Night came slowly down upon the wintry scene, as the travellers,
turning from the road, entered the narrow lane, which led toward the
wood-hidden stream.

It was a winter evening, sad and beautiful as a pure angel, looking
from heaven upon the crimes and agonies of Man.

Do you behold the scene?

Come—by this oaken tree, which stands beside the rude fence, built of
intermingled timber and stone—we will stand and gaze upon the valley,
bathed in the tender solemnity of winter twilight.

There is snow upon these hills; a white mantle glitters like a shining
shroud over the valley. The western sky is one soft mass of purple and
gold; it glows as with the last impassioned kiss of day. And up, into
that sky, so pure, so transparent and serene, the leafless trees raise their
dark branches.

Not a cloud in the dome, nothing to mar that vast expanse of blue,
blushing into gold. The very air is full of rest, a deep repose, scarcely
broken by a slight breeze—so keen, so bitter cold—which seems to skim
over the frozen snow, and hover near it, as it scatters the shining particles
in the light of the darkening day.

The lane leads through the valley, winding along the ridge, above the
frozen streamlet in the east. And above that frozen streamlet, on the
knoll which towers in the east, the dark grey walls of a cluster of buildings,
grow crimson in the flush of the western sky. Look upon them—
are they not beautiful? A rugged farm-house, seen through the branches
of some leafless trees; a mill, built of huge logs, with the icicles glittering
like diamonds on its motionless wheel; a corn-crib with the golden
ears peeping from its snow-white bars.

This is the view toward the east, but in the north, the course of the
lane is lost to view, amid the dark mass of rocks and woods. Do not
turn your eye from these rocks and woods, nor pass them by as devoid
of interest, for they shelter the Wissahikon.

They shroud from your sight that stream, which bears the name of a
love-maddened Indian girl, who buried her love and her wrongs in its
clear waters. By those strange waters we will discover the scenes—the
men and the women—of this, our Solemn History.

[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]

For it is a solemn history, telling in every page of the strong agonies
of love, fanaticism and madness; now gliding in the solemn chambers,
where a secret brotherhood celebrate their rites, and passing again into
the cheerful glow of an olden time fire-side. Think not that it is a history
of my own production. Think not that I have but sat me down,
on this drear winter night, to tell an idle romance, to coin a marvellous
fable—no! I but write again the dark story which is already written, on
many a dusky and blotted page—dusky with age, and blotted with tears.

I am but the translator of that dread story, which has been recorded
in mystic ciphers, for seventy years. It is my task to give the ciphers,
which look so unmeaning and sometimes appear so grotesque, the tongue
and language of every-day life. And when the shadows of this history
gloom terribly before you, and its phantoms rouse wild and contending emotions
in your hearts, and the words which fall from their weird lips, sound
in your ears like the words of the dead, do not too harshly blame, I beseech
you, the wizard craft of the author, who has only invoked—not created—
these Ghosts of the Past.

Along this valley, at the hour of sunset, on the last day of the year of
our Lord, 1774, two travellers took their way. As their footsteps broke
the frozen snow, their faces were bathed in the mild light of the winter
evening.

It needed no second glance to tell you the relation which these way-farers
bore to each other. They were Master and Servant.

It is true you gained no knowledge of this fact, from survey of their
garb. They were attired alike in the costume of humble toil.

The youngest of the two, not more than twenty years in age, was at
least six feet in stature. His step was firm and graceful; his coarse garb
could not hide the muscular beauty of his chest, nor altogether veil the
round proportions of his sinewy limbs. From his cap of coarse grey fur,
waving masses of light brown hair floated in the light. His complexion
was light, sanguine, almost florid, and his features firm and regular in
their well-defined outlines. As he turned to the western sky, you might
discern the colour of his eyes by the fading light. They were clear,
large and brilliant, and in color, trembled between a deep azure and midnight
black.

As he walked along the narrow lane—clad in a coat of coarse grey
cloth reaching to the knees and buttoned to the throat—his manly figure
cast its distinct shadow far over the mantle of glittering snow.

The elder wayfarer presented a strange contrast to his young and handsome
companion, or, to speak more correctly, his Master. There was
something intensely ludicrous in his look, his gait, the outline of his form,
the very twinkle of his small black eyes.

That outline, described on the frozen snow, was in itself a grotesque

[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]

picture. Imagine a round paunch, supported by long and spider-like legs;
arms whose excessive length is only matched by their intense want of
flesh; hands huge and bony; high shoulders, surmounted by a small face,
red as a cherry, round as an apple, with a wide mouth, small nose, and
diminutive eyes, shining like flame-sparks amid laughing wrinkles.

This was the servant, clad like his master, wearing the same garb, a fur
cap precisely similar, and yet presenting in every outline a contrast so
laughable. To complete the picture, you must not permit a single lock
of hair to wander from beneath that cap. No! The grey fur is drawn
tightly over the forehead, while beneath it—like a beacon—shines the
red, round face.

In the calm silence of that winter evening they journeyed on, their
faces bathed in the same mellow light, their long shadows trembling over
the snow. The red-faced servant beguiled the way, with many singular
substitutes for conversation, but dared not speak. His master had forbidden
him to unclose his enormous mouth. Therefore, while the young
man, with a stout oaken staff in hand, strode steadily on, his eyes fixed
upon the ground, a sombre thought stealing over his face—the servant
amused himself by a sort of dumb show, that gave a deeper grotesqueness
to his round face and spider-like form. He walked like a man afflicted
with a distressing lameness; he inflated his round cheeks, until they seemed
ready to burst; he rolled his eyes in their sockets, and distorted his mouth,
until his face resembled a frog in the agonies of a galvanic spasm; and
last of all, placing one hand on his hip, and twisting one leg into a serpentine
shape, he advanced with the graceful gait of a belated Muscovy
duck. Still the young Master did not pay the least attention to his antics,
nor suffer his eyes to wander to the ridiculous mimic who limped at his side.

Presently they stand on the verge of yonder bridge of dark stone,
which spans the narrow streamlet. Two roads meet beside the bridge;
one, the continuation of the lane, winds around yonder cluster of cottages
and skirts the mill-dam, which, framed in woods, sparkles before us. The
other road, a narrow path, rough with deep ruts, and scarcely wide enough
for the passage of two horses, when journeying abreast, leads over the
little stone bridge, and is lost to view on yonder hill-top, among the ever-green
pines.

“Which road, John—” said the servant, venturing at last to break the
silence, and laying a strange emphasis on the Italicized word.

“Over the bridge, and up among the pines. It is the nearest to the
farm-house.”

They crossed the bridge and rapidly approached the shadows. In a
moment they will have passed from the soft glow of the twilight into
the darkness of the hill-side, where the pines, almost touching from either
side, and depending from the high banks, enclosed the road as in two
high and almost contiguous walls.

[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]

“We are near the Wissahikon, Jacob—” the young master began.

“Jacopo, if you please,” whispered the servant, with a peculiar contortion;
“In Italy we were called Jacopo—Jacopo, you remember! Hang
Jacob. It's low, and smells like a greasy penny. Jacopo has a silvery
sound.”

“We are near the Wissahikon, Jacopo. Near the farm-house—you
understand? What course do you advise? In a few moments we will
be there—”

The young man hesitated, as though afraid to trust his voice with the
thought of his heart. He cast his eyes along the dark and narrow pass,
and seemed to feel the silence and shadow that brooded in those thick
pines, among those grey rocks. In that gloom, even the cherry-ripe face
of Jacob, or Jacopo, as the reader pleases, grew sad, and his beacon-like
nose lost its freshness.

“What course? Can it be possible that you ask me? A beautiful
pair of ankles, a fine bust, an eye like a star after a shower, and a cheek
like a peach with the sun shining on its ripest side—Bah! What have
you been doing for this month back? In Italy—Corpo di Bacco!
(Fine oath that!)—we managed these things much better—”

“Come to the point, Jacopo,” and the master touched the servant
with his oaken staff.

“I'm coming. Give me time. Here you have been for a whole
month, wasting your time in toying with this forest damsel, when—”

The pass grew darker. Some few paces ahead, a belt of light broke
through an aperture among the trees, and glowed brightly upon the summit
of a solitary rock.

“When?” echoed the young master, laying his hand upon his servant's
arm.

Jacopo halted; the strange expression of his small black eye,—that
leer, half-comical, half-satanic—were visible even in the gloom.

“When a few grains of white powder, quietly mixed in a cup of
wine, would do the work of a whole year of boyish courtship—”

“What mean you?” The voice of John sounded deep and hollow
through the silence of the pass.

“You remember Florence? She was a proud lady that—but—
Pshaw! You know how it happened, when we were in Italy. And
this is but a Peasant Girl!”

These incoherent words and broken hints had a powerful effect upon
the young man. You see his nether lip move tremulously; his bright
eye grow brighter, his broad chest heave like a wave.

“That was a proud lady, Jacopo, who first loved, then scorned me—”
he gasped. “But Medeline—”

“`But Madeline,”' mimicked the servant, speaking in a dolorous nasal
tone—“A peasant girl. Lives on this out-of-the-way stream they call

[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]

Wissahikon—or Wiskeysikeen—or some such name. We come from
Philadelphia, disguised as a merchant's clerk. We visit the farm-house,
meet the little girl in the woods, and talk romance by the dozen. We—
that is you, Mister John—spend our time, in saying soft nonsense, when
we should trap the little bird, and cage it, without a moment's delay.
Bah! I'm ashamed of you, John. We managed these things much better
in Italy.”

As he spoke, a strange vision broke upon the wayfarers' eyes. They
started back—stood spell-bound with involuntary terror.

They had reached the rock, over whose rugged brow broke the last
glow of the winter's day. It stood alone, a bright thing among the dark
pines, its crest shining like gold.

On that crest arose a shapeless and uncouth figure. Was it a man, or
some strange beast, perched before them on the summit of the lonely
rock? It rose before them, a stunted figure, with arms folded over its
broad chest, an uncouth hump rising above its shoulders, long hair and
beard, waving black and straight in the winter wind. Two eyes, bright
as flaming coals, glared from that hideous, half-human visage, with
waving hair above, and streaming beard below.

The travellers saw those thin lips move, they felt the vivid light of
those eyes, and between them and the light, right across their path, a
long arm, with bony fingers, was extended.

“Go back!” a voice was heard speaking through the intense silence
which had fallen upon the pass—“Go back! Heir of a noble house—
last man of an illustrious race—I stand in your path, and warn ye back
from this soil. Back, I say, and never let your footsteps press this sod
again. There is danger for you here. That word Wissahikon means
death and judgment to your race. Even now, in England your father
prays for the safe return of his son—and here you come to plot the ruin
of an innocent woman, and grasp your death over her dishonored corse!”

The echo of that hollow voice died away; the travellers looked up;
the rock was there, glowing in the light, but the uncouth shape had vanished
like a dream.

It is plainly to be seen, even through the gathering gloom of the hill-side
pass, that these words of omen, uttered by the apparition, which appeared
for a moment only, on the crest of the rock, had their own effect—
strange and deadening—upon the minds of the wayfarers.

Jacopo sank on his knees, and began to pray in four or five languages.
Having exhausted the calendar of Catholic saints, implored the assistance
of Martin Luther, and other reformers, he concluded with the emphatic
ejaculation—

“Devil help me! We didn't see any thing like this in Italy!”

John tottered forward, and leaned against the rock, while the cold dew
stood on his forehead.

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

“Here it stood—that horrible phantom—” he madly pressed the cold
rock with his hands—“Here—and warned me back—”

The words died on his lips. Something there was in the gathering
night of that forest to impress his heart with awe; but even yet, he saw
it, distinctly pictured in the twilight air, that phantom of a deformed man,
with the face of a human being, the cold lustrous eyes of a fiend.

“Come, Jacopo,” he faltered, “we will go back! This is an unholy
adventure. Up, man! Do you not see, that the very Devil warns us to
retrace our steps!”

Jacopo, still on his knees, glanced about him, with a nervous fear.

“Let us forward to the farm-house. The night is cold as Iceland, and
we'll freeze to death. Come, my lord—”

“Fool! Dare you breathe that title in these woods? Have I not
commanded you? Remember, knave—” he finished the sentence by a
hearty admonition, administered on the cheek, with the palm of his hand.

Then, as if ashamed of his recent emotion, he led the way through the
darkness—

“Come! I am going to the farm-house. Madeline awaits me!”

Followed by his trembling servant, the young man urged his way
over the snow, and among the withered leaves, while above, the thickly
clustering pines extended their canopy, blacker than the midnight without
a star.

Soon emerging from the shadows, they stood upon the verge of a hill,
with the sublime panorama of the twilight hour spread before them.
Above, that cloudless dome, deepening every moment into a more intense
azure. Beneath, a wide waste of woods, stretched grey and dark under
the twilight sky. And over that vague mass, just where it touched the
horizon, far in the west, hung a solitary star, glittering in lonely glory,
through the silent universe.

A low, musical murmur sounded through the night. It came through
the woods, echoing from the shadows which no eye might penetrate. It
was the voice of an impetuous rivulet, forcing its way among the rocks
of ice and rocks of granite. It was the Wissahikon.

Through the leafless trees, came one long and trembling ray of light,
shining like a golden arrow over the frozen snow.

“It is the farm-house!” cried Jacopo, twirling his arms in grotesque
delight—“That's something like! Ah! I smell the good things already—
I see the fire—that hearty, good-humored fire—I inhale the incense of
the sausages! Come, John, let us forward!”

Winding along a foot-path, that led through the valley, over a frozen
brooklet, and up the opposite hill, they soon came in sight of the farm-house.

It was a massive edifice, built of alternate logs and stone, two stories in
height, with a steep roof and some five chimneys, of which the largest,
sent into the sky a rolling mass of smoke. It was a quaint structure

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altogether, the windows narrow and low, the porch before the door, fashioned
of rough cedar, the steep roof cumbered with many rude ornaments along
the projecting eaves.

It stood—singular as it may seem—in the lowest part of a circular
hollow, which seemed to have been scooped out from the surrounding
woods.

On one side the portly barn, looking, for all the world, like a rich and
self-complacent citizen retired from the business of active life, and given
up at once to meditation and corpulence. On the other side arose a giant
horse-chesnut tree, with ponderous trunk and many and far-reaching
branches. Near the barn, on one side of the enclosures of the cattle-yard,
the corn-crib was seen, packed to bursting with the ears of golden maize.

Along the lane, which led to the farm-house door, a line of vehicles
was discernible, with the horses attached to them, carefully tied to the
rail fence. Vehicles of every shape and pattern, from the massive farmer's
wagon, whose sides had often groaned under the heavy load of corn
and hay, to the quaint gig—sulky or calash—which shall we call it?—
that wonderful affair, with a top like a Monk's cowl, and a seat perched
high on springs, in which the village Doctor made his circuit among the
sick and suffering of the country-side.

From afar, the light of the fireside flashed through the farm-house windows,
out upon the starlight night. An air of Sabbath repose imbued the
scene,—yet hold! strains of music break on the silence, music from an
old fiddle, in the hands of the blind Negro in the chimney corner. There
is a festival in the farm-house to-night. From far and near the country
people have come, to sing and dance and drink together, and send the old
year to his grave, with a chorus of boisterous joy.

In the summer-time, this farm-house is a pleasant sight to look upon.

Say, in the month of June, when the air seems like a breeze from Paradise,
and the Wissahikon goes singing on, among the trees that dip into
it, among the oaks that shadow it, among the flowers that tremble above
it, ready to fall and bless its waters with their white bosoms—say, in the
month of June, have you ever seen the farm-house, framed in the drapery
of leaves and blossoms?

The horse-chesnut stretches forth its arms, clothed with broad leaves—
deep and rich in their virgin green—and shelters the steep roof, scattering,
all the while, its snowy blossoms around the porch below.

There is a wild honeysuckle trailing over the dark timbers of the porch,
and the very lane, leading from the woods to the door, is enclosed in its
green hedges, two winding walls of leaves and buds and flowers. Then
the roof of the barn stands boldly out from the background of the forest,
and the fields around, tufted with grass, spread their carpet in the smile
of the summer sky—that sky, which only wears a deeper blue, when
the clouds sweep over it, unfolding their bosoms to the sun.

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Thus, in summer-time, smiles the quaint farm-house, a dark image
framed in freshness and verdure.

But now that dark image only looks more dark and dreary, as the gloom
of its walls is contrasted with the roof, covered with snow. The fields
around are white—look! how the rays of the fireside go sparkling and
shining over the white mantle which veils the sod, and shields beneath it
the hidden seeds of spring.

The horse-chesnut springs with leafless branches into the blue heaven,
marking each rugged limb and little branch, in black distinctness, on the
clear azure. Winter is on the scene, and the woods which encircle the
farm-house and its white fields are black and desolate.

At the end of the lane, our travellers stood, gazing in silence upon the
prospect.

The young man, with his hands clasped on his staff, his head slightly
bowed, fixed his dilating eyes upon the lighted windows of the forest
home. He was silent; but even in the dim starlight, you might have
seen his broad chest swell, his brilliant eye grow wild with a more intense
brightness.

“Only a month since first I saw this home in the wilderness?” he
murmured, and was silent again.

Only a month! And yet a great many thoughts may start into deeds
in a month. Only a month! It is but a little while, the humble twelfth
of the long year, and yet, in a month, only a month, battles may be lost
and won, nations hurled from masters into slaves, and bosoms that pant
beneath silk and velvet, may become cold and still under grass and sod.
Only a month! And yet, in a month, the heart of a pure virgin may be
robbed of its bloom; her form, the shrine of a love at once passionate and
pure, become the monument of her dishonor.

“How the image of this wild forest girl has twined itself about the
chords of my heart! She is innocent—she trusts in me—she is pure!
To-morrow—”

It is a terrible word, that to-morrow. It is murmured alike by the convict,
taking his last sleep in the doomed cell, and by the woman, who,
surrendering her purity into the arms of shame, shrieks it fearfully amid
the frenzies of her guilty love.

To-morrow! Look upon the lip of the young traveller, curving in a
smile; read his dilating eye, warming with a wild yet voluptuous light,
and tell me what means that smile, that look? A fearful “to-morrow”
for the wild forest girl!

The voice of Jacopo was heard:

“I would suggest in the most delicate manner in the world, my Lor—
that is, Mister John—and without the least desire to appear obtrusive,
that there are two of us here, one of whom—not being delighted with stars
or forest girls—stands a dev'lish fine chance of being frozen to death.

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

Look at me, John! Did you ever see a human icicle before? Ah, it is
very well to smile, but all the blood in my thin legs has rushed into my
head, and from my head into my nose—Did you ever see a nose like
that before?”

He placed a long and skinny finger against that intense carbuncle which
formed the tip of his nose, and looked at his master with a sidelong leer.

“Come,” said John, with an involuntary smile, “let us hasten to the
farm-house. Madeline awaits me.”

As he hurried along the lane, Jacopo crept closer to his side, and taking
the arm of his master within his own, whispered these jocular words:

“Music yonder, John,—d'ye hear it? Supper too—Ah! One can
smell that! And—d'ye remember—if the girl is willing, why—you have
an elegant house in Philadelphia, which may be her home before morning.
If she refuses—is obstinate, or stupid—why, trust the matter to me.
`A few grains of white powder, properly prepared,' saith an ancient Philosopher,
`conveyed into the drinking-cup of an innocent maiden, will—'
D'ye hear the fiddle, John?”