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Although Charles's frame had need enough of
repose, his mind had too many objects of contemplation
to dwell upon after he had retired for the
night, to permit him for a long time to enjoy it.
There was one object, in particular, that soon swallowed
up the rest, and engrossed every faculty of
his mind, and every feeling of his heart, so entirely
that he neither thought, nor wished to think, of
any other. What was this object? Was it the
sudden and enthusiastic friendship of his good
host and hostess, and the singular and unexpected
state of domestic comfort in which he found them?
No. Was it the extraordinary and almost super-human
character and conduct of the benevolent
Tonnalenka? No. Was it his own miraculous
deliverance from an apparently inevitable fate?
No. Was it the unfortunate issue of the expedition
he had commanded? No. Was it the persecution
and perils he was likely to sustain from the
inveterate malignancy of Carrawoona? No. It
was something that had a more immediate, more
uncontrollable influence over his thoughts and feelings
than all these put together: the sagacious reader
will, no doubt, have anticipated me in saying, that

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

the loveliness of Maria Frazier was this object.
Not her personal beauty, which he thought he
had never seen equalled; not the sweet intonation,
enchanting melody, and almost overpowering
pathos of her voice and manner, when she
sung; not the interesting manifestations of feeling
and embarrassment in her first reception of
him; not the wisdom, propriety, and refinement
of her whole deportment and conversation; not
the kind and generous disposition displayed in her
defence of her sister; not one of these, perhaps,
singly and by itself, would have been capable of
producing the intense impression that was now
made by her image upon his feelings, and to the
influence of which, as he lay meditating upon her,
he totally resigned his whole faculties. It was the
happy union of all these excellences, which he
perceived so strikingly combined in one captivating
individual, and that too in a Wilderness, amidst
savages, where, of all places in the world, he least
expected to meet with such a being, that now
overpowered and absorbed his whole fancy, feelings,
and reflections, his whole desire, his whole
heart and soul—in short, that had thrown him desperately
and incurably into love, as fervent and
rapturous as ever man felt.

It was to the enchantment of this wonderful, this
all-subduing passion, that his mind alluded, but
which his words dared not express, when he informed
Paddy that he had experienced a happiness
since he arrived in the “Wilderness,” sufficiently
remunerative of all the evils he had undergone;
and he now blessed that Providence which had
conducted his steps, even though it had been
through danger and bloodshed, to the abode of so
much beauty and excellence.

“With such a woman for my wife, my life
would, indeed, be one of happiness; but without

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her, alas! it must be one of misery!” he would
frequently say to himself during this night's meditations.
The difficulty of obtaining her would, it
is true, sometimes occur to him, and torment him.
His father might forbid, or she herself might resist
his addresses. But he was young and sanguine,
and could not but believe that he had some grounds
on which to hope for success. With respect to his
father, the only objection could be her want of fortune.
But, did he not himself choose a wife without
regard to fortune? It would, therefore, be with
a very bad grace that he should condemn him for
following his example. His example, however, he
was determined to follow, provided he could only
obtain the fair one's consent. Of this, although
he might have hopes, he could have no certainty.
It was not indeed probable that her affections could
be engaged. She was yet very young, and, except
the Indian traders, to none of whom it was
likely that she could become attached, there was
no white man, he had reason to presume, had ever
seen, much less solicited this captivating daughter
of the Wilderness.

“Shall I declare myself?” thought he. “Shall
I tell her how much I love her! how I cannot be
happy without her? Shall I do so to-morrow?
Ah! I fear it would be imprudent. I am yet too
much a stranger to her. Such precipitancy might
alarm her delicacy, and rouse her pride to oppose
me. I must act with caution, if I mean to gain
such excellence. Her understanding must be convinced,
that I am not unworthy of her. Oh! if I
could only gain some interest in her heart. But
time, and time only, can effect these things. I
must have patience! I wish Tonnaleuka were
here. I will tell him how I feel. His wisdom will
advise me how to act; and perhaps his friendship
may successfully plead for me, if my own suit be

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rejected; for she reveres him as a father, and will
attend to his counsel. I will wait the coming of
Tonnaleuka.”

With this resolution, whether wise or foolish the
reader may decide, formed in his mind, after about
three hours active meditation, Charles at last resigned
himself to sleep, in which he spent about
three hours more, very deliciously dreaming of
Maria, love, and happiness.

Some of our sympathizing readers will, perhaps,
wish to know how Maria felt on this eventful night,
towards by far the most interesting young man she
had ever seen, and upon whose heart her charms
had made such an indelible impression. But as I
never considered it proper to inquire minutely into
the feelings of young ladies on such occasions, I
cannot give the exact chain of thoughts that passed
through her mind, although I have ascertained
that their tenor was even something more than favourable
towards Charles.

“And was it this noble youth,” she would say
to herself, “that the hard-hearted savages were
about committing to the flames? Oh, happy Tonnaleuka!
I shall love you, I shall revere you more
than I ever yet did, since you were the blessed instrument,
in the hands of God, to save him. Oh!
may heaven still grant him protection from that
barbarous enemy, who seeks his destruction!—
Ah! if he were destroyed now, in the bloom and
fervour of youth, what an ornament to his species
would be cut off from the world!”

But, as I have already said, I know not the exact
chain of Maria's reflections on this occasion, I shall
not, therefore, follow them further. I have given a
few of them only, to show the temper and feeling
with which they were conceived, not the form or
manner in which they arose. But I have another
view in refraining to detail Maria's thoughts on

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the first night that she beheld her lover, even if I
could do it in a regular and connected series, which
is, my wish to acquire the reader's favour, by leaving
him something on which to exercise his own
imagination.

The whole of the ensuing day was spent by
Charles Adderly, in the manner of all others the
most delightful to a youthful lover, in looking at
and listening to the mistress of his heart. It was
a day altogether unchequered by any incident of
importance enough to claim a place in this narrative.
It passed on in the calm enjoyment of domestic
and social happiness; or, if it be thought
that the happiness derived by Charles from the
presence of his Maria, was something different,
perhaps superior, to this, then the appellation of
enamoured felicity may suit it better. In beholding
and conversing with Maria, the world and all
its concerns were forgotten, or only so far remembered
as to occasion a comparison which added a
higher relish to his present happiness. If, during
the preceding evening, the chains of love were
prepared and thrown around his heart, they were
now riveted there, never to be taken off; and so
delighted was he with these chains, that he would
not have exchanged them for king George's crown.
Although he was afraid to excite her displeasure
by a premature disclosure of his feelings, and had
also resolved to consult Tonnaleuka, whom he
knew to be her friend, on the subject, before he
disclosed them, yet, during this day, several tempting
occasions offered, when, forgetting his resolution,
he, by the warmth and energy of his expressions
and manner, permitted the state of his mind
to be almost as well known to her, as if he had
made a formal declaration.

Towards the after part of the following day,
however, as he walked along the bank of the river

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in company with his beloved and her sister, his
feelings so plainly betrayed themselves, as to leave
Maria no room to doubt concerning them. It was
a beautiful afternoon, in that most delightful of all
seasons on the American continent, characteristically
called the “Indian Summer.” The atmosphere
was in a sweet, mellow temperature, equally
free from summer's heat and winter's cold. A
soft, waving species of fog encircled the brows of
the hills and the tops of the trees, but in such a
manner as rather to enliven than conceal them,
and to throw over them an air of romantic wildness
and grandeur. The trees of the forest were
indeed in the season of decay, and shedding their
wasted verdure profusely around them, allowing
it to be scattered abroad, and to cover every path,
and all the surface of the ground, with a variegated
bed of red, brown, and yellow leaves, which
moved to and fro, and sparkled to the view, with
every impulse of the passing wind. Yet, in this
very decay, there was a serene and composing influence,
which, while it reminded the spectator
of nature's great and awful change, at the same
time assured him of a prosperous and happy renovation
of his original and uncorrupted condition.

“Is it not strange,” said Charles, “that this decay,
this disorder of nature, which we now behold,
and which reminds us so forcibly of the great
change we must all undergo, should, instead of inspiring
us with melancholy and desponding ideas,
animate us with feelings of the most welcome and
agreeable description, and produce a contentment
and cordiality of existence, which neither the
freshness of spring nor the bloom of summer can
effect?”

“Tonnaleuka has often explained to me,” replied
Maria, “the source whence the feelings we
derive from external nature arise. But in the

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civilized world, you must have had opportunities
of becoming better acquainted with these things
than a child of the forest. It would, therefore,
be presumption in me to offer you Tonnaleuka's
explanation of the feelings you mention.”

“In the civilized world, as you are pleased to
call it,” said Charles, “there are many appearances
of nature which cannot be studied so well
as in the desert; and such of the sons of the forest
as have inquiring minds, frequently discover
truths for which the drudges of science often
search in vain. I doubt not, but the most learned
of our philosophers would find Tonnaleuka capable
of teaching them many things, especially on
abstract and metaphysical subjects, which require
not the proof of experiment, but only the suggestions
of nature, for their elucidation. As for myself,
I will always be proud to learn from Tonnaleuka,
and always delighted, ah! more than delighted,
to receive his lessons from you.”

“It may be so, sir,” replied Maria; “since you
say it, I must believe it. But in this instance, as
I am convinced you will be more benefited by
getting your lesson from its original source, I will
not deprive you of that benefit, by communicating
it at second hand.”

“Forgive me, Maria,” said Charles, somewhat
startled at this reply, “if my asserting the truth
has given offence. Believe me, I spoke seriously,
and not with the least view to compliment, when
I mentioned the delight your communicating Tonnaleuka's
doctrines would give me.”

“You mistake me, sir,” replied Maria; “you
have given no offence. But do you suppose I
shall be so presumptuous as to turn your instructor?
What a reflection it would be upon the learned
professors of Dublin college, if a simple girl,
born and bred in the wilds of America, should

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be found teaching a pupil upon whom they, no
doubt, expended all their lore!”

“I beg you, for mercy,” said Charles, “be not
so severe with me. What those men taught me,
might be of service to me in the ranks of society;
but here, I acknowledge—here, in the midst of
sublime and beautiful nature, it sinks into insignificance;—
and here, heaven knows, I feel happier,
and would be more content to spend my whole
life as I now do, than in the midst and in possession
of all the pleasures and all the honours that
society could afford me.”

“Sir,” said Maria, “I believe all you say; for
even in these wilds, I have learned that it is uncivil
to disbelieve any one. But I may venture to
express my surprise, that the social life should be
so very disagreeable as to induce you to give these
barbarous woods such a vast preference. Neither
Tonnaleuka, who for several years lived in society,
nor my father, nor my mother, who were bred
up in it, and who have this many a year fretted
almost to broken-heartedness to return to it, have
ever described it to me as so very disagreeable
and hateful as your language would infer.”

“I mean not to say,” replied Charles, “that
society is destitute of its charms and enjoyments.
It has many, and those too, powerfully alluring.
But to me, all its charms are inferior to the charms
I have here beheld—all its enjoyments are insipid,
to those I have, within these last two days, experienced.
Ah, Maria! I do not undervalue the
joys of society—but I value more highly, because
I feel far more acutely, those I have felt here!”

“I am glad that Mr. Adderly is so happy with
us,” observed Nancy; “but I cannot guess what
has made him so. It surely cannot be the bonny
blue mist that's now around us, curling over the

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tops of the trees like smoke rising from the burning
of brushwood.”

“No,” said Maria, smiling, “I think not; neitheir
our fogs, nor our withered leaves, nor any
other feature of our landscape, nor yet the gentle
reception that our native tribes have given him,
could have been the strangely attractive cause that
has bound his fancy so strongly to these uncultured
wilds. I rather imagine that Mr. Adderly is subject
to a certain complaint, with which I have
heard Tonnaleuka say that young travellers and
young poets were often afflicted. He called it
the hyperbole, which, he said, in English means
`overstraining.' Not, Mr. Adderly,” said Maria,
somewhat raising her voice, to check an effort
which Charles was here making to speak, at the
same time sweetly smiling in his face, so as to
keep him in good humour; “not, Mr. Adderly,
that you have wilfully, or even knowingly, fallen
into this disease. Your judgment and your candour,
I believe, are sound; but your imagination—
I beg your pardon, sir, I say nothing about it.”

“Ah! tantalizing girl!” said he, not knowing
whether he ought to be pleased or displeased with
her observations; “tell me whether you really
think me mad, for you half seem to do so—or are
you only bentering me?”

“Think you mad!” repeated Maria—“Why, I
admit it is likely enough. But then, if you were
mad, it might be dangerous to tell you so, and still
more dangerous to banter you. No, no; I shall
never banter a madman, unless I first become mad
myself. But, in sober earnestness, sir, I do not
think you mad—I only think you wild. But, perhaps
it is customary for you civilized gentlemen
to be so.”

“I beg a truce,” cried Charles; “for really if
I have offended by expressing the sense I have of

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my present happiness, I have surely been chastised
enough. But no,” he added; “even this
chastisement is happiness.”

“What,” said Maria, “Hyperbole again! But
I see you are incurable, sir. I will have done with
you, and leave you to your malady. So let us return
home, if you please.”

They according turned towards the house, when
Nancy observing some cattle at a short distance in
the woods, which she wished to drive homewards,
ran after them, and left Charles alone with his beloved.

“Alas! Maria, said he, as soon as their companion
was out of hearing, “the true cause of my
happiness here—oh! would to heaven that you
knew it, and approved of it!”

“Mr. Adderly,” she replied, in a tone and manner
which had become suddenly serious and embarrassed,
“what, what good would my knowledge
of that circumstance do you? If it will do you
good, let me hear it, for I will rejoice to serve
you. But if you are happy, as you say, already,
is it not enough? Be content and continue so.—
My knowledge of your concerns, or my interference
with them, can surely, for my power is exceedingly
limited, do you no good.”

“Yes—you—my Maria!” he cried, rather instinctively
than rationally—“you alone, of all the
world, have the greatest control over my fate—
you alone have—”

“Sir,” said she, interrupting him, “this is
mysterious language. How I can in any manner
control your fate, I do not understand, nor do I
wish, at the present time to be informed. Mysteries
and secrets have never been pleasing to me,
and to become acquainted with yours now, is what
I will not, with my own consent. I am persuaded
that while it might do me harm, it could do you

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no good; and now, when I think of it properly, I
desire you to let me remain in ignorance concerning
your affairs.”

“Ah! Maria,” said he, “why put this cruel
injunction upon me. But it is your wish, and I
shall obey it.”

They here walked for sometime in silence, during
which, Charles's manner betrayed great agitation.
Maria afraid that this might continue after
their arrival at the house, and be observed by
some of the family, stopped at a short distance
from it, and said—

“Mr. Adderly, I wish what has occurred between
us this evening, not to alter our bearing towards
each other, nor to interrupt whatever degree
of friendship may have existed between us.
I assure you I have not changed my opinion of
you, be that opinion what it might, nor will I
change my manners towards you, unless a change
becomes perceptible on your part.”

“Maria! Maria!” said Charles, looking seriously
and affectingly at her, while he laid his hand
upon his heart, “I here seriously promise, that
whatever may be your wishes, only let me know
them, and I shall obey them—for obedience to you
is, and ever shall be, my chief happiness.”

Maria blushed deeply, for she could not now
avoid comprehending his meaning, but she said
nothing, and continuing their walk, they soon arrived
at the house.