As the doctor was about leaving, he accepted of Holden's proposal, which was rather uttered as a determination, to remain, and send for his son. "If," thought Elmer, "Holden is Armstrong's brother, he has a right to stay; if not, he has at least saved Faith's life, as she says herself, and he knows after all, a 'hawk from a hand-saw.' Young Holden, too, is a sensible fellow, and I think I may trust them." In some such way thronged the thoughts through Elmer's mind. "I will," he said to himself, "stop as I pass Judge Bernard's house, to let Anne know that her friend Faith is indisposed, and ask her to sleep with her to-night." Such, accordingly, was, for a short time the composition of the family under Mr. Armstrong's roof.

Once or twice daring the night Faith started in her sleep, and threw her arm around her lovely companion, as if to ask for protection, and Anne heard her moaning something indistinctly; but, on the whole, her sleep was refreshing, and in the morning she awoke, paler, indeed, and weaker than common, but with no other signs of illness about her.

"They will soon pass off," said the doctor. "It was a severe shock, but youth and a good constitution are great odds."

But it was not so with Armstrong. The combined effects of loss of blood and of the medicines he had taken, were unable to calm the excitement of the nerves, much less produce drowsiness. All night he lay with eyes wide open, burning with fever, and calling for drink. But, although his body suffered, the exaltation of his mind continued to triumph over pain, and, from the words that escaped him, from time to time, it would seem as if he felt himself absolutely happy.

When Doctor Elmer came in the morning, and heard the report of Holden, he expressed no surprise.

"It is as I supposed," he said. "He must have a run of fever, and what the result may be, no mortal man can divine. Let us hope for the best, while prepared for the worst."

Faith, from the moment she was permitted, was assiduous by the bed-side of her father. The delusion with respect to Holden, which had taken possession of him, whom, while continuing to recognize as his brother, George, he would not believe was alive, fancying it was his spirit, extended itself after a time to his daughter, whom also he believed to be dead. So far as could be gathered from the disjointed utterances that escaped him, he supposed that his own spirit was trying to escape from the body, and that the spirits of his brother and daughter had been sent to comfort and assist him.

Thus tossing and tumbling on a heated bed, which the delicious breath of June, streaming through the open windows, could not cool for him, passed nine long wretched days, during which the confinement of both Holden and Faith was almost incessant, for whenever either moved from the bed or made a motion as if to leave the room, Armstrong would intreat them, in the most touching tones and pathetic language, which neither the brother's nor daughter's heart could withstand, not to leave him, for he was just then ready, only one more struggle was necessary, and he should be free. And besides carrying into his insanity a habit, of which we have spoken, he would insist on holding their hands. The touch of their heavenly bodies, he said, sent a sensation of roses and lilies through his earthly body; they refined him and attracted him upward, and he was sure he had sometimes risen a little way into the air. "O!" he would exclaim, "I never knew before, how much flowers resemble spirits. They smile and laugh alike, and their voices are very similar."

On the tenth day the fever abated, and Armstrong gradually fell into a long, deep sleep. So long, so profound was the slumber that the attendants about his bed feared that it might be one from which there was no awaking. But the orders of the doctor, who, at the crisis was present the whole time, were peremptory that the patient should not be disturbed, but Nature allowed, in her own way, to work out her beneficent purposes. Armstrong then slept many, many hours, in that still and darkened room, while attentive ears were listening to the deeper drawn breath, and anxious eyes watching the slightest change of countenance.

At last he awoke, and the first word he spoke, so low, that even in the hushed chamber it was scarcely audible, was, "Faith." A smile of wonderful sweetness illuminated his face, as he tried to extend his hand, white as the snowy coverlet on which it rested, toward her, but so weak was he, that only a motion of the fingers could be perceived. Faith, through the tears which fell upon the hand she covered with kisses, could mark the light of returned intelligence, and her heart swelled with an almost overpowering emotion.

"O, doctor," she said, turning to Elmer, "say he is safe."

"I hope so," answered Elmer, "but control yourself. I forbid all agitation."

The life of Armstrong, for some days longer, vibrated in the balance. So excessive was the weakness consequent upon the tremendous excitement through which he had passed, that sometimes it appeared hardly possible that nature could sufficiently rally, to bring the delicate machinery again into healthy action. But stealing slowly along, insensibly, the gracious work went on, until one day the anxious daughter had the happiness to hear from the lips of the doctor that her father was out of danger.

It seems a strange thing, but so it is, that the events of the dreadful day, when, as if by a heavenly interposition, his hand had been arrested when raised to take away the life of his daughter, and also of the time when he lay insane upon his bed, were blotted completely from the memory of Armstrong. The scratches of a school-boy on a slate were never more perfectly erased by a wet sponge. All his conduct proves this. When he beheld his brother after the return of reason, he addressed him as Mr. Holden, and never, in conversation with any one, did he make allusion to his aberration of mind. Nor during the short period while he remained on earth, did he know of his conduct on the banks of the Wootuppocut. The secret was confined to the bosoms of a few, and it was mutually agreed that it was wisest it should be concealed.

It was not until the health of Armstrong seemed completely restored that his brother, in the presence of his son and of Faith, disclosed his relationship. He had made it known before to his son, to whom, as well as to his father, we must, for the brief period our acquaintance with them continues, give their true name of Armstrong. It may well be conceived, that young Armstrong had no objections to recognize in the lovely Faith a cousin, nor was she unwilling to find a relative in the amiable and intelligent young man.

But, if they were pleased, how shall we express the happiness of James Armstrong? The sting of a sorrow that had poisoned so many years of his life was extracted. If he had been the cause of misfortune to his brother, he had it now in his power to repair, in a degree, the wrong he had inflicted. Nor had he recovered only a brother, but also a nephew, whom he could love and respect, and who would, in some measure, supply the loss of his son, by transmitting his family name, the extinction of which no man can regard with indifference.

Long was the conversation of the brothers after their children had left them to themselves. Together they wandered over the scenes of childhood, recalling its minutest, and, what would be to strangers, uninteresting scenes, George Armstrong listening, with a sad pleasure, to the details of his parents' lives after his own escape from the Asylum, and, also, to changes in the family of his brother since their death; while James Armstrong as eagerly drank in the particulars of his brother George's adventures. But little respecting the latter need be added, after what has been disclosed.

We already know, that George Armstrong married, in one of the Western States, and commenced the life of a pioneer, and that, in a night attack, his cabin had been burned, his wife killed, and his son carried away by the savages. It would seem that the effect of these misfortunes was again to disturb his reason, and that, urged by a passion for revenge, he had made himself terrible, under the name of Onontio (given by the natives, with what meaning is unknown,) among the Western Indians. But, after a time, the feeling passed away, and he became, somehow, a subject of religious impressions, which assumed the shape of a daily expectation of the Coming of Christ, joined with a firm belief in the doctrine of predestination. In this frame of mind, influenced by a feeling like the instinct, perhaps, of the bird which returns from the southern clime, whither the cold of winter has driven it, to seek again the tree where hung the parental nest, George Armstrong came back to the place of his birth. He was supposed to be dead, and, even without any such prepossession, no one would have recognized him; for, the long beard he had suffered to grow, and the sorrow and hardship he had undergone, gave him an appearance of much more advanced age than his elder brother, and effectually disguised him. Why, instead of taking possession of the cabin, on Salmon Island, and secluding himself from society, he did not make himself known to his brother and demand his inheritance, always puzzled the gossips of Hillsdale, and yet, it appears to us, susceptible of explanation.

When he came from the West, he felt, at first, as if the ties which had united him to the world, were broken, never to be renewed. What he most prized and loved he had lost. He was an exception to other men. He had been isolated by destiny, whose iron finger pointed to solitude, and solitude he chose as most congenial to his bruised spirit. But, besides, an idea had mastered him, in whose presence the vanities and indulgences of the world and all worldly considerations, shrunk into insignificance. Of what consequence were wealth and distinction to one who looked momently for the introduction of a state of things, when they would be of less importance than the baubles of a child? The gay world might laugh and jest in its delusion, but it was for him to watch and pray. Some feeling of resentment, too, towards his brother, may have helped to color his conduct. As time, however, wore on, his heart began to expand to human affections; for we have seen, how fond he became of the society, first, of Faith, and, finally, of his brother; deriving, possibly, a sort of insane gratification from even the concealment of his relationship, as a miser gloats over the security of his hoard. It is, indeed, probable, that, but for the discovery of his son, he would have died without betraying the secret, but, that discovery awakened anew feelings which he never expected to have again in this life. He looked upon his son and the inheritance, which to him was valueless, assumed an importance. And it may be—who can tell?—that, sometimes, a doubt—for how long had he waited in vain?—might throw a shadow over his expectation of the Millennium. But this we have no means of determining, and, as we shall presently see, his subsequent life rather sustains the opposite opinion.



CHAPTER XLIII.

By his great Author man was sent below, Some things to learn, great pains to undergo, To fit him for what further he's to know.

This end obtained, without regarding time, He calls the soul home to its native clime, To happiness and knowledge more sublime.

ALLAN RAMSAY

The period of time which has elapsed since the occurring of the events detailed in the preceding chapters, enables us to give a tolerably full account of the destiny of the actors, who, for the space of a few months, have flitted across our stage.

James Armstrong lived in the enjoyment of pretty good health some two years after his recovery. The melancholy with which nature had tinged his disposition was, indeed, never quite eradicated, but probably those two years were the sweetest and sunniest of his life. Those whom he most loved were prosperous and happy, and the reflection of their happiness shone upon his daily walk. At the end of that time he fell asleep, and in the confidence of a lively faith and the comfort of a holy hope, was gathered to his fathers. Immediately upon the restoration of his reason he had divided his estate with his brother, or rather with his nephew, for the Solitary refused to have anything to do with wealth. It would be to him, he said, a burden. He was not a pack-horse, to carry loads, though they were made of gold.

With whatever eyes, however, the possession of property might be viewed by George Armstrong, his son, who, within a few months afterwards, was united to Anne Bernard, with even the approbation of her brother, considered the addition thereby made to his income as no disagreeable circumstance. Mr. and Mrs. Pownal, the benefactors of his youth, were present, and the former had the satisfaction of dancing at the wedding. No marriage could be more fortunate. A similarity of taste and feeling and the harmonies of virtue had originally attracted and attached each to the other. Anne had loved Armstrong because she recognized in him her own truthfulness and nobility of spirit, and he her, for her grace and beauty, and that inexpressible charm of sweetness of temper and gaiety of spirit, that, like the sun, diffuses light and animation around. Their career has been like a summer-day. A numerous family of children has sprung from the union, who promise to perpetuate the virtues of their parents. And it is to be hoped, and we believe it to be a fact which the passage of so many years may be considered to have tolerably settled, that the fatal blood-taint of insanity, which had seemed hereditary on the side of one of the parents, has disappeared.

As for the Solitary, who survived his brother many years, he could never be weaned from the mode of life he had adopted. As long as James Armstrong lived, they were frequently together, few days passing without one seeking the other, as if both were striving to make up for their long separation, but yet George Armstrong preferred the rude simplicity of his hut, and his hard couch, to the elegant chamber and yielding bed, nor could he be persuaded to stop more than a night or two at any one time, either at the house of his brother or of his son. The efforts made to change this feeling were soon found to be unavailing, and his commanding temper, as usual, had its way. After the death of his brother, his visits to the village became less frequent, and he was seldom to be met with, except at the house of his son. It was a strange sight to see him, with two or three grand-children on his knees, and playing, perhaps, with one of the little ones, amusing itself with hiding behind the flowing majesty of his long beard. A great part of his time was passed among the Indians living on the banks of the Severn, to the amelioration of whose condition and Christianization he devoted himself to the last. And some insist that he never quite gave up the expectation of the Millennium during his life, for early fishermen, passing his hut before sunrise, are said to have reported that they had seen the Solitary more than once, waiting for the rising sun, and heard his bursts of passionate expectation. An occurrence, too, at his death, which happened at the house of his son, justifies this opinion—when sitting up suddenly in his bed, he stretched out his arms, and exclaiming with a wild energy, "Lord, Thou art faithful and true, for I behold Thy coming," he fell back upon the pillow and expired. From respect to the memory of his father, his son bought the island where the Solitary lived so many years, and having planted it with trees, declares it shall never pass out of the family during his own life, and so long as it can be protected by his will.

Judge Bernard, his wife, the doctor, and the Pownals are gone, and the three former repose with their friends in the romantic burial ground, to which we once before conducted our readers; the two latter in the cemetery of the thronged city, undisturbed by the sounding tread of the multitudes who daily pass their graves.

William Bernard, about the time of the marriage of his sister, made a formal offer of his hand to Faith, but without success. He was refused gently, but so decidedly, that no room was left for hope. But if the enamored young man lost his mistress, he was satisfied there was no rival in the case, and moreover that probably there never would be. So selfish is the human heart, that this reflection mitigated the bitterness of his disappointment. Convinced that the prospect of altering her determination was hopeless, and unable to remain in her presence, he made a voyage to Europe, where he remained five years, and on his return, entered into political life. He has since filled many eminent stations with credit to himself and advantage to the country, and only delicacy restrains us from naming the high position he now occupies, of course under a different name from that we have chosen to give him. But he has never found another being to fill the void in his affections, and remains unmarried, the most graceful and attractive of old bachelors.

And what shall we say of Faith, the pure, the high souled the devoted Faith? As long as her father lived, he continued to be the object of her incessant solicitude. She watched him with a tenderness like that of a mother hovering about her sick infant, devoting her whole life to his service, and when he died, the tears she shed were not those of complaining grief, but of a sad thankfulness. Sad was she that no more in this world should she behold him whom she had ever treasured in her inner heart; thankful that with unclouded reason and resigned trust, he had returned to the Source whence he came. Soon after his death, she joined her uncle in his labors among the Indians, abandoning her home and devoting the whole of her large income to the promotion of their interests. There was much in her character that resembled that of George Armstrong, and notwithstanding the disparity of years, caused each to find an attractive counterpart in the other. There was the same enthusiasm, trespassing from constitutional tendencies, upon the very verge of reason; the same contempt of the world and its allurements; the same reaching forward toward the invisible. Her surpassing beauty, her accomplishments and great wealth, brought many suitors to her feet, but she had a heart for none. She turned a deaf ear to their pleadings, and "in maiden meditation fancy free," pursued her course like the pale moon through heaven. Perhaps the awful shock which she received on the terrible day when the appearance of her uncle saved her life, working on a temperament so exalted, may have contributed to confirm and strengthen what was at first only a tendency, and so decided the character of her life. She died as such gifted beings are wont to do, young, breathing out her delicate soul with a smile, upon the bosom of her faithful friend, Anne Armstrong. A purer spirit, and one better fitted to join the bright array of the blessed, never left the earth, and to those who knew her, it looked dark and desolate when she departed.

We have thus disposed of the principal personages in our drama. It remains to speak of some of those who have borne an inferior part in the scenes.

Esther left, with Quadaquina, for the Western tribes about the time when the boy attained the age of sixteen years, and historical accuracy compels us to admit, that, since their departure, we have lost all traces of them. One would suppose she would have remained with her powerful protectors, but it may be she feared the demoralization around her, to which, in spite of the efforts of the benevolent to the contrary, so many of her fated race fell victims, and preferred to expose Quadaquina to the perils of savage life, rather than to the tender mercies of civilization. We strongly suspect, that her wild creed was never fairly weeded out of her heart.

Primus remained to the end the same cheery, roguish fellow we have seen him, and when he died was buried, as became a revolutionary celebrity, with military honors, which so affected Felix, that, when his turn came—knowing that he was entitled to no such distinction, and, yet loth to pass away unnoticed—he begged Doctor Elmer to write him a "first-rate epithet." The doctor redeemed his promise, by prefacing a panegyric, in English, with the following quotation from Virgil—

Hic jacet FELIX QUI Potuit Rerum cognoscere Causas QUI Que Metus omnes Et inexorabile Fatum Subjecit Pedibus Strepitumque Acherontis avari.

The doctor, on being asked its meaning, one day, by an inquisitive negro, who had, for some time, been rolling the whites of his eyes at the inscription, in a vain attempt to understand it, replied, it meant that Felix was an intelligent and brave fellow, who lived like a wise man, and died like a hero, whereat, his auditor expressed great satisfaction, considering both the Latin and the sentiment a compliment to "colored pussons," generally.

Gladding emigrated to the West, where his stout arm and keen axe did himself and the State good service. After making a fabulous number of "claims," and as many "trades," he found himself, at middle age, the master of a thousand acres of cleared land, with a proper proportion of timber; his log-cabin converted into a brick house, and sons and daughters around him.

We had almost forgotten to speak of the fate of Constable Basset. The good people of Hillsdale soon found out that his talents did not lie in the line he had adopted, and, at the next election, chose another in his place. Thereupon, not discouraged, he turned his hand, with national facility, to something else—following, successively, the business of a small grocer, of a tavern keeper, and of an auctioneer. Somehow or other, however, ill luck still followed him; and, finally, he took to distributing the village newspaper, and sticking up handbills. This gave him a taste for politics, and having acquired, in his employment as auctioneer, a certain fluency of speech, he cultivated it to that degree—in town meetings and on other public occasions—that, in the end, there was not a man in the whole county who could talk longer and say less. His fellow-citizens observing this congressional qualification, and not knowing what else he was fit for, have just elected him to Congress, partly because of this accomplishment, and, partly, on account of his patriotic dislike of "furriners," a sentiment which happens now to be popular. Both his friends and enemies agree that he is destined to make a figure there; and Mr. Thomas Armstrong—in compensation, perhaps, for a youthful trick—has promised the Member of Congress a new hat and full suit of black broadcloth, to enable him to appear in proper style on Pennsylvania Avenue.



THE END