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When we left the room, after the missionary,
who had gone up stairs, I heard Adam order his
horse. I asked him if he was going to town.

“No,” said he, “a black boy has come over to
say, that Mr. Jones, who has been ill for some
time, is worse. The missionary is going to see
him to-night, and I think I ought to accompany
him, and not leave him to the guidance of the
negro.”

In a few moments the good old man came out,
the horses were brought, and they departed together.
It was after midnight when he and Adam
returned. They reported that Jones died about
an hour after they arrived.

The next day we all proceeded together to the
camp-meeting. I was surprised when Adam again
expressed his determination to attend. We all
rode on horseback. My friend Harry, and I, by
the side of the gentle Jane, and Adam —it was a
little singular—on one side of the missionary, and
his father on the other. The suspicion crossed
my mind more than once, that he was meditating
some mad prank or other.

“No,” thought I, “it cannot be, after such an

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occurrence as has just happened, and in the presence
of his father and the clergyman.”

The morning was beautiful. Not a cloud appeared
in the heavens, although the early warmth
threatened a noon of sultriness. We rode up
the turnpike about a mile, and then struck off
into what was called an “old field,” an uninclosed
place, where tobacco had been tilled, until the soil
was exhausted. This was bounded on one side by
a deep ravine, which was bridged over, in which
flowed a stream called Mad Run. A comparatively
slight rain would swell it to a great depth
and wideness, owing to the fact that the country
immediately around its source, and for a long way
beside it, was very hilly, and fed it, particularly
during a rain, with innumerable torrents. As we
were crossing the bridge, I could not but observe
that it was a very slight one, and I lingered behind
my companions, to admire the wild channel,
which the perpetual wear of the waters had made
through the very hills. About twelve or fifteen
feet below the bridge, the waters splashed over a
rocky bed, and, chafed like human beings by resistance,
rushed on like them to the goal.

A pleasant ride over hill and dale, from this
spot, brought us to a place where a hill, covered
with the highest and most luxurious trees, gently
sloped down a crystal brook that wound round its
base, and then meandered on to the Mad Run.

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On the side of the hill was the camp-meeting.
Curving up from the brook, the tents were pitched
in the form of a half moon, extending about half-way
up the side of the hill. Midway, between
the extreme tents, under the clump of noble trees,
a temporary pulpit, or rostrum, was erected, from
which the preacher addressed the multitude.

The missionary preached, and most movingly.
As I glanced at a group of fashionable loiterers,
who had been sauntering through the camp, with
easy indifference, uttering witless jests upon the
scene, listening to him with attention, I thought
of the line of the poet:—

“And fools who came to scoff, remained to pray.”

He spoke of the sustained contentment of the
good man, amid all the ills of life, because of the
heavenward hope, and contrasted his feelings with
that of the wrong-doer, who, however well situated,
in a worldly point of view, doubts and yet fears
the great results beyond the grave. In speaking
of the immortality of the soul, and the shrinking
which it feels on leaving its earthly tenement, he
employed an illustration which it strikes me I
have heard before, but certainly never so impressively
expressed.

He compared the soul, about to take its upward
flight, to an eagle, which, after long confinement,
finds its prison-door open. “How fearfully,” he

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said, in a faint voice—and he seemed to fear to
raise his hand above the pulpit—“how fearfully
it looks forth at first, and then shrinks back!
How, when it ventures forth, it gazes round and
round with a dazzled eye, and casts a wondering
glance upon the day-god above!” Here the
speaker looked timidly at the sun, which, through
the trees, threw a tremulous ray upon him.
“How feebly it essays a little circle, with wing
but half expanded; then it feels its strength of
pinion, and takes a broader sweep, yet casts a longing,
lingering look upon its earthly tabernacle.
Then,” continued he, while the wave of his arm
waxed eloquent, and his tones heart-stirring, “it
circles wider and wider, farther and farther, higher
and higher; its impulses lose their earthliness; it
bathes and gladdens its outstretched wing in the
refulgent beam; it feels the glory more and more,
and its strength is renovated beyond the might of
its prime, until, fixing its unwinking eye on the
glorious orb, it darts upward to the sources of
everlasting light.” As he said this, he advanced,
with upturned hands and eyes, while the rays of
the sun, through an opening in the trees, flashed
upon his long and silvery locks, and threw a halo
around him, that made the man, like the sentiment,
sublime. Methought I saw the heavens open,
and the winged messenger pass the everlasting
skies. The speaker had scarcely concluded, when

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the sultriness, which had succeeded the warmth of
the morning, became intense. For some minutes,
not a breath of air stirred, not a leaf moved.
Then the heavens became suddenly overcast; the
clouds floated together in dark masses, like the
gathering of armies; and now and then a fierce
flash broke forth; but, as yet, though through the
trees we could see the clouds moving, the leaves
were motionless, and not a drop of rain fell.

The missionary came to our little group, for we
were all together, and observed:—

“Brother Godfrey, as I am to officiate at the
funeral of Mr. Jones, and as you mean to attend,
had we not better depart? I fear we shall have a
storm.”

We accordingly mounted our horses, and left
the camp. When we were clear of the woods, and
while we were ascending an eminence which commanded
the prospect, the missionary asked Mr. Godfrey
if they were subject to violent storms in that
region? Being informed that we were not, he said
that he had known a storm to force its way with
such violence through a wood, as not to leave a tree
standing in its path. “If you were subject to such
storms here,” he continued, “I should say, from
my experience, that we should have one now. God
grant that it come not over the camp.”

He had scarcely spoken, when the rain began
to fall in big drops, and the roar of the winds, afar

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off, could be distinctly heard, as if they were muttering
their wrath, and gathering strength. He
looked around, and said:—

“We must ride fast; there is not air enough stirring
here to give an indication of the way the storm
will sweep; but I believe it will be on this side of
the run. We must on.”

We accordingly put spurs to our horses, and
rode rapidly toward the bridge. The dropping of
the rain now ceased for awhile, but the heavens
grew fearfully dark, and the air began to stir. Our
horses threw back their ears, and seemed, like their
riders, to observe the sky. At this moment, a bolt
that seemed to rend the hills made our path lurid
with light; while our horses trembled, like ourselves,
at the awful peal which accompanied it.
The rain now burst forth; and in an instant the
blast was down upon us, sweeping the valley with
resistless violence. We cast our eyes anxiously to
the camp. We could see indistinctly the white
tents through the trees, but nothing more. Yet
the fury of the storm seemed to be there, for the
air grew thick above it with leaves and the sundered
branches of trees; and presently the horses,
having broken from their fastenings, came dashing
madly past us.

“We are in the hands of God, children!” said
the missionary, calmly. “We must press for the

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bridge. The fury of the storm is not here, but this
is dangerous.”

We urged our steeds at the admonition, and an
intervening hill soon hid the camp from our sight;
but the frightened horses of the worshippers still
came dashing on. A tree not fifty yards to our
right, as we turned to the left, was prostrated with
a terrible crash. We reached the stream in safety.
The storm was not so furious there, but the mad
waters came leaping down the ravine, and throwing
their waves towards the bridge, as if anxious to
sweep it away. Several horses from the camp
stood by the bridge, evidently desirous to cross,
but, apparently, kept back by an instinctive sense
of danger.

“Will it not be hazardous to cross the bridge?”
asked Mr. Godfrey.

“I think not,” replied the missionary. “Let
us pass one at a time. I see your horses are
frightened—mine is not. I'll lead the way.”

“No,” said Adam, dismounting and giving to
Harry the bridle of his horse, “let me lead yours
over. You can walk; it will be safer.”

But the missionary said there was no danger,
and spurred his horse toward the bridge.

The well-trained animal drew back for a moment,
and then passed on. The bridge was about
ten yards long. We held back our horses, that
now seemed to have no sense of danger, as their

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fellow had none. Those from the camp obeyed
the same impulse, and, being unrestrained, sprang
on the bridge after the missionary's. The frail
structure shook from end to end.

“Father in heaven, be merciful!” ejaculated
Jane, as the missionary, on discovering his peril,
dismounted from his horse. His foot had scarcely
touched the plank, when, with a tremendous crash,
the bridge gave way, and rider and horse were precipitated
into the foaming waves. That wild utterance
which Cooper has so powerfully described
in the “Last of the Mohicans,” as proceeding from
the horse when in distress, and which startled the
brave Hawkeye and the intrepid Indians with a
superstitious dread, now broke forth from the poor
animals, and added, if possible, to the horrors of
the scene.

“He's lost!” exclaimed Mr. Godfrey, in despair.

“Not if I can save him!” exclaimed Adam,
throwing off his coat, and springing to the edge of
the stream.

“My brother, he's a good man; God is with him!
Die not as you are!” exclaimed Jane, in a tone of
intense agony.

“My life is worthless, Jane,” said Adam, with
a calmness so strange, that it struck me, even at
that awful moment.

Adam stood watching for the appearance of the

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missionary. The bridge had caught edgewise between
two rocks, on the other side of the stream.
The horses from the camp, that were on the bridge,
appeared first above the water, and were all borne
down, except one that succeeded, by swimming, in
gaining the bank near us, which was not more
than two feet above the flood. On the other side,
just below the spot where the bridge had rested,
part of the rock which held it projected perpendicularly
up several feet. It seemed that the missionary
and his horse were both caught by the
bridge. In a moment more, his horse, which was
a noble animal, arose with his head up stream and
high out of water, while his master was seen
clinging to the bridle. On observing this, Adam
hurried above us, plunged in, and, in spite of the
angry element, by his great skill as a swimmer,
succeeded in gaining precisely what he aimed at,
the bridle of the horse. In an instant he raised
the missionary from the waves. Both were evidently
supported by the bridge, as was the horse.
Quick as lightning Adam placed the upper end of
the stirrup-strap in the missionary's grasp, and
then holding with one hand the horse's head out of
water, with the other he struck out for the shore.
The animal seemed to know that a master spirit
guided him, for he plunged bravely toward us.
Wildly the waves broke over them, and the horse
in vain attempted to breast their fury. The steed

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seemed stationary for a moment, and then yielded
to the force of the element. Adam, however, still
continued to keep his head in a proper position.
When they got below the point where the concentrated
rush of the stream from the obstruction of
the bridge had nearly overwhelmed them, Adam
made another effort, a desperate one, to gain the
shore. Here we saw the missionary distinctly;
his head arose above the back of his horse. I see
the holy faith, then on his countenance, now; it is
a picture on my brain, more distinct than that on
the wall before me. As Jane said, “God was with
him.” In much less time than I have taken to tell
it, master and horse, with their brave deliverer,
stood safely upon the shore. Poor Jane swooned
when she saw that her brother was safe.

The storm abated as rapidly as it arose. By a
bridge some miles above, which had withstood the
violence of the waves, we arrived safely at Mr.
Godfrey's. As the missionary was preparing,
though it was then nearly dark, to go to the house
of mourning to perform the rites of sepulture, a
messenger arrived to tell him that, in consequence
of the storm having inundated the graveyard, the
funeral would not take place until the next day, as
another spot was to be selected for the repose of
the dead.

Never shall I forget the holy evening which we
spent after that awful storm. Uninjured in health,

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and with spirits gratefully and religiously calm
and pure, the missionary joined the family circle.
Jane looked the personification of pious gratitude,
in its loveliest form—a religious woman. Harry
gazed on her with reverence, while Mr. Godfrey,
for the first time in many years, beheld with pleasure
both his children. But the most remarkable
feature of the group was Adam. That expression
of desperate recklessness, which once possessed his
countenance, had fled. I wondered, as I observed
with what respectful earnestness he listened to the
missionary, if it ever had been there. How kindly he
answered his sister, and without a jest upon her
piety! His very dog, that used to avoid him, because
of the tricks he played him, went wagging
his tail to his master, and laid his head upon his
knee, the picture of faithfulness, as Adam placed
his hand upon it.

But the prayer of that “old man eloquent” that
night! I have heard the great ones of our land, in
the pulpit, at the bar, and in the Senate, in the
palmiest moments of ther oratorical power; but
theirs could no more compare with the hearttouching
pathos of this plain servant of God, than
would the strut and stare of a fashionable tragedian
compare with the simple majesty of Paul before Festus.
He prayed for us all, for the father and for the
children, and for their friend and for myself; and
I have felt from that hour to this, however

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wayward my mood and imaginings, that in heaven's
high chancery, I too had a claim and an advocate.
Especially he prayed for Adam. “Let, O Lord!”
he said, in tones that left no eye unmoistened, and
no heart untouched, “the blessings of all the good
I may hereafter be permitted to do, under thy providence,
light upon his head, and be all the evil
mine, as thou has vouchsafed to make him this day
the instrument of thy mercy for the salvation of
thy creature from the wrath to come! And when
thy seventh and last angel, in the last war of the
elements, shall pour forth the vials of thy wrath,
and thy mighty voice shall proclaim unto all the
nations of the earth, `It is done!' forget not this
little household! Shadow them under thy brooding
and protecting wings! Let there be no wanderer
from the flock, but let them all, a family in
heaven, rejoice together in the light of thy everlasting
love.”

When the prayer was concluded, and we arose
from our knees, Adam took a seat by his sister,
and unable, iron-nerved as he was, to control the
emotions that had been swelling in his heart for
days, he laid his head upon her bosom, and “wept,
and was forgiven.”

After all, there is no love less selfish than a
sister's.

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So spake the wayward Childe to his sister; and
when wife and daughter were deaf to his fame, and
spoke not his name in their household, and Fanaticism
refused his remains a resting-place among
England's illustrious departed, where sleeps none
worthier, his sister, his “sweet sister,” gave them
consecration, and built over them the monument
which now guards them from the desecration of
those who should have claimed to be nearer and
dearer. And “she, proud Austria's mournful
flower,” where was her mournfulness, when they
gave the hero of the world's history, and her lord,
to the “vulture and the rock?” Cold, selfish, and
sensual, she pursued the routine of courtly patrician
observances, or hastened from them to common
plebeian abandonment; while Pauline, not the
less sensual, but the sister, was anxious to forsake,
for that lonely rock, the voluptuousness of the soft
clime she so loved, to whose glorious statuary her
glowing form had given beauty, that she might
share the exile, and solace the sorrow, and soothe
the loneliness, of that forsaken husband, who was
still to her the man of destiny; still to her a beloved
brother; whose blood was her blood; who
had given her renown and empire, and to whom,
world-forsaken, she could give what is worth the
world, a sister's unchanging love!

p717-216

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