CHAPTER I.
I was once, upon a warm summer afternoon, journeying on
horseback in that wild and picturesque tract of country, in New
Hampshire, which borders on the upper portion of the mountainborn
Merrimac, when a dark thunder cloud, that had been gathering,
unperceived by me, in the distance, rose up suddenly from
behind the screening hills, apprising me at once, by its threatening
aspect, and the rapidity with which it was rolling towards
me, that a thorough drenching was only to be avoided by an immediate
flight to some place of shelter.
Applying the spur, therefore, I put my horse to his best speed,
and fortunately, succeeded in reaching a substantial looking farm
house by the road side, just as the big, bright drops of rain, as
if shaken down by the crashing peal of thunder, that heralded
their descent, came merrily dancing to the smoking earth.
While standing in the open shed, that I had been so lucky as
to gain, listening to the roar of the elements, and marking that
almost terrific sublimity, with which a thunder-storm in the
mountains becomes invested, the owner of the establishment, a
fine, hale looking man of about forty, came out, and very courteously
invited me into the house, adding at the same time, that he
thought, from the unpromising appearance of the clouds, I might
as well make up my mind, at once, to remain with him through
the night.
As it was then late in the afternoon, and the rain still continued
to pour down, with little prospect of abating in time for me
to resume my journey before dark, I soon concluded to accept
the proffered hospitality; when I was immediately ushered into
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the house by my kind entertainer, and introduced to his interesting
family, as “a stranger who had been induced to put up
with their poor fare for the night.”
I had already been struck with the appearance of thrift and
good management in every thing about this establishment without,
and my admiration was now equally awakened by the neatness
and rustic taste of all within, and the peculiar quiet and order,
with which the family concerns seemed to be conducted
under the superintendence of my hostess, who was one of the
most comely and engaging matrons I remember ever to have
seen. I very soon discovered my host to be a man of much native
shrewdness and of fixed and well-formed opinions on almost
all subjects that presented themselves; and these qualities, united
with a spice of sly humor and a good tact for description, failed
not to impart a high degree of piquancy and interest to his conversation.
After the excellent supper, with which we were soon
favored, was over, the household affairs regulated, and the smaller
children disposed of for the night, the amiable mistress of the
house took her knitting-work and joined us in the sitting-room,
adding a still further interest to the converse by her quiet presence,
and the well-timed and pertinent remarks which she occasionally
threw in, on the different subjects that were introduced.
The conversation at length turned on the Shakers, an establishment
of whom I had visited that very morning. Perceiving that
my host appeared to dissent from some general remark I had
made in praise of that singular society, I turned to him and
said:—
“You believe them to be an industrious, quiet and very honest
people, surely,—do you not, sir?”
“Industrious and quiet enough, doubtless, and just as honest
as other people, and not a whit more so,” he replied.
“Why, I had supposed them,” I rejoined, “not only peculiarly
honest and sincere, but in a great degree devoid of all those
passions and vices that most move and agitate the rest of society.”
“All that, in the exterior they generally present, I grant you;
but are you willing to take that as a criterion of their true character?”
he asked.
“By no means,” said I.
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“Well, sir, could you lift the curtain, and see all that this sober
and wonderfully honest exterior is sometimes made to conceal,
you might, perhaps, be a little less inclined to exempt them
from the common feelings and frailties of other people. I have
half a mind to tell you a story of an affair, which oecurred some
twenty years ago at the very establishment you visited, and
which would show—”
“Now don't, husband!” interrupted my hostess, with a deprecating
look.
“Only by way of argument, wife,” briskly replied the man,
casting an arch look at the other—“I want to show him, that
love and intrigue may sometimes be found under a broad brim,
as well as a narrow one.”
“Oh! pray let us have it; go on—go on, by all means,” I eagerly
interposed, delighted at the novel idea of a love story
from such an unpromising source as that of the Shaking Quakers.
With another roguish glance at his slightly disturbed, though
now acquiescent companion, my host, after a brief pause, began:
It was a delightful evening in the month of October, and the
setting sun was throwing his parting beams over the yellow forests
of the surrounding uplands, whose burnished foliage threw
back the mingling streams of reflected light, and spread a red,
quivering glow over the slumbering waters of the Mascomy and
the beautiful meadows that lie stretched along its shores. Nearly
the whole of the Shaker Family, numbering at that time something
less than a hundred, were in the field, a short distance from
the pond, engaged in gathering the rare fruit of their extensive
orchards—the women, with their hand-baskets, picking the
choicer kinds for market, or for winter preservation, and the men
gathering and conveying to the teams, stationed at different
points of the field for the purpose, that part of the fruit which
was destined for the ordinary uses of the society. The almost exact
uniformity in the fashion and color of their dresses, produced a
singular sameness in the appearance of them all; but this was
more particularly the case with the females, whose neat, prim
dresses of never-varying slate color, white linen kerchiefs and
snowy caps, surmounted by their low, plain bonnets, from which
peeped their thin, pale visages, all seemingly marked with the
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same demure, downcast and abject expression, might have disposed
an ordinary spectator, as they were moving about the field
as silent and gestureless as a band of automatons, to look upon
them with sensations much resembling those we experience in
beholding a flock of wild folws, where an inspection of one is
an inspection of the whole. A closer observer, however, in examining
the faces and figures of each, would have discovered,
that here, as well as elsewhere, nature had not forgotten to be
partial in the distribution of her favors; and that here, as well
as elsewhere, were those on whom the gift of personal beauty
had not been so altogether charily bestowed: and among the
latter class there was particularly one, whose rounded, symmetrical
person, fair and blooming face, and intelligent and
sweetly expressive countenance, all strikingly contrasted with the
drooping forms, plain features, and passive, unmeaning looks of
most of her unattractive companions.
Just as the last rays of the sinking sun were fading from the
lofty summit of the distant Kearsarge, the word was passed for
the people to leave work and return to their houses. As the
company were promiscuously, though in their usual quiet and
unsocial manner, retiring from the field, one of the men, a dark
eyed, compactly built young fellow of about twenty one, bearing
a large basket of apples upon his shoulder, contrived to cross the
path of the young Quakeress just described. While doing this,
and when directly before her, at a few yards distance, he made
a seemingly accidental misstep, which suddenly brought his basket
to the ground, and sent its contents rolling over the grass
around, till they met the feet of the approaching maiden, who instantly
paused, and smiled at the little mishap, which had thus
oddly interrupted her in her course. The young man immediately
threw himself upon his knees among the scattered fruit, as
if intent only on gathering it up; but while his hands were busily
employed for that purpose, his eyes turned with a quick, eager
look upon the face of the girl.
“At the Elm tree, Martha,” he said, in a low, hurried tone;
“meet me at the Elm tree, at the lower end of the orchard, immediately
after worship.”
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“It is dangerous—dangerous, Seth!” replied the maiden,
slightly coloring, and casting an uneasy glance around her.
“Now I do beseech thee, Martha,” he persisted imploringly;
“I have matters of great moment to impart to thee; and it may
be the last time—yea, it will be, if thee refuse me now. Will
thee not come, then?”
“Perhaps,”—answered the girl, after a hesitating pause, in
which she threw a look of enquiry and concern upon the youth,
but seemed to suppress the question which rose to her lips—“perhaps—
that is, if I can get away from the buildings without being
noticed. But thee need not have spilled thy apples for so poor a
purpose, Seth,” she added with a faint smile.
So saying, she turned hastily away, and with quickened steps
pursued her course after her retreating companions; while the
other now proceeded in earnest to pick up his scattered apples.
This being completed, he was about to rise, when looking around
him, he encountered the gaze of a man peering at him from under
the low-hanging branches of a neighboring apple tree. A
glance sufficed to apprise the young man of the character and object
of the interloper; for, in the thick, dumpy figure, little hooked
nose, whitish, gloating eyes and ill-omened countenance of the
man, he at once recognized one of the Leaders of the Society,
and the one above all others whose notice, at this juncture, he
would have been most anxious to avoid.
“Well, make the most of it, thou vile seeker of accusations,”
indignantly muttered the young man between his teeth, as, with
a look of defiance, he shouldered his basket and proceeded homeward,
followed, at a short distance, by the object of his aversion,
who did not seem inclined to make any immediate use of such
discoveries as he might have made with his eyes, for the distance
precluded the possibility of his hearing a word that had been uttered.
But before proceeding any further with our story, it may now
be as well, perhaps, to speak a little more particularly of the different
characters we have introduced, and advert to such circumstances
of previous occurrence as may be necessary for a full understanding
of the situation in which they relatively stood towards
each other, at the time chosen for their introduction.
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CHAPTER II.
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Seth Gilmore had been an orphan almost from his childhood.
At the death of his last remaining parent, he was taken home by
an uncle, an old bachelor of considerable property, to which it
was supposed the boy would eventually succeed. But in the
course of a year or two, another, and a much older nephew, was
taken home; and he, being of a selfish, intriguing disposition,
soon contrived entirely to supplant the former in the affections of
the changeable uncle, who, not long after, was induced to give
the unoffending little Seth to the Shakers of the establishment of
which we are speaking. Here continuing to remain, he became,
as he grew up, noted among the Family for his faithfulness, activity
and capacity for business, and, before he had arrived at the
age of twenty, he was acknowledged by all to be one of the most
skillful and efficient hands on the farm. So far, nothing important
had occurred to him to vary the dull monotony of the Shaker
life. But although Seth began to think for himself, and become
desirous of acquiring information—a very great error he
was taught to believe by the Leaders, who hold, that “ignorance
is the mother of devotion,” and that the youth and all the common
members of the Family, should yield implicitly to those who
are gifted to think for them and instruct them in all that is necessary
to be known. The young man, however, wilfully persisted
in his notions; and, by the promptings of this heretical spirit, he
sought the acquaintance of two or three young men of the world,
(as all without the pale of the Society are termed,) who occasionally
visited the establishment for transaction of business, or
from motives of curiosity. Being eager of enquiry and quick to
comprehend, he soon gained information from these, which
showed him the falsity of many of the strange ideas and impressions
he had there imbibed respecting society at large, and
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otherwise afforded him the means of judging, from which he had
been wholly debarred; for it is the settled policy of the Leaders
of this people, in order to make faithful and contented subjects,
not only to instill into the minds of their youth the greatest possible
abhorrence of the world, which is constantly represented as
dishonest, licentious and every way corrupt, but to guard with
untiring vigilance every avenue of information that might have a
tendency to undermine or diminish the prejudices and opinions
thus inculcated. Seth's mind, however, was of a cast which,
when once called into action, was not easily to be thus trammelled;
and the doubts, which his own reason at first suggested,
being constantly strengthened by the facts gathered in his intercourse
with these young men, and the books that he borrowed of
them, and secretly read, in spite of his masters, spiritual and temporal,
he at length became a confirmed disbeliever in the creed
to which he had been brought up, and began seriously to meditate
on the expediency of sundering the ties which bound him to
the Society. But before his views had become very definitely
settled on these subjects, or any plans of future action matured,
the Shaker Leaders themselves made a movement which was intended
to anticipate or remedy any evils of the character just
named that might be growing; for these wary men, who watch the
intellectual progress of their youth as anxiously as ever did a pedagogue
that of his pupils, though with far different motives, began
to perceive about this time, that our hero's mind was becoming
rather dangerously expanded; and, although not apprised of
the means or extent of his information, yet judging from what
they had noticed, that he could not long be retained without
more than ordinary inducements, they held a secret consultation,
and finally came to the sage conclusion, that Seth's merits were
such as entitled him to promotion. Accordingly they proposed,
unexpectedly to him, to make him an assistant deacon, or one of
the overseers of business, naming some future day, not far distant,
for him to enter on the duties of his office and be admitted
to a seat with them in the council, which met from time to time
to deliberate on the temporal concerns of the Family. This gave
a new direction to his thoughts, and for awhile quieted his
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growing discontent. Still extremely anxious, however, to know more
of the world, he soon claimed the privilege of going abroad on
missions of trade—a privilege which he knew was sometimes accorded
to those exercising the office that had been offered him,
provided they were considered sufficiently tried and trustworthy.
But in this fond wish of his heart he was unexpectedly doomed
to disappointment, for which he was indebted, as he soon discovered,
to the influence of one man, the person we have already
introduced as playing the spy upon the young couple in the orchard.
This man, who went by the appellation of Elder Higgins,
had for some time manifested towards Seth an unusual
degree of coldness and distrust, which the latter till now had but
little heeded. But this last act caused his ill-will to be heartily
reciprocated on the part of the young man; and circumstances
soon occurred which made the breach irreparable. These circumstances
were found to have reference to a third person—the
young, innocent and lovely Martha, towards whom the elder, about
this time, began to pursue a course of conduct as strange as it
was questionable.
Martha had been brought to this establishment when eight or
ten years of age by her parents, both of whom, at the same time,
joined the Family, turning into the common fund the whole of
the little property they possessed. All the acknowledged relations
between parent or child, from that moment entirely ceasing,
the little girl was left wholly to the guidance and instruction of
the Elders and Eldresses, to whom the care of the youth is entrusted;
and, through her docility and her meek and confiding
disposition, she had readily imbibed the doctrines, and, for the
greater part of her girl-hood, implicitly trusted in the creed that
was taught her, exhibiting in her exemplary conduct a bright pattern
of all that was esteemed good and lovely among the Family.
But as she verged upon womanhood, and began to give herself to
reflection; her naturally clear and discriminating mind, moved,
perhaps, by the associations of her childhood that still hung about
her, or the observations she had made upon the conduct of some
of the Leaders, forced upon her questions and doubts which greatly
perplexed her to answer or solve. These, it is true, at first,
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through the pious impulses of her truly devotional heart, were often
rejected as the temptations of Satan; but they as often returned
to disturb the quiet of her pure and gentle bosom; and,
although, in spite of her strivings to the contrary, she became,
though far less decidedly than the young man we have described,
a disbeliever, at least, in many of the dogmas of that creed, which
she had been taught to look upon as infallible.
Such was Martha Hilson; and it was nothing strange that two
such young persons of the different sexes as she and Seth, in the
daily habit of seeing each other, and possessing characters as congenial,
as they were, in many respects, distinguished from those
around them, should attract each other's particular notice. Nor
is it much less to be wondered at, perhaps, that such notice should
be followed by the springing up of mutual sympathies in their bosoms;
though, that these sympathies should be defined and acknowledged
by their true name, and made known by reciprocal
avowals, was, indeed, at such a place, a rare occurrence. But
Love is a cunning deviser of occasions; and, as difficult as it
might be in this case, he, at length, found a way by which the
young couple in question eventually discovered the nature of those
feelings that were silently drawing their hearts towards each other.
For a long time, however, no word or communication ever
passed between them, save that which was conveyed in the language
of the eyes. But, after awhile, the silence was broken, as
they casually met in the yard, by a simple enquiry for some third
person, and by as brief an answer. This was followed, after another
interval, of perhaps a month, when they again accidentally
met, by the interchange of a few words, on some common topic;
and, at length, on a similar chance occasion, succeeded a proposal,
on his part, to loan her a book, which, after some hesitation,
she accepted, with the promise to persue and return it, at a time
and place which he proposed for the purpose. An excuse for
meeting being thus found, occasional interviews followed, though
at none of them was a word breathed by either expressive of those
feelings, of which each felt a trembling consciousness as the true
secret of their being thus brought together. These interviews,
moreover, were of the briefest kind, and indulged in but very
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rarely; for, aware that it was one of the distinguishing articles of
their creed, that “the corruption of man is the attachment of
the sexes,” and, consequently, that all intercourse which might
lead to such attachment, should be strictly forbidden, they knew
how closely they were watched, and how surely penance of some
kind or other would follow a detection of their meetings, however
innocent the object. And such had been the extreme caution
with which this intercourse had been managed, that they felt sure
it could not have been discovered; and they supposed it remained
wholly unsuspected. In this supposition, however, they
soon found they had over confidently counted. Something in
their demeanor, some unguarded look, when they publicly met,
or some brief absence of both at the same time, had attracted the
notice of the prying Higgins; and, his jealously being thus aroused,
he commenced a system of secret espionage upon the young
couple, which would have conferred credit on a minion of the inquisition;
the result of which was, that he became convinced of
the existence of a forbidden attachment growing up between
them, and strongly suspected them, though wholly unable to ascertain
it for a fact, of holding clandistine interviews.
This personage, whose manner was as hateful as his countenance
was repulsive, and whose whole character was a strange
compound of the fanatic, the Jesuit and the voluptuary, was an
Elder in the church, in which through his pretensions to “leading
gifts,” or direct revelations from above, and his intriguing
and ambitious disposition, he had gained an influence even greater,
perhaps, than the “Elder Brother” himself, as the chief ruler
of each Shaker Family is denominated. And his ambition being
not satisfied with his spiritual dominion, he aspired to, and
by similar means obtained, an equal ascendancy in the management
of the business and temporal concerns of the establishment.
Exacting the most rigid obedience from all, requiring the most
implicit faith in all the ultra doctrines of his creed, and ever untiring
in searching out delinquencies in others, while he shielded
his own under the very convenient dogma handed down by Mother
Ann Lee for the special benefit of the peculiarly gifted like
himself, that “to the pure all things are pure,” he had become
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fairly an object of dread among the people. For these reasons,
then, if they had no others, it will be readily seen how much our
two young friends had to fear from the sanctimonious Elder; but
they had additional reasons:—He had, for some time, shown
himself remarkably sensitive in every thing that related to Martha;
and no sooner were his suspicions fairly awakened respecting
the attachment between her and Seth, than she was summoned
to meet him at the confessional alone, and in one of the
most secluded rooms in the buildings. This was several times
repeated, to the great horror of the distressed maiden, while it
awakened the most painful apprehensions in the mind of Seth,
who had become apprised of the circumstance, and but to well
conjectured the secret motives of the Elder in summoning her,
instead of him, to meet him in private; though what passed on
these occasions he had no other means of judging, than by the
mingled expression of grief and outraged feeling, which very visibly
marked the tear-stained cheeks of the poor girl on her return
from the scene of her trials.
With Seth a different course was taken; and, though no rebuke
was openly administered, or even one word was anywhere
said to him respecting the offence of which he, in common with
Martha, was suspected to be guilty, yet he soon found, that he
was not, for that reason, any the less marked for punishment.
He soon discovered, that the Elder was secretly attempting to
undermine his character with the Family; while a system of petty
annoyances was made to meet him in every thing he did, till his
life become one of constant vexation and misery; and, being no
longer tempted by the proposed office without the coveted privilege
of going abroad, he again began to meditate about leaving
the Society. But checked in this wish by a want of confidence
in his ability to succeed in the world, of which he was so little
informed, and above all by his love for Martha, and his fears for
her safety, marked, as he believed her to be, as the victim of the
licentious Elder, he here also, became the prey of conflicting emotion.
The treatment of his malicious prosecutor, however, at
length drove him to a final decision; and, having formed a new
plan in regard to his fair friend, whom he had been so reluctant
to leave, he waited only for an opportunity of seeing her alone,
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(from which, through the precautions of the Elder, he had been
for a long while debarred,) before carrying his resolve into execution.
With these remarks, we will now return to the events
which form the action of our story.
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CHAPTER III.
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On returning to their buildings, after the labors of the field
were over, the Family, as usual, soon repaired to the rooms allotted
to their daily repasts. For this purpose their tables were
always spread in separate buildings, one for the ordinary male
members, and for the females, and one for the Leaders; the two
former of which are furnished with plain, substantial food, while
the latter is loaded with the best that the land is capable of affording,
and not unfrequently with foreign luxuries; For these
dignitaries, if they do not always go on the principle of indulgence
involved in the reported saying of the “Elect Lady,”
whose authority we have before quoted, that “Spirituous liquor
is one of God's good creatures,” have at least no hesitation in
acting generally on the assumption, that the Gift of good living
peculiarly their own.
Immediately after supper, the whole Family assembled for worship
in the house especially consecrated to that purpose. But so
well known is their meaningless mode of worship—their long
drawn, nasal chant of Hottentot gibberish, set to the “inspired”
tune of perhaps Nancy Dawson, or the Roving Sailor; (for
their tunes as well as the words they contend are inspired) their
formal, unvarying, Kangaroo-like dance, performed with uplifted
hands and various contortions of features, or the occasional exhibition,
by some freshly inspired Elder or Eldress, of a new gift
for clapping the hands, for shaking, jerking, jumping, stamping
and groaning—so well known are all these, that we will pass
over them for matters more immediately connected with our story;
and for this purpose we will now repair to the trystic tree of
the persecuted lovers, who had generally, as now fixed upon, for
their interview, the hour immediately succeeding worship, which
was allowed the different members of the Family for attending
to their individual concerns, and which, therefore, afforded
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opportunity for an absence less likely to be noticed by the Arguseyed
Leaders.
The broad, bright Harvest-moon rising majestically over the
eastern hills, was beginning to pour down her floods of quivering
light upon the quiet scene—now striking upon the taller,
then the shorter shrubbery of the field, and seemingly converting
its pendant boughs into glittering tissues of silver—now bursting
in brightness upon the waveless waters of the extended pond,
and now glancing abroad upon the whole of the surrounding landscape,
and lighting it up with her dim and solemn splendors.
The young man, the first to reach the spot, stood pensively
leaning against the trunk of a wide-branching elm, standing but
a short distance from the margin of the water. As the moon-light
gleamed across his face, tokens of deep and struggling emotions
were there visibly depicted; and even a tear might occasionally
be seen to start out and glitter upon his manly cheek.
Presently the white fluttering robe of a female was seen glancing
among the obstructing trees of the orchard, and rapidly gliding
toward the spot. In another moment the light figure rushed into
the opened arms of the young man, their heads were dropped
on each other's shoulders, and, for a brief interval, not a word was
spoken.
“O, Martha, Martha!” at length uttered the young man in
tones of deep and troubled feeling, and again was silent.
“Thee seems much agitated to night, Seth,” said the girl, in a
meek, enquiring tone, after waiting awhile for the other to proceed.
“I am Martha,” he replied; “my heart is indeed tried—sorely,
most sorely tried.”
“And why art thee thus disquieted, Seth?” again tenderly
asked the girl, “and why,” she continued in a tone of gentle expostulation,
“why hast thee urged me to this meeting, when thee
knows, that I am not without my doubts and misgivings about
communing with thee in this manner; and when also thee so
well knows the great risk we both run of being discovered and
punished, and I, particularly, of being brought to shame before
the people, or punished in other fearful ways?”
“I know—I know all, Martha; and should be grieved to be
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the means of causing thee trouble. But so many things have
happened since we met, and I had so much which I desired to
say to thee, that I could not find it in my heart to go away without
seeing thee.”
“Go away, Seth? Surely! Hast thee well considered?”
“Yea, long and deeply. I can no longer endure the vile misusage
I have lately received; and I can no longer endure to be
a slave—a slave to those, who would fetter and degrade both the
body and the mind; and therefore I have fully determined, that
this night I will leave them.”
“But whither would thee go, Seth?—into the wide, wicked
world?”
“If I thought, Martha, that I should find the people of the
world more wicked than some of those I shall leave behind, I
would remain. But of that I have no fears; and it is not that
which now troubles and perplexes me.”
“If we have been taught aright, what should trouble thee
more, Seth?”
“Ay, if aright; but thee already knows my opinions of the
absurdity of much of our creed, and the falsity of half that is
told us. No, it is no scruples of that kind, but my doubts and
fears about the reception I may meet with in the world, of whose
ways I know so little, and in which I must appear so foolish and
awkward. I am ignorant, Martha, ignorant as a child, of all
that I should know.”
“But does not that spring from pride of heart, Seth, which, under
any good creed, thee would be taught, and should strive, to
banish? It appears to me thee should have better reasons.”
“Well, I have other reasons, and they are with me, I confess,
much stronger ones; but I know not that thee would consider
them better. It is”—and the youth paused and hesitated, while
the wondering maiden threw an innocent and enquiring look upon
his sorrowful and agitated countenance—“it is,” he resumed,
at length mastering his emotions, “it is the thought of leaving
thee, Martha, which wrings my heart—of leaving thee among this
people, to be subjected to the wiles and persecutions of that designing—”
“Oh! name him not—name him not, Seth!” quickly
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interrupted the girl, with a shudder, which but too plainly told her
fears and abhorrance of the man about to be mentioned.
“I should not, Martha, but I have noticed that which has filled
me with alarming conjectures—with fears for thy safety; and I
would that thee tell me what he proposes to thee?”
“I cannot—I cannot; but Oh! if thee knew my troubles,
Seth”—and the poor girl, at the thought thus called up, dropped
her head on the other's shoulder, and wept as if her heart
would break.
“The wretch! the accursed wretch!” exclaimed the young
man bitterly.
“Nay, nay, do not curse, Seth,” sobbed the girl, making an
effort to check her emotions;” that is a gift belonging, I think,
only to the Great One above, who metes out justice to the sinful,
not as man metes it, under the influence of blinding passions, but
according to the proper measure, and He, we must remember, can
protect the innocent as well as punish the guilty; and though
my trials are indeed sore, yet I trus tthat that Good Being will still,
as he has thus far done, preserve me guiltless and unharmed.”
Each being absorbed in the thoughts and feelings which the
conversation had excited, there was a short pause in the discourse,
during which the maiden gently disengaged herself from
the partial embrace of the other, and, wiping her eyes, resumed
her usual tranquility.
“Martha,” at length said the young man, with an air of embarrassment
and a slight tremulous accent.—
“What would thee say, Seth?” asked the maiden innocently,
seeing the other hesitated to go on.
“Martha,” resumed the youth with an effort, “Martha, does
thee love me?”
“Why—why,” replied she, now embarrassed and hesitating
in turn, “why we are commanded to love one another, are we
not?”
“Ay, Martha; but does thee regard me with that feeling which
the world calls love?”
“I hardly know what to tell thee, Seth—I have often greatly
feared that my heart was an erring one. I have tried to bestow my
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love on all; but I may have sometimes thought, perhaps, that
thee was getting rather more than thy share.”
“Thy words are precious to my heart, Martha. Let us then
cherish that feeling towards each other, and permit it to lead us
to its natural consummation. Thee knows, Martha, that the
love of which I speak, when crowned by marriage, is allowed
and approved by the good and wise of every sect but our
own. Thee knows, also, that it is sanctioned and blessed by
the Good Book, which I lent thee on purpose that thee might
read the whole, instead of only such parts as our Elders would
have us take as our guide, cunningly denying us the free use of
the book, because they fear to have us read and reason the
rest—not because, as they pretend, we should pervert it.”
“Thee bewilderest me, Seth—I will confess, I have, at times,
thought, that there is reason in what thee now says; but I have
nearly as often feared, that it was only the promptings of vain
fancies or sinful inclinations. And it is so different from what
I have always been taught, that it sometimes makes me tremble,
lest I should be left at last, to harbor a belief which may be
wrong in itself and prove ruinous to my soul's interests.”
“It is not wrong,” warmly urged the young man; “it surely
is not wrong, Martha. It is right; thy reason tells thee it is
right, all nature confirms it. The Bible when properly consulted,
answers yea. Come then, Martha, come with me:—Let us go
into the world, where there will be no mean spies to dog and torment
us—no tyrants to prevent our innocent actions, and make
them an excuse for prosecuting their own foul designs—none to
molest or make us afraid—where united as one, never more to
part, we will live and be free to love, and, in that love and freedom,
find our solace, our comfort and lasting felicity. Come—
O, come, come, Martha and fear not—with my own hands I will
support and provide for thee, and in my own heart I will cherish
thee through all the changing scenes of life.”
“Oh! tempt me not—tempt me not, Seth!”
“Do not call it temptation, dearest one.—Sooner would I suffer
all that wicked men could inflict, than lead thee astray, I
mean it—I think it for thy good, as much as for my own happiness.—
No, it is not temptation; it is but the pleadings of
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wisdom and of love. Fly with me, then, this night and this hour,—
fly with me from the persecutions, the miseries and the dangers
that here so thickly beset thee, to safety and happiness.”
“Nay, nay, Seth,” replied the maiden calmly and firmly, after
appearing to struggle a moment with her conflicting feelings—
“thy proposal is a bold and a startling one; it is also, to me, a
new and an unexpected one. I have not considered, and may
not now accept it; and, moreover, I may not now longer remain
with thee. I must return to the buildings.”
“And am I never to see thee more?” asked the other sadly.
“Why, if thee will indeed leave us,” she replied, lingering
and hesitating—“unless, perhaps—unless thee could return, at
some appointed time, and place”—
“Will thee, then,” eagerly enquired the young man, “will
thee meet me here, four weeks from this night?”
“If permitted, I will, Seth.”
“And be prepared to go with me?”
“Again I may not promise; but I will weigh thy proposal
with kindly intent; now fare-thee-well, Seth.”
“Fare-thee-well, beloved Martha—if thee can stay no longer,
fare-thee-well, with many, many blessings; but remember, Oh!
remember!”
Fondly and anxiously gazed the young man after the maiden,
till her retreating form was lost to his view among the intervening
shrubbery, when he appeared to rouse himself from his tender
reverie to the purpose now remaining to be accomplished; and,
with a firm step and resolute air, he bent his course towards the
shore of the pond, where he knew a boat belonging to the Shakers
was moored.
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CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
Although the Shaker Leaders mainly depend, for retaining
their subjects, upon the impressions of aversion and hatred of
the world, which they so sedulously implaint in the bosom of their
youth, aided by the extreme ignorance, in which they are kept
for that purpose, and by which, they are generally rendered as
helpless and passive as could be wished, yet force whatever may be
said to the contrary, is, or at least, was formerly, not unfrequently
resorted to for the purpose of restraining those detected in attempting
to escape. Seth, therefore, with a view of avoiding
collissions growing out of any attempt that might be made, in
case he had been suspected and watched, to prevent his going
away, deemed it best to depart in a direction, and in a manner,
which the Shakers would be the least likely to suspect him of taking.
In pursuance of this plan, he had determined to take the
boat and cross over to some point, which would place him beyond
the Family possessions, within the boundaries of which the
pursuit of their fugitives was usually confined. Congratulating
himself on the result of his interview with Martha, which, besides
filling his bosom with the blissful consciousness that his
love was reciprocated, and inspiring his mind with the joyful
hope, that the prize of his affections would soon be his, had
passed over, as he had supposed, undetected, he pursued his way
with a light and rapid step along the path leading to the water.
He had not gone many rods, however, before, to his utter surprise,
his old persecutor, the sleepless Higgins, stepped out from
behind a covert, and, with a look of malicious triumph, confronted
him in his path. Deeply vexed, but neither daunted, nor
turned from his purpose, the young man paused, and threw back a
look of indignation and scorn on his detested opponent; for perceiving
the Elder to be alone, and conscious of his own bodily
powers, he disdained either to cower or flee, but with an air of
cool defiance, stood waiting his movements.
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“Ah! thou vile young heretic!” at length exclaimed the Elder
tauntingly; “I have caught thee at last, then, in thine iniquities,
eh? what was thee saying to the maiden?”
“What thee will not be likely to be much the wiser for,” indignantly
replied Seth, who felt confident that, whatever the Elder's
luck had been as a spy, he could not, from the distance of
his position, have gained much in the character of an eaves-dropper.
“Ha! dost thou defy thy appointed rulers, young man? Confess
thy sins unto me, lest I make an example of both thee and
her in punishment of thy heinous offences,”
“Hypocrite, I know thee, and for myself I defy thee! but I
bid thee beware how thee shall further persecute that innocent
girl; for as sure as thee injures a hair of her head, I will hunt
thee while I live, and haunt thee when I am dead!”
Accustomed to witness only tokens of the most abject submission
in the deluded people, over whom he had so long tyranized,
and totally unprepared for such bold language from the youth,
whose spirit he had greatly underrated, the astonished Elder stood
a moment fairly choking with rage, unable, from the violence of
his passions, to utter a single word.
“Get-get-get thee back to the buildings!” at lengh he sputtered
in exploding rage. “Get thee back, thou audacious—thou—
thou God-forsaken reprobate! Get thee back, I say, instantly!”
“Man, I shall not obey thee!” said Seth, in a cool determined
tone. “I no longer acknowledge thy authority; and, from
this hour, I am no longer one of thy blinded and deluded people.
I go hence,” he added, turning out of the path and attempting to
pass the other.
“I will detain thee—I will seize thee—I will curse thee, and,
verily, I will smite thee!” again exclaimed the fuming Elder,
springing at the other and making a desperate grasp at his collar.
The young man, however, was not taken unprepared for the
onset; and the next instant the wrathful Quaker was sprawling
upon the earth. Bounding forward for the pond, with the object
of getting out upon the water before his discomfited antagonist
could recover himself and reach the shore in pursuit. Seth
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
quickly gained the landing, hastily unfastened the skiff and leaped
aboard; but before he could succeed in clearing the boat from
the shore, and as he was stepping backwards, with handled oar,
to take his seat in the stern, the infuriated Elder came puffing in
hot haste down the bank and dashed into the water up to his
knees after the receding boat, which even at that moment had
just passed out of his reach. But espying the end of a tie-rope,
which, in the hurry of unfastening, had not been taken up, and
which was now draggling through the water within reach, he instantly
seized it and gave it a sudden and furious jerk. Unconscious
of the oversight he had committed, and, therefore, wholly
unprepared for this movement, the young man lost his balance
in the violence of the shock, was precipitated backwards over
the end of the skiff, and instantly disappeared beneath the surface.
With a desperate effort the Elder first drew the skiff up
high and dry on the shore, then hurriedly catching up an oar and
springing back to the water's edge, he held the formidable implement
uplifted and drawn back, as if in readiness for a fatal blow,
the instant his victim's head should re-appear on the surface. In
a few seconds the youth came up, just out of the reach of the
weapon; when, perceiving the threatening attitude of his antagonist,
apparently determined on his destruction should he attempt
to come ashore, he seemingly became panic-struck and confused;
and after glaring wildly around him an instant, sunk again with
a gurgling sound, beneath the surface, to rise no more to view.
With a look of still unmitigated malice and ferocity, and, with
the same menacing attitude, the ruthless Elder stood waiting for
a second appearance of his victim for a full moment, when he
began to exhibit tokens of surprise and lowered his weapon a
little, still keeping, however, his eyes keenly fixed on the spot.
After waiting in vain nearly another moment for the drowning
man to rise, the Elder became thoroughly alarmed, and, throwing
down his oar, hurriedly retreated a few yards on to the bank.
Here he turned and threw another anxious and troubled look
upon and around the fatal spot. A few faint bubbles, successively
rising to the surface, alone answered his enquiring gaze;
and, reading in them conclusive evidence of the horrid truth, he
gave a convulsive start, and fled in terror towards the buildings,
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
as fast as his quaking limbs could carry him, mumbling and chattering
to himself as he went—
“Now, who would have thought!—If the youth could have
swam—and am I to blame that he never learned to swim?—of a
surety I am not. And then did he not lift his hand against a
gifted Elder of God's Church? and, moreover, have I not saved
the Family boat, which he was about to purloin? Verily, I have
done a good thing!—though, I think, I will not name the matter
to the people—no, lest it lead to the temptation of evil speaking
against rulers, and, peradventure, get to the worlds magistrates.
And, then, again, there is the youth's property, which he was so
forward and perverse about relinquishing to the church,—Nay,
I will not let the affair be known to any, but go to work right
cunningly and secure it all for God's heritage, Yea, verily, I have
done a good thing.”
Thus strangely reasoning, and thus desperately grasping at
salvos for his troubled and guilty feelings, the terror-stricken Elder
reached home, and, without uttering a sylable of what had
happened to any one, immediately betook himself to his solitary
lodgings, not there, however, to find peace and repose, but to
turn and writhe under the scorpion stings of conscience—that
unescapable hell of the guilty, which retributive Heaven has
planted in the bosom of Man for the certain punishment of his
crimes.
-- 027 --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
Meanwhile the lovely and conscientious Martha, wholly unapprised
of what had befallen her lover, retired to her peaceful
pillow, and endeavored to reflect calmly on the new and interesting
subject, which her recent interview with him had opened
to her mind. But finding herself unable to do this, from the
thousand crowding thoughts and sensations, which combined to
swell the half fearful, half delicious tumult of her gentle bosom,
she discretely deferred the task for a cooler moment, and having
piously commended herself to the protection of her Maker, yielded
her senses to those quiet and peaceful sfumbers, that constitute
not the least among the rewards of virtue and innocence.
On awakening the next morning, her thoughts immediately recurred
to the subject that occupied her last waking moments;
and, as she now figured in her mind her lover, far on his way from
the place, rejoicing in his freedom from the oppression he had
at length escaped, she again and again recalled the tender professions
he had made, and ran over the arguments he had advanced
in urging her to leave her present situation and go forth with
him into the world as his companion for weal or for woe. And
the more she thought of the proposed step, at first so startling,
the less fearful did it appear.—The more she weighed his reasons
with these she found herself able to bring up in refutation,
lighter and lighter grew the objections, which had caused her to
hesitate, even in giving him a definite promise of acceeding to
his request when they should again meet; and as her scruples
yielded, and, one after another gave way, the unchecked pleadings
of her own heart came in, and soon decisively turned the
already inclining balance, leaving her mind now free to wander
unhesitatingly over the new and bright field of destiny which
had thus been presented to her view.
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
After indulging in her pleasing reveries as long as inclination
prompted, the maiden arose, performed the duties of her simple
toilet, and was on the point of descending from her chamber to
join in performing the domestic concerns of the morning, when
her attention was arrested by an unusual commotion among the
people below, which she soon ascertained, from some words that
reached her ear through the partially opened door, to be caused
by the discovered absence of Seth, for whom search had already
been made, but in vain. The consciousness that within her own
bosom she harbored the secret of the missing one's absence, which
she might not reveal, made her, for the first time in her life, feel
like a guilty one; and, daring not to go down, lest her appearance
should betray the agitation she felt, she paused at the head
of the stairs, and stood some time endeavoring to compose her
feelings and gain a command of her countenance, which should
save her from showing any excitement that might not be natural
to the occasion. But while doing this, the poor girl was little
dreaming of the thousand times more difficult task in reserve for
her—that of controlling her feelings under the heart-crushing blow
which she was destined the next moment to receive. For the appalling
announcement was next heard passing from mouth to mouth
among the Family, that Seth was drowned in the pond, the evidence
of which, in addition to his unaccountable absence, was found in
the circumstance, that his hat had been discovered floating near
the shore, while, at a little distance, one of his shoes had been
espied sunk on the bottom, which had been fished up and identified.
It can be much better imagined than described what were the
feelings of Martha on hearing these mournful tidings. No word,
or sound, however, escaped her lips on the occasion. She turned
deadly pale, indeed, and, for a moment, leaned her head for
support against the door casing; and this was succeeded by a
quick heaving of her bosom, while with clasped hands and closed
eyes, her trembling lips moved rapidly, as if earnestly engaged in
silent devotion. But the next monent, as she opened her eyes,
and with a firm step descended from her room, a spectator
would have detected nothing more in her placid, though pale and
sad countenance, than he might have seen in the faces of the
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
rest of the sisterhood, among whom she now immediately mingled.
Most of that day was spent by the Shaker men in dragging the
pond in search of the body, from which operation Elder Higgins
kept studiously aloof; though the nervous restlessness he constantly
exhibited through the day, and the many anxious and enquiring
glances he frequently cast towards those thus engaged,
plainly told the painful interest he felt in what was going on.
The search proved a vain one. This, however, did not lead any
one to doubt, that the young man's fate was any different from
the one first supposed, as the body, it was conjectured, had floated
off and sunk in some of the deepest parts of the pond. But
although all were unanimous in the opinion, that Seth had met
his death by drowning, yet, with regard to the manner in which
the casualty could have happened, there were many and various
minds: some supposing that he must have waded in to secure
something which he saw floating near the shore;—others, that he
had risen in his sleep and gone in, while yet others considered
either of these suppositions to be highly improbable, since some
of the young men now made known the fact, that Seth was an
expert swimmer. These and many other conjectures equally erroneous
were formed respecting the myterious event, till, wearied
with the fruitless discussion, it was given up as a case entirely
hopeless of elucidation, and it was therefore permitted to rest.
Seth had been a peculiar favorite with the Family generally,
and his loss, for many days, cast a deep gloom over the minds of
the little community, who were thus unexpectedly called to
mourn his premature decease. The impression, however, like all
others of the kind, wore gradually away from the minds of
all except the bereaved Martha and the conscience-smitten Elder,
from whose bosoms the memory of the lost one, for reasons peculiar
to each, was not, as may well be supposed, so easily to be
erased.
Although the circumstances, in which Martha was placed, forbade
any manifestation of her peculiar griefs, and wholly precluded
her from communicating them to others, and receiving in
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
return those alleviating sympathies which it is the privilege of ordinary
sorrow to receive, yet none the less heavy for that fell this
blow of affliction, and none the less keenly was felt the anguish
which now in secret wrung her guileless and faithful bosom.
Young love was beginning to shed his sweet and happifying influences
over her pure and gentle heart, and his twin angel, Hope,
had just showed his snowy pinion to her unaccustomed vision,
pointing her to a land of earthly felicity, which never before, even
in her brightest dreams, had been pictured to her mind. But
all these grateful feelings had been suddenly chilled and frozen in
the current that was so blissfully wafting her away to the promised
haven of happiness—all these bright visions had vanished,
leaving her future not only blank and cheerless, but dark with
portents of persecution and wo, from which there was little hope
of escaping. These circumstances combined to render the poor
girl's loss no ordinary bereavement; and most persons of her
natural sensibilities would probably have sunk under the weight
of the affliction. But Martha was a Christian; and she meekly
bowed beneath the chastening rod, and turned for consolation to
that life-spring on high, which is never long a sealed fountain to
the true and devoted followers of Him, who once himself knew
earthly sorrows.
But while Martha was thus comforted and sustained, no such
consolation remained for the despicable wretch who had been the
cause of her troubles; and the more he tried to his startled
conscience, the more did its accusing spirit rise up, to disquiet
him, not only for the hand he had in the young man's death, but
for the part he had previously acted towards him in his general
misusage, and more particularly in an affair to which only a slight
allusion has been made. About a month previous to the time of
which we are speaking, a stranger, from the neighborhood of
Seth's early residence, bearing for him a letter, which he expressed
a desire to deliver in person; but the young man being at
work in the woods some distance from home, and the stranger
being anxious to resume his journey, the letter was at length entrusted
to Higgins, on his promise of delivering it to Seth as
soon as he returned. Having repeated his injunctions, the messenger
departed, not however till the inquisitive Elder had fished
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
out of him, as cautious as he evidently intended to be, some
clue to the contents of the letter. And no sooner was the strangers
back fairly turned, than Higgins retired to a private apartment
and broke open the letter, which proved to be from a neighbor
of Seth's uncle, whom we have before mentioned, and which
announced the successive deaths, within a few days of each other,
of that uncle and the nephew living with him, by which
event, it was stated, as no will had been made by either, Seth
had become the legal heir to all the estate thus left, consisting
of a good farm and considerable personal property. The writer
closed by advising the young man to leave his present situation,
come home and take possession of his property. After reading
the letter carefully over several times, the perfidious Elder committed
it to the flames, and spent the remainder of the day in
devising and settling his plans, and in drawing up for Seth's signature,
an acquittance to the Family of all the property of which
he had, or might become the inheritor. And the next day, after
having smoothed the way for the attempt, as he supposed, by an
unusual display of affability and parent-like kindness, he cautiously
broached the subject to the young man, tried to induce
him to sign the paper falsely affirming it to be one of their regulations
to require such an act of the young members of their
Society, whether they had any property or not, when they arrived
at legal age, at which Seth, as it happened, had, a few days
before, attained. The latter, however, secretly meditating upon
leaving the Family soon, had no notion of cutting himself off
from any right of property which might some day accrue to him,
though now he certainly had no such expectation; and he therefore
firmly refused to comply with the Elder's request. After
renewing the attempt several times, and resorting to every art
and falsehood which he thought likely to aid him in his purpose,
Higgins was compelled to relinquish his fraudulent design, with
no other result than that of exciting the suspicions of Seth, that
there might have indeed something occurred at his uncle's in his
favor, and of hastening his determinaiion to leave and go and see
for himself.
It was no wonder, then, when all these injuries, closed as the
dark catalogue was by the death of the victim, rose in review
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
before the mind of the guilty Elder, that his conscience troubled
him. He had not, it is true, really intended quite to destroy the
young man's life, but he could not disguise from himself that his
acts, malicious and wicked in themselves, had as much produced
the fatal result as if his own hand had dealt the death-blow, and
that, too, under feelings but little less holy than he need to have
possessed to have rendered the deed the foulest in the list of human
crimes. In vain did he try to shut out these disquieting
thoughts from his mind; in vain did he try, by quibbling and
sophistry to still the voice of conscience; and he soon became
the prey of the most horrible fancies. He remembered the accidental
threat made by Seth among the last things he uttered: “I
will haunt you when I am dead,” and the feaful words “I will
haunt you when I am dead. I will haunt you when I am dead,”
rang constantly in his ears; and so strong were his guilty fears,
and so nervous and excitable had he become, that to him the menace
was often literally fulfilled in the dread shapings of his distempered
imagination. By day he appeared abstracted or restlessnow
heedless and lost to every thing around him, and now wildly
starting at the rustling of every leaf; and by night roaring out
in his sleep and disturbing his wondering people by his strange
and almost unearthly outcries.
Such was the punishment of the miserable Elder; but whether
this was not rather the result of his fears than any sincere repentance
tending to make him a better man, we will not attempt
to decide. One thing, however, is certain; it operated greatly
to the relief of the before persecuted Martha; for, from that
eventful night, on which she parted with her lover, she saw, for
several weeks, no indications of any renewal of her trials. Much,
indeed, did she wonder to what cause she owed this happy exemption;
though she believed it, without being able to tell why,
to have some connection with the fate of Seth, concerning which
a horrid suspicion occasionally flitted across her mind. She tried,
however, to banish such suspicions from her thoughts, and
charitably strove to believe, that her persecutor had been brought
to condemn his own conduct towards her, and had, in consequence,
laid aside his designs against her peace. But she at
length began to perceive that her hopes were to be disappointed
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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
—she again began to perceive that, in the demeanor of the Elder
towards her, which told her that she was still the marked victim
of his unhallowed designs. And from day to day she once more
lived in the constant dread of being again summoned to the scene
of her former trials. Nor was such summons long delayed.
One day, as the Family were retiring from their noon meals, the
Elder approached the terrified girl and notified her to meet him
alone, after worship, the coming evening, in the room which he
had formerly desecrated by his infamous conduct. But the hapless
maiden was not reserved for so wretched a fate as that which
seemed to hang so menacingly over her. An unexpected incident
intervened between her and that dreaded hour, which was
destined to form the most important era in her life, while it
brought defeat and confusion upon her enemy.
-- 034 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
It was a mild and pleasant afternoon in November, just four
weeks after the melancholy event before described,—Martha
was sitting in one of the common working-rooms of the women,
at work with several of the sisterhood, some of whom, like herself,
were engaged in sewing, some at the loom and some at the
distaff. As she sat plying her needle, an air of deep pensiveness,
sweetly tempered, however, by resignation, was resting on
her lovely brow. She had been viewing with dismayed feelings,
and gloomy apprehensions the dismal prospect before her; but having
schooled those feelings into submission to whatever fate Providence
might allott her, she had turned to the images of the
past, and her mind was now wandering among the dearest memories
of her existence. She recalled the almost forgotten circumstance,
that the ensuing night was the one proposed by her
departed lover for his return to meet her, and a thousand mournful
fancies took possession of her mind. She imagined how,
had her lover lived, her heart would now be fluttering at the
thought of the approaching meeting; and then her excited imagination
took wing, and she wondered if it was not true, as she
had sometimes heard, that the dead were permitted to keep the
appointments made by them while living, and come in spirit to
the place to meet and commune with their friends; and, if so,
whether, should she repair to the trysting tree, at the appointed
hour, Seth would not be there to meet her. Faith and love answered
yea; and, conscious of nothing which should cause her
to fear such a meeting, at which perhaps, heavenly counsel might
be imparted to guide and direct her in her threatened difficulties,
she half-resolved to brave the summons of the Elder to meet
him at the same hour, and go to keep her appointment with the
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
deceased. While she was thus indulging in these sadly pleasing
reveries, her attention was arrested by the sound of a strange
voice in the yard below, belonging to some one who had just arrived,
and was now engaged in conversation with several of the
Shaker men. Thinking there was something peculiar in the
careless, rattling manner of the new comer's discourse, she arose
and went to the window, when it was with a mixture of wonder
and surprise that she beheld the singular and vagabond appearance
of the man who had attracted her attention. His dress
was not only tattered and patched, but ill-fitting and whimsical,
consisting of small clothes altogether too big, with a coat as
much too little; and these were surmounted by an old staw hat
entirely rimless before, and not much better behind. He was
evidently quite a young man, and, but for a certain kind of foolish,
staring cast of countenance, would have been accounted very
good looking. He seemed quite at home among his new acquaintances,
and was not at all bashful about making enquiries,
many of which were so very simple and childish as to provoke a
smile upon the sober visages, even of the Elders themselves.
After asking a thousand foolish questions and rattling away awhile
disconnectedly and witlessly enough to have made a good prototype
for John Bunyan's Talkative, he carelessly observed, that,
as for himself he was now entirely out of work and out of any home;
and he really wished he could find some good place to live where
he could get enough to eat, for he sat a great deal by victuals.
Instantly taking the hint from this observation of the vagabond,
and believing him to be about simple enough to make them
a good subject, the Shaker leaders were not slow to propose to
him to join the Family, and at once to take up his residence at
their establishment. To this the fellow replied, that he `had
often hearn say, that the Shakers were a mighty good sort of
people, and he had sometimes been almost a good mind to go and
live with them, but as he had never seen them before, he should
like to go round and look at things a little before he told them
for sartin about staying; and if they would give him something
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
to eat, and then let him go all round where he was a mind to,
that afternoon, he would tell them at night, what he would do.'
The man was accordingly soon furnished with an excellent
meal, at which he appeared highly delighted. After this, free
permission having been granted him for the purpose, he commenced
his rambles over the farm, through the barns, yards and outhouses,
inspecting the crops, stock, and every thing connected
with the establishment, with childish curiosity and the greatest
apparant interest, often leaving the objects of his examination
and running to the Shakers to ask some question, and then racing
back, in high glee, to his employment. When he appeared
to have satisfied himself with viewing every thing out of doors,
he went to the Elders and told them, “he now wanted to see
the women works. He did'nt, to be sure, think women of much
use generally, but, as they had to get the victuals and make the
clothes, he should like mighty well to go in awhile and see how
they carried on?”
Although this was contrary to their general custom, yet the
Leaders, conceiving they had the making of a good proselyte at
stake, and evidently viewing the fellow as a weak minded, harmless
creature, soon concluded to humor him in this freak as they
had done in every thing else; and therefore, they told him to behave
well, but go where he pleased.
Quickly availing himself of the permission, he began the rounds
of the different female lodges, making, however, but a brief stay
in any one till he came to the room where Martha was at work
with the small party of her companions.—Here he leisurely walked
round viewing, with an air of wondering simplicity, the work of
these demure artisans, making his silly comments, and, as usual,
asking a variety of irrevalent questions, and, among the rest, the
names of all the different females in the apartment.
Although the conduct and conversation of the stranger went
clearly to show him to be a very great simpleton, yet there
was a certain something about him which soon led the discerning
Martha to doubt whether he was quite what he pretended, or
rather what all the rest of the Family obviously considered him.
And that doubt was greatly strengthened, in a short time, as
looking up, she caught him fixing a keen, steady, intelligent look
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
upon her face, entirely at variance with the vacant, or idiotic,
expression, which had thus far seemed to characterize his features.
And it was with a sort of undefinable interest, that, the
next moment, she saw him approaching her, as he now did, with
the remark, that `he wanted to see what this woman was making
too?' Accordingly he took up part of the work lying in her
lap, when, as he was flourishing it about, under pretence of examining
it, he slily dropped a small, closely sealed billet into her
open hand. As soon as he saw her fingers close over the paper,
he threw down the work over her hand containing the billet,
and, with the eagerly whispered injunction, “Read and give
me token,” whipped off to look at something else, which seemed
suddenly to have caught his attention.
Feigning some errand out, Martha soon rose and disappeared
on her way to her private chamber. In a few moments the
stranger returned to finish his inspection of Martha's work, during
which, though as busy and talkative as ever he might have
been seen to throw many a keen and anxious glance towards the
door through which the fair absentee was expected to return.
At length she made her appearance. A close observer would
have at once noticed, that, during her absence, she had been agitated
by powerful emotions, and had wept profusely; and yet,
through the subsiding shower, the first smile, that had lit up,
her face for a month, was stealing over her lovely features, while
anything but displeasure marked the general expression of her
glowing countenance.
On entering the room, she went immediately to an Eldress,
and, with the air of one slightly annoyed, asked if she had not
better hint to the man the propriety of his now retiring; and
having received permission to do so, she approached him,
and, with a look which he seemed readily to understand, observed,—
“Thy visit friend, has been very acceptable, and thy communications
shall be heeded; but we think, that now, perhaps, thee
would find more to divert thee among the men in the field.”
With some careless remarks, in good keeping with the character
he had been acting, the man immediately left the apartment
and proceeded to the field, where the men were at work,
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and where, in chatting with them, trying his hand occasionally
at their work, and rambling over the premises, he spent the remainder
of the afternoon, apparantly highly delighted with his
situation.
-- 039 --
CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
When the Family assembled for supper, however, the fellow
was unaccountably missing; but the Shakers, having seen so
much of his erratic movements, and supposing him still to be
somewhere about the farm or buildings, did not seem to pay
much attention to the circumstance, or think it worth their while
to institute any search for him; and their evening meal, through
all the different departments of the Family, passed off with customary
quietness.
After finishing their repast, as usual the whole Family, just as
the stars were beginning to twinkle in the clear blue of the November's
sky, took their way to the house of worship, which was
an unenclosed building opening to the road, a branch of which
turned up and ran directly by the doors. The ceremonies of
worship, also, were attended with no unusual occurrence, and,
being concluded the assembly broke up to return to their respective
lodges. But on opening the doors and coming out on the
steps, the foremost of the company, to their surprise, beheld a
horse and chaise drawn up within a few yards of the door allotted
to the use of the females, the door for the males being some
thirty feet towards the other end of the house. By the side of
the horse a man, young and neatly dressed, as far as his appearance
could be judged of by star-light, stood holding the reins and
whip, with his face turned towards the door, and in the seeming
attitude of waiting. The women came hesitating down the steps,
and there coming to a stand, began timidly and silently to stretch
forward their heads and peer at the mysterious stranger. The
men, also, coming out and seeing the unexpected visitant and his
equipage stationed across the path of the women, began, with
low-whispered enquiries of one another, to gather towards the
spot. In this stage of the affair, Elder Higgins, who had purposed
to remain in the house till all had retired, that he might
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pass unobserved to the room where he was expecting the next
moment to meet the victim of his designs, became impatient at
the tardy movement of the people, and came bustling through the
throng, with a light in his hand, to ascertain the cause of the delay;
when the stranger turned suddenly round and confronted
him. The instant the light struck upon the face of the latter, the
recoiling Elder uttered a convulsive shriek, and, with wildly glaring
eyes and chattering teeth, sunk down upon the ground in
horror and affright at the apparition which he believed he had
beheld. A commotion was now observed among the huddling
and startled females, and, the next moment a light figure rapidly
made her way to the front of the crowd.
“It is!” she exclaimed in low, eager accents, after a momentary
pause, “it is—oh! it is he!” she repeated, and, springing
forward, threw herself into the arms of the stranger, who, lightly
swinging her into the seat of his vehicle, turned again towards
the crowd.
“Viper!” he exclaimed, advancing with brandished fist close
to the appalled and nearly prostrate Elder; “viper, thou art baffled!”
With this he turned quickly about, leaped nimbly into his seat
by the side of the fair companion he had just placed there, applied
the whip to his horse, and dashed forward for the main
road, leaving the whole assembled Family of Shakers standing
aghast and bewildered with astonishment and perplexity at what
had so suddenly and inexplicably passed before them.
As dreadfully frightened as the guilt-smitten Elder had been,
yet he was the first to comprehend the mystery and rally for the
rescue.
“The fiend!” he fiercely cried, leaping up and pointing with
frantic gestures after the departing carriage, “Oh, the fiend!—
the apostate—the reprobate, the Godless reprobate is carrying
off Martha! Pursue him! stop him! catch him! save her from
the villain! Run! run for your lives, or they will escape us!”
Roused by the commands and the eager and furious manner
of their leader, the men, followed by the women, rushed
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promiscuously down the road in pursuit of the fugitives; but scarcely
had they passed the line of the buildings in this disorderly rout,
and gained the main road where it became enclosed by fences,
when a rope suddenly sprang from the dust across the path
against the legs or uplifted feet of the foremost rank of the pursuers;
and the next instant a platoon of Shakers were rolling
and sprawling on the ground, while those in the rear, unable to
check their speed in time to save themselves, came, rank after
rank, successively tumbling and floundering down at the backs
of their fallen companions, till nearly the whole bevy were prostrate
and scrambling on all fours in the road.
At this juncture the wild, rattling laugh of the missing vagabond
was heard behind the stone fence over against one end of
the mischief-making spring rope; and, the next instant a gaily
dressed young man leaped lightly over the fence into the road,
and made a brief pause a few paces ahead of the fallen and confused
forces of the pursuing enemy.
“May be, friends,” he said in a half jovial, half commisserating
tone, as he glanced at the disorderly plight of his recent entertainers,
“may be you don't know me with my Sunday clothes
on?—Well, well, good people, perhaps it is indeed rather a provoking
case for you; but here is about twenty yards of good
new rope, which I will leave you, by way of amends for your
hospitality this afternoon, and your tumble this evening. It is
the best I can do for you now, I believe; though if you should
ever cage another such rare bird, as the one just flown yonder,
and should be in want of more rope—but I can't stay to chat
now—so good bye, thee and thou, good bye to ye!”
So saying, and leaving the discomfitted Shakers to gather themselves
up in the best way they could, he bounded forwards, a few
rods, leaped upon a horse, which stood tied in a nook in the
fence, and galloped off after the receding carriage, now rattling
away in the distance.
“And what then? I asked, perceiving that the narrator had
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
come to a stand, with the air of one who had arrived at the end
of his story—“what then—what next happened?”
“Why, nothing very unnatural, I believe,” replied my host,
with a humorous smile, “unless you make out to the contrary
from the fact, that an old Justice of the Peace, living some eight
or ten miles from the scene of action, was called up that night
to do a little business in the marrying line.”
“And the bride on the occasion?”—I asked, somewhat puzzled
to comprehend the development, “the bride was your heroine,
Martha, of course; but the bridegroom?—Not Seth, surely,
for he was drowned you know.”
“Perhaps, friend,” answered my host, with waggish gravity,
“perhaps he was not drowned as much as some, after all; but,
rising to the surface, after his unlucky plunge, and seeing the
wicked attitude of the Elder, suddenly changed his plan, and, so
sinking under again, with some little show of drowning, and with
a kick or two to make the bubbles rise, came up silently under a
neighboring clump of bushes—crept away with the loss of his
shoe and broad-brim—went to a young farmer of his acquaintance—
exchanged his wet Quaker gear for a decent suit of
clothes, and set off for the residence of his late uncle, where
he arrived the next day, and, to his agreeable surprise, found
himself in possession of one of the best little farms on the Merrimac,
and where, in due time, he, in conjunction with a new
made young friend there, concocted the plan which you have seen
executed.”
“A romantic coming out, upon my soul!” I exclaimed in delight;
“Well, then, you knew the parties?—are they still alive?”
“Ay.”
“Do they reside in this vicinity?”
“Ay again.”
“Why, I would go almost any distance to see them.”
“You would have no very serious journey to perform for that
purpose, Sir,” he replied significantly.
“Why?—How?” I asked, still in doubt respecting the full
development.
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
“Why, verily, my friend,” said my host, casting an arch look
at my perplexed countenance, and speaking in the Quaker dialect,
“verily thee art not so shrewd a guesser as I had supposed
thee, else thee had smelt the rat long ago.”
“Stupid!” I cried, “stupid indeed! But I see it all now—
the hero, Seth, is here before me, and the heroine, the good
Martha”—
“Run away,” he interrupted, laughingly, “run away, as you
might have noticed, perhaps, at the beginning of the description,
by which she was introduced, as we went on with the story; but
the hero, being more modestly described, made out to stand the
racket without running.”
“One more question only,” said I;—“the young friend who, in
the character of a vagabond, took your letter to Martha, and so
finely managed the affair”—
“Was also from this neighborhood,” he replied—“you noticed,
perhaps, as you came along, a mile or two back, a two story white
house, with an office in the yard?”
“I did—thinking it a very neat establishment,” I answered.
“Well, Sir, he rejoined, “that is the—though, perhaps,
Esquire Wentworth would not thank me for telling of his pranks
when he first started life as a lawyer. It was the making of the
man, however;—people seeing how cleverly he had managed a
love case, concluded he would be no slouch at a law case, if he
had one.—He rose rapidly after that. But enough of this. Seth
and Martha, my children!” he continued, calling to his eldest boy
and girl, still up and reading in the kitchen;—“one of you take
a mug and the other a candle, and go down and draw us a mug
of the best cider in the cellar.—This Shaker story has made my
throat as dry as a tin trumpet.”
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
ETHAN ALLEN, AND THE LOST CHILDREN.
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
It is often less difficult, perhaps, to awaken the sympathy of
the reader by the portraying of fiction, than by the recital of
facts. And many a writer, we doubt not, who might have easily
produced a very thrilling fancy-sketch, has paused over incidents
of actual occurrence calculated to arouse the deepest emotions of
the heart, with a painful consciousness of his inability to present
them in such a manner, as should ensure the interest and effect,
which legitimately belong to them. Such, at all events, are our
feelings, as we take up our pen to describe an incident of the early
settlement, well known and often rehearsed, among the unwritten
stories of the times, by the inhabitants of that section of country
where it occurred. And if we can but succeed in writing up
to nature, or even exciting in the reader one moiety of the feeling
that agitated the bosoms of the actors in the scene as it transpired,
we shall not need a single touch from the hand of fancy to add
interest or pathos to our description.
In the afternoon of the last day of May, 1780, the wife of a
settler might have been seen sitting at her spinning-wheel at the
open door of her log cottage, situated in one of the secluded
vales of Sunderland, and interior town lying along the western
slope of the Green Mountains.—The day being quite warm and
pleasant, she had drawn out her wheel thither, that, while pursuing
the labors of the distaff, she might inhale the odorous breezes
of the season, and enjoy the wild but pleasing prospect presented
in the thousand slopes and swells of the far-stretching
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
mountain-wilderness, over which nature had just thrown her
gorgeous mantle of living green, brightly relieved and variegated,
at intervals, by the pure white of the blossoming shad-wood and
the varying hues of other flowering shrubs, which, at that season,
beautify the appearance, and make sweet the breath of the forest.
For deem not, ye book-made connoisseurs of the beautiful and
magnificent,—deem not the pleasures of taste exclusively your
own, because you can give learned names to your sensations.—
The humblest cottagers of our mountains, though they may not
be able to define their emotions in the exact terms of art, yet enjoy
the beauties of nature with as lively a relish as yourselves,
and are even more inclined, we have often thought, to view them
with that higher, holier feeling, which they ever should inspire—
that feeling, which causes the soul, as it contemplates, to send up
the incense of its silent adorations to Him, who made earth so
lovely for creatures who so dully appreciate the boon, constituting
as it does, one of the most striking of all his manifold blessings.
The woman we have introduced was not only a wife but a
mother; and, while she was seen occasionally to send a glance
of affection towards her hardy husband, bending over his hoe in
an adjoining field, her eyes, beaming with all a parent's tenderness
and pride, even still more often turned upon her children,
two sprightly little girls, of the ages of five and seven, who were
playing in the yard before her.
“Mother!” exclaimed the elder of the two girls, stopping
short in her gambols at the thought that seemed suddenly to have
struck her, “Mother, when I went yesterday with father along
side of the woods over yonder, I saw—O, such sights; and sights
of pretty flowers!—adder-tongues, violets, and all, which he
wouldn't let me have time to get—now mayn't we go there and
gather some?”
“I don't know about that, my child,”—good naturedly replied
the mother. “You are such a little romp, that if you once get
into the woods, you will be sure to run till you get lost, I fear,
and”—
“O, but we won't go into the woods, only a little, leetle ways,
Mother,” interrupted the child.
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[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“And then,” resumed the anxious mother, without heeding
the interruption, “and then it is but a short distance to Roaring
Branch, where you might get drowned.—I had rather you would
go to your father, children.”
“Let us go into the woods and get the flowers first, and then
we'll go to father. We wont get lost, certain, certain—so now
do, mother?” persisted the litle pleader, looking up beseechingly
into the other's face.
The mother still shook her head, but with so kindly a smile
that the quick eye of the child saw that her purpose was won,
and joyously shouting “O we may!” she bounded away, followed
by her little sister, under the repeated but scarcely heard or heeded
cautions of the former, till an intervening swell hid them from
her sight.
As the eye of the mother rested fondly and proudly on the
receding forms of her children, she thought of what they were
to her then—her comfort and her care—of what they soon would
be to her;—not only a comfort, but an aid in lightening the
burdens and toils, so heavily imposed on her and her companion,
in their endeavors to subdue the wilderness and create within its
bosom a comfortable home. And as she thus turned to the future,
imagination began to be busy with her bright pictures of
coming prosperity and happiness; for in them, as usual, all the
sunshine of life was gathered and all its clouds forgotten. Beneath
her glowing pencil, the wilderness fast faded away; and in
place of the humble log tenement, a large and commodious mansion
rose to view, surrounded by smooth and fertile fields laden
with products, and green pastures filled with flocks, or embowered
with orchards bending with fruit; while she, the mistress of
all, with the companion of her early toils, now beyond the necessity
of labor, were reaping the rewards of all their privations
and hardships, in the enjoyment of the bounties by which they
were surrounded,—of the cheering presence of their children,
budding into life and attracting a pleasant social circle around
them—the respect of society at large—perhaps the honors of the
public, and every thing that could make their lives desirable, or
in any manner heighten the picture of the happy domicil thus
figured to her mind.
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
In reveries like these, in which many a poor first settler has
found his only reward for a life of hardship, hours glided away
unperceived by the entranced mother, till the descending sun,
beginning to dip behind the lofty mountains bounding the vale
to the north and west, caught her abstracted eye and brought her
back to the realities of life.
“My children! where are they?” was the first thought that
crossed her awakened mind, as she became aware of the lapse of
time since their departure. Suddenly stopping her wheel, she rose
hastily to her feet, and, after throwing a searching glance over the
field where her husband was still at work, she ran to the top of the
knoll,behind which they had disappeared. Here she paused and ran
her eye eagerly along the borders of the woods, bounding their
little opening on the east. But no children greeted her anxious
gaze. She then called loudly their names; but no sound responded
to her call, excepting a hallo from her husband, who demanded
the cause of her outcries.
“The children!” she almost shrieked in reply, “have you
seen the children?”
“No—I thought they were with you,” he answered, holding
his suspended hoe in his hands, while he listened to her brief and
hurried recital of the time and manner of their children's disappearance.
As she closed, the hoe dropped suddenly from his hands, and,
making his way with rapid strides, he, the next moment, stood
before her, when mutely exchanging with her a look of agonizing
intelligence, and, bidding her follow, with that almost savage
sternness, which startled affection will often force into the manner
of the most mild and gentle, they hurried forward to the
woods. Here taking different directions, they at first proceeded
along the borders of the forest around the whole clearing; and
then, penetrating farther within the woods, they repeated their
rounds, frequently pausing and calling aloud, but in vain, for
their lost children. After hunting an hour in this manner, the
now thoroughly alarmed parents met again at the spot where they
commenced their search.
“Run and raise the neighbors, wife,” said the husband in an
agitated voice, “and tell them to come quick—quick,” he added,
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
as, with an uneasy glance towards the distant summits, where
the fading of the last rays of the setting sun told him how little
of daylight remained for the search, he again plunged into the
forest.
Although the poor mother was already flushed with heat, and
nearly exhausted by her exertions, yet she rather flew than ran
to the house of the nearest neighbor, nearly a mile distant, and,
as soon as she could get breath to speak, made known her trouble,
the simple announcement of which was sufficient to arouse the
sympathizing inmates to immediate action in her behalf, by starting
off in different directions to spread the alarm through the settlement.
The instant she saw the hastily saddled horses mounted
by the messengers, and put under whip and spur on their destination,
she turned and sped back to her now desolate home,
thinking she would there rest till the expected help arrived;
when she herself would lead the way to the spot where the children
disappeared. But little was the rest which her troubled spirit
permitted her to enjoy. She would sit down for this purpose,
it is true; but the next moment, she would start up and run to
the door to look out, return, sit down, and rise again to repeat
the same motion; or, perhaps, she would run to her cupboard
and handle over the dishes, but only to replace them, and proceed
to something else to be as unconsciously begun and as quickly
relinquished.
In this manner did the distressed mother employ herself, till
the sudden trampling of horses' feet brought her to the door,
where she saw about a dozen men dismounting in the yard,
whose presence she greeted with a shout of almost frantic joy.
Among the new comers there was, fortunately, one whose well
known name was a host in every public gathering, when a united
effort was required to accomplish the object in view; for with a
full share of the more common qualities of skill and energy, he
possessed a remarkable faculty of inspiring in others that faith of
success by which, not unfrequently success can only be insured.
That man was the celebrated Colonel Ethan Allen, who to recruit
a constitution impaired by the fatigues of the camp and his long
captivity, had retired to a farm in this town, where he was then
an honored resident.
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
Allen now advanced to the bereaved mother, and, kindly saluting
her, enquired the particulars of the disappearance of her
little ones. She began to reply but with almost the first word
burst into tears: and pointing to her husband, who at that moment
was seen approaching from the woods, she dropped on to a
bench and covered her face with her hands.
“Be of good cheer, dear madam,” said the hero, deeply touched
at her grief. “Bear up with fortitude, and confide in us soon
to relieve you of your anxiety; for your children shall be found.
I pledge you the word of Ethan Allen, that I will return with
them or search till I die.”
After learning the desired particulars of the father, who now
came up, Allen held a brief consultation with those present, respecting
the manner of conducting the proposed search. And it
was soon settled, that every man should provide himself with a
pine knot torch for the night.—Such as could readily procure
horns or conk-shells were to take them to blow at intervals, for
the purpose of keeping the company in a line, or near together;
and, as nearly all came with guns, it was concluded to take them
along also; but no man was to discharge his piece, till the children
should be found, when two guns in quick succession, were
to be fired as the signal.
These brief arrangements being made, the company, now every
moment fast increasing by fresh arrivals, was put in motion by
Allen, who was unanimously chosen leader, and marched forward
to the border of the woods. Here they halted and lighted their
torches, it being by this time quite dark; when each man, having
taken his appointed station in a line, formed by placing the men
about a dozen yards apart, the whole, at the word of command
from their leader, entered the forest and began the anxious
search.
Man happily seems endued with the privilege and power of
deadening the sharpest stings of grief and anxiety by action; but
no such privilege—perhaps no such power, remains for woman.
The father of the lost ones, as deep as was his anguish, could
yet endure it in silence, while mingling in the active exertions of
the search. But O, what pen can describe the feelings of that
agonized mother, during the lingering hours of that dreadful
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[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
night? Though surrounded by female neighbors, who had come
in to assist, and who would have gladly encouraged and comforted
her, yet she would listen to no words of comfort. But restlessly
moving about the room, and wringing her hands in tearless
wo, she ceased not to bewail her children, whom she sometimes
fancied in watery graves, and sometimes torn to pieces and devoured
by wild beasts. Hope, indeed, might occasionally come
to her relief, and her mind for a moment, be diverted from its
engrossing sorrow, as the sounds of horns, or the voices of the
men, shouting to their fellows in the woods, struck her ear, or
the gleaming of their torches caught her eye. But the embittering
thought would quickly return, and drive her to resume her
ceaseless rounds about her room, till compelled by utter exhaustion,
she would throw herself on to her bed, and perhaps fall
into a disturbed slumber, but only to start again the next moment,
with an exclamation of anguish at some fearful image, which
dreaming fancy had called up from the depth of her troubled
spirit.
Thus, with the poor mother passed this seemingly interminable
night,and the morning light so anxiously looked for by her,at length
made its appearance, but only to disclose the scattering groups
of the company returning from the woods, with slow and weary
steps, and the thoughtful and downcast manner, which plainly
told that their exertions had been unsuccessful. They returned
not, however, with the thought of relinquishing their object,
but only to refresh, and recruit themselves by a short respite for a
renewal of the search. And, after as many as the house could
supply had been furnished with food, and the messengers, despatched
to other houses for the purpose, had returned with supplies
for the rest, the company were again led back by their persevering
leader to recommence, in other, and yet unexplored
parts of the forest, the search for the lost ones, of whom not a
single trace had yet been discovered.
Another day of fruitless researches succeeded—another day
of torturing anxiety and suspense to the pitiable parents, now
giving away to despair, and now clinging to hope, but to a hope
continually growing weaker and weaker from the consciousness
that every hour lessened the probability that their children would
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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
be found, or if found, that they would be found living. Although
the country for more than twenty miles around had been alarmed,
and over six hundred men had by this time assembled and joined
in the search,—although miles of the dark and tangled forest
had been carefully explored by the company, proceeding, now
that their numbers were so increased, in a line at arms length
from each other, or always so near as to preclude the possibility
that the lost could be passed over unseen; yet no traces
of them had been seen—no clue discovered, which could lead to
any thing but the merest conjecture of their fate or present situation.
And so deeply impressed were a large proportion of the
company, before the close of this day, of the uselessness of any
further search for the children, who, as they generally believed,
must have been seized by the wolves or panthers, and borne off
to distant dens to be devoured, that they would have relinquished
the search and gone home, but for the constant and untiring
efforts of their indefatigable leader, who, passing continually from
one end of the line to the other,encouraged,exhorted,and implored
them to persevere, and entertain no thought of yielding, till the
children, whether living or dead should be found. And such were
his powers of controlling the multitude, and infusing into them
his own burning and confiding spirit, that their hesitation gave
way under his appeals, and in spite of fatigues, and the faintness
consequent on the scantiness of the supplies of food, which,
only could be brought to so many in the woods, they cheerfully
continued their unpromising toils, not only through the dreary
night that followed, but the greater part of the succeeding day;
though with no other result, than that of keeping alive, in the
meantime, in the bosoms of the distracted parents, the forlorn
hope, which arose from the knowledge that the search was not
yet relinquished. Perseverance, however, with a lessening prospect
of success, could not always be expected in a body of men
brought thus promiscuously together, and acting only from feelings
of sympathy, or the dictates of a common duty. And towards
night, on this, the third day of the search, small parties
began to steal away. And the example operating on the rest,
faint, weary, and despairing of success, the whole soon broke
from a line, and retiring from the woods, followed in silence by
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their now sad and grieved leader, assembled at the house of the
disconsolate parents.
All seemed deeply impressed by the painful circumstances under
which they were now, for the last time, as they supposed,
assembled at this abode of unmitigated sorrow. Though no one
had announced that the search had been given up, yet all seemed
to understand that such was the fact. Even the beraved parents
seemed perfectly aware of the melancholy truth; for, differently
from what they had yet done, they now came out and took a seat
together, after the manner of mourners at the last rites of the
dead, on a bench near the door, in full view of the company,
and there sat drooping with that air of hopeless grief, which is
only assumed under the sad consciousness that all is over. The
silence of a funeral pervaded the whole assembled multitude,
who, seated on logs, and other objects, or lying in groups on the
grass about the yard, seemed silently mingling their sympathies
for the bereaved. And for nearly half of an hour, no movement
was made, and no loud word was spoken; when the singularly
gifted, and, to this day, even but imperfectly understood man,
who had acted as leader, and had now been standing aloof, with
a sad and troubled look, slowly mounted a large stump on one
side of the yard, and raising his towering form, and glancing
mournfully round over the assemblage, commanded attention:—
“Men,” he impressively began, “fellow-men, neighbors, parents,
all, hear me, for I can keep silent no longer; and, if I
should, it seems to me, to use the words of the good book, that
the very stones would cry out! I have been in battles, where the
dying and the dead lay thick around me. I have spent months in
the earthly hell of a British prison-ship, where despair and death,
in their most appalling forms, were daily before me; but they
all furnished no scene to wring the bosom with commisseration
like this. Look at that bereaved, heart-stricken pair!” he continued,
while the big tears began to roll down his cheeks, “why
are their bosoms thus heaving with convulsive sobs; and why
is dark despair settling on their countenances, which, till now,
have not been without the light of hope? Is it because their
children are dead? No! for they, as well as ourselves, must
know that it is yet quite too soon to settle down in that
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melancholy presumption. No, it is not this! But is it not because
they see, that we have come here to tell them,—as we
should, if we could find in our hearts to make the announcement,
to tell them, that we can search no longer for their children,—
that we are tired, and must go home to our business now, leaving
their unfortunate little ones to perish miserably in the woods!
Young men, who have often found strength to keep the woods a
week to hunt down some paltry wolf or bear, are you satisfied to
give up after a search of forty-eight hours, when two human
lives are at stake?—Men, who have been with me in the war,
and cheerfully undergone fatigues and hunger, a hundred fold
greater than those we have here experienced, are you also, willing
that your acts should tell the same story to this broken-hearted
pair, and to the world? And lastly, parents, O parents, can you
take this case home to your own bosoms,—can you look on this
distracted father and mother, and make their case your own, and
picture to yourselves, your own little ones lost in the woods, worn
out, weary and famishing, with no human face to cheer and encourage
them,—no human hand to minister to them,—trembling
with fear through the night, as the wild beasts howl around them,
and wailing out their little lives in grief and hunger. Can you do
this, and then coldly talk of relinquishing the search, and going
home? If you can,” he went on, with the tears now falling in
streams from his eyes, “go, go! and may the God of humanity
forgive you, and be merciful to you, when your own children in
turn, are lost and perishing in the wilderness! As for myself, I
am now about to return to the forest there, as I pledged myself
to these poor parents, at the outset, there to continue the search
till the lost are found, or life be worn out in the effort. But can
it be, friends and neighbors, to whom this is my last appeal, can
it be, that I am to go alone?
“No! never!” shouted a dozen voices from different parts of
the crowd.
“No! no, I will go! I shall go! we will all go with you, even
to the end of your vow, noble colonel!” responded one and all,
rushing forward with excited looks, and new resolution beaming
through the manly tears, which had bedewed every cheek of that
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large assemblage, during the touching appeal of their idolized
leader.
“God bless you for this, my friends!”—exclaimed Allen with
emotion, “Depend on't there's a Providence in this new born
faith and resolution. Those children are yet to be found; and
ah!” he continued, exultingly pointing to an ox-team, containing
several large baskets of provisions, which, driven by a boy, was
was seen turning into the yard. “Ah, here is already an omen of
our success, in these supplies so timely forwarded by our thoughtful
wives and daughters. Come, men, gather round it. Let each
furnish himself with a good ration, and we will be off again to
the woods; for we must bear in mind that an hour lost now
may be death to the objects of our search.”
The clouds of doubt and despondency having been thus dispelled,
and a complete revulsion of feeling effected by the tact
and rough eloquence of Allen, men forgot their fatigues, and
everything now proceeded with spirit and animation. The fresh
arrivals of provisions was hastily distributed; and all other preparations
being as speedily made, the lengthened column, headed
by the now exulting leader, was seen deploying along the borders
of the woods. Here they halted; and a brief consultation was
held among the most prominent of the company, which resulted
in the determination to push eastwardly, directly on to the mountains
beyond the limits of their previous explorations. A party
of four men, however, consisting of active and experienced
woodsmen, were detached to the left to proceed up Roaring
Branch, and follow it up to its sources in the ponds in the gorges
of the mountains, the upper part of the stream having been
hitherto left unexplored in the search, on accouut of the supposed
impossibility of the children having been able to penetrate so far
through the rocky steeps, and tangled passages which there environed
its banks.
This being done the company moved rapidly forward to the
foot of the mountains, beyond which the search had not, in this
direction, been extended. Here contracting their line so as to
bring each man in view of his fellow, they began slowly to
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ascend the toilsome steeps, carefully searching every covert, and
peering under every log, or tree-top, in their way, which might
possibly conceal the lost ones.
In this manner about an hour had been spent, and nearly a
mile searched over without discovery, when the word was passed
by the leader, who had taken station and marched on the extreme
right, to “halt, dress the line, and rest.” And thankfully
indeed, was the order by this time received; for the men, now
the excitement recently kindled by their ardent leader had died
away, began to feel the effects of these superadded exertions;
and most of them immediately dropped down on to the nearest
rock, or moss banks, to catch what little rest their brief respite
might allow; while they amused themselves in looking off from
their elevated situation over the forest clad hills and dales, which,
broken only, by the apparenly small and thinly scattered openings
of the settlers, lay stretching in tranquil beauty beneath and
before them, till the scene was closed on the north and west by
the lofty mountains of Manchester, and the less elevated ridges
of Arlington, whose empurpled sides now met the eye in striking
contrast with the splendor which the setting sun was throwing
over their burnished summits. But though thus beguiled a short
time by the beauty and the novelty of the view here presented,
as they looked on the scenes behind; yet as they turned
to the rough steeps and deep abysses of the route before them
and thought of the toils of the coming night, many a heart again
desponded; and they wondered how they could have been induced
to re-commence the search with such spirit and hopeful
courage. Their sad anticipations, however, were fortunately not
to be realized; for while they were gloomily awaiting the expected
order to move forward, the whole line were suddenly roused by
the loud and startling report of one or more muskets, bursting
heavily from the gorge about a mile to the left, and in the direction
taken by the detached party, before mentioned. In an instant
every man was on his feet, with the unspoken question on
his lips,—“was that the first gun of the appointed signal?” And
the sharply whispered “hush! hark! list!” were the only sounds
-- 057 --
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that, for the next moment, could be heard along the line, as
with brightening eyes, and ears eagerly attent, all stood breathlessly
awaiting what they scarcely dared hope for, the completion
of the signal. But the next instant it came in another report from
the same spot, that sent its reverberating echoes down the gorges
towards them more distinctly than before.
“Found!” shouted the first man on the left; and “found!”
“found!” “found!” rang joyously swellling along the line from
man to man, till it ended in the stentorian shout of Ethan Allen,
who, leaping high from the ground, sent onward the exulting announcement,
“found! hallellujah to almighty God, the children
are found!”—in a voice that was heard, with a thrill of joy, even
to the distant abode of the hitherto despairing parents. The next
moment the wilderness shook with the answering discharge of
every gun in the company.
The children were now found it was evident; but how found?
Whether living or dead no one of the company here knew; and
few were willing to utter a loud conjecture, as, with common consent,
they all broke from their stations and hurried towards that
point in the woods, from which the signal had proceeded. But
leaving this exciting scene, we will now follow the small detached
party in the still more exciting adventures, which resulted in the
discovery just announced to the main company in the manner
we have described.
After passing rapidly over that part of their route which had
been previously examined in the search, this little party continued
to toil on through the tangled thickets and windfalls, or up
the wet and slippery declivities, which they every few yards encountered,
in following up the stream, till the increasing difficulties
of the way at length caused the leader of the party to doubt
the use or expediency of attempting to penetrate any further;—
and he proposed a halt, for the purpose of consulting his companions.
“Is there any possibility, Barlett,” he said, addressing the
man nearest to him, “that those children can have made their
way through such a place any further than this, or even so far, I
might as well have said?”
“I should think not, Captain Ball,” responded the person
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
addressed, “but we will have Underwood and Bingham's opinions,”
he added, turning to the two remaining ones of the party.
“Why, I don't think it impossible,” replied Underwood, “that
they should get through these wind-falls; for children will creep
through smaller holes than we can; but the only question with
me has been, whether they would naturally have kept on far in
a course, where the ground is so ascending, even as this ravine—
much less up the steeps where the main party have gone.”
“Well, now, that is no great question with me,” remarked
Bingham, who was an old and observing hunter,—“I've always
noted, that all the brute creatures in the woods, when frightened
and confused by pursuit, invariably take up hill courses, and why
not frightened and confused children, who, in such case, could
have nothing but instinct and natural impulses to guide or govern
them. If you can tell me why lost and frightened brutes do
this, or why lost and frightened children shouldn't, when brutes
do, I should like to hear you?”
This odd theory led to some further discussion among the rest
of the party, during which the hunter walked on a short distance
to a large hemlock tree, standing near the stream, where some appearance
had attracted his attention; and having carefully examined
the spot, he called to his companions to approach.
“Here,” said he, pointing down between the branching roots
of the tree, as the others came up, “here I am quite sure something
bedded last night, which I hardly think could have been a
four-footed animal, as I can find no hairs in the place. The impression,
besure, is slight; for the leaves, at this time, are so dry
that nothing will leave one, not even foot-steps, else the children
could have been traced before this. But the appearance of
this spot, taken in connection with that freshly broken twig,
hanging there by the bark between here and the stream, as you
see, inclines me to think the children staid here last night.
“I am willing you should have faith, Bingham,” remarked
Captain Ball, after examining the appearances to which the other
had thus invited attention; “but if it is grounded only on these
uncertain circumstances, I fear it will avail us but little in our
object. However, we will examine the place to some distance
around, and if the children have really been here, we shall probably
discover indications of it, of a less doubtful character.”
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
The adjoining woods were searched over to a considerable extent;
but no additional indications were discovered. And the
party, all but the hunter, again began to talk of turning their
steps towards home; when the latter, who stood musing a little
aloof from the rest, suddenly called on them to be silent and
listen.”
“What did you think you heard, Bingham?” asked Ball, in a
lowered tone.
“I can hardly tell,” replied the hunter, in the same tone, as he
stood with an ear turned in the direction of the supposed sound,
“but if you were not so determined to beat me out of the belief
of all my own senses, should say something that sounded like the
faintish kind of a yelp, with which a wolf generally begins a call
for help,—if it was, it will soon be repeated, now hark!”
All listened in silence, and, in a moment, the long, savage
howl, peculiar to the animal just named, was indeed heard rising
distinctly on the breeze, from some spot up the ravine, perhaps
three quarters of a mile distant.
“A wolf, sure enough,” said Bartlett.
“Yes, and if the children have gone this way, it is as I feared,”
added the less experienced Underwood, with a sigh, “the wolves
have devoured them.”
“Not so fast, Mister,” interposed the hunter, “that howl may
mean something a little more encouraging. But be quiet, and
listen. I am expecting a chorus to that tune in a minute or
so.”
They all again stood mute, and listened with increasing interest
and anxiety;—when the same wild howl, louder and more earnest
than before, resounded through the forest. And the next
instant another howl was faintly heard, responding from a distant
part of the mountain. And another, and another, soon followed
from different directions and distances, till the whole wilderness
seemed vocal with their terrific music.
“The thing is settled,” said the hunter, hastily repriming his
gun. “The children are near that wolf which howled first,—
alive, too, or he would not have called for help. The pack that
have answered him, are most of them a mile or two off; but they
will come like the wind. And we must be there before them, or
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
the poor little ones are gone forever. Follow me and keep up
who can,” he added, striking off like an arrow, in his projected
course.
“There is something in this, and in God's name, let us on,”
exclaimed the now thoroughly aroused Captain Ball, as followed
by his two remaining associates, he sprang forward after the
hunter.
All, by this time, seemed impressed with the conviction, tha
the issue of life or death to the children might now depend upon
their speed. And on they bounded from log to log, and hillock
to hillock, here gliding round an impassable jungle, and there
leaping over a fallen tree, or diving under it, with a celerity and
progress, which, in such a place, would have seemed incredible
to any but the trained woodsman. But as great as was their
speed, the hunter, who more than maintained his distance in advance,
soon began, by his beckoning gestures, to urge them to
greater exertions. Nor were they long at loss to perceive the
force of the silent but significant appeals thus made to them; for
the rapidly nearing sounds of the gathering wolves, and their
short, eager, yells, that told their close approach to the scented
prey, all made it evident that they were fast converging to the
point of this fearful rivalry between them and the woodsmen,
who thus incited, strained every nerve, and inwardly prayed for
new powers of speed, to reach the spot in season, but trembled
as they prayed, lest they should be one moment too late. A
happier return for their exertions, however, was now at hand:—
For suddenly the hunter stopped short, and, after peering a moment
through an intervening tree-top, down into a valley beyond,
he turned to his companions, and motioned them to come on
in silence. The next moment they were at his side, gazing down
on a scene that caused their hearts to jump into their mouths, and
tears to start in their eyes.
In an open space, about fifty yards in front of them, sat a large
wolf on his haunches headed from them, and towards his companions,
that were now plainly heard, making their way through
the surrounding thickets towards him;—while on a flat rock, near
the stream, a short distance to the left, stood the lost children,
amidst an imperfect bower, which they had constructed from the
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[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
gathered branches of the hemlock. The youngest was clinging
timidly to the oldest, who was menacingly brandishing a small
stick towards the unheeding wolf, and with a look of mingled
fear and defiance, exclaiming:
“Shoo! shoo! go away, you great ugly dog! we are afraid
of you.”
With one glance over this exciting scene, every man instinctively
brought his cocked gun to his shoulder.
“Stay,” whispered the hunter, “more of the pack will be there
in a minute; and when they appear, I will give the word and
we will let drive together. It will then answer for the signal to
our friends, while we have the chance of giving to more of the
cowardly imps a different supper from what they are thinking
of.”
The next moment five or six gaunt, hungry looking wolves,
one after another, came galloping in to the open space occupied
by the one before described, which now rose, shook himself
slightly, and turned to lead the others to the promised repast.
“Here!” said the hunter, catch a quick aim—fire!”
With a single report, the four pieces sent their missiles of
death upon the devoted pack. And the sudden sounds of floundering
in the leaves, the sharp yelps, and the quickly retreating
footsteps, which instantly followed, told the death of one, the
wounding of others, and the rapid dispersion of the whole hideous
gang of these brute demons of the forest.
“Now for the children,” said Captain Ball, hurrying out from
behind the screening tree-top. “I will show myself to them
first, and alone, lest they be frightened; while the rest of you
see to the wolves, if any remain that want finishing,—and then
fire another gun to complete the signal.”
While this last injunction was being obeyed, as it almost instantly
was by the hunter, by discharging his quickly loaded
piece at a limping wolf, of which he caught a glimpse retreating
in the distance, the Captain advanced about half-way towards the
covert of the poor, terrified little girls, who, at the discharge of
the guns, had nestled down in one corner of their rude bower,
and there lay clasped together, and trembling in fear and dreadful
apprehensions,—less, however, of being devoured by the
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
wolves, which they took, it seemed, to be large grey dogs, than
of being seized by those who had fired the guns, and who were
imagined by them to be Indians, of whom they had heard so many
tales of terror. But on being quietly called by their approaching
friend, the eldest girl rose, and, after peering out at him a moment,
with a startled and doubtful air, timidly asked,
“Who be you all?”
“We are all friends, so don't be afraid, my little girl,” soothingly
answered Ball.
“Not Indians, certain?” persisted the former in a smarter
tone.
“O, no, we are your friends, as I said, and come to carry you
to your father and Mother,—will you go with us?”
“Yes, we will go with you, if you'll carry us to father and
mother, if you be Indians,” bravely replied she.
While the hunter was stripping off the skin of the slain wolf,
which, with a hunter's pride, he claimed as the victim of his own
shot, the others employed themselves in gaining the confidence
of the recovered children, and refreshing them by feeding them
with small portions of buscuits, first soaked in the stream. And
the former were so successful in winning upon the confiding
hearts of the latter, as soon to draw from them the childish, but
affecting little story of their sorrows and adventures, while lost
and wandering in the dark and dreary woods. How, when they
perceived they were lost, they cried and ran the way which they
thought was towards home, till it was quite dark;—when tired
with running and crying, they sunk down under a large tree, and
slept all night; how, the next day, they kept on in the same way,
sometimes finding juniper and patridge berries to eat, till they
reached about dark the second day, this place; when, making a
bed and covert of leaves and hemlock boughs on the rock, they
staid all night, during which the youngest was so sick and thirsty,
that they got up and taking hold of hands, crept down to
the water, drank and returned; and, finally, how they had been
here ever since, making their house better, and fearing to go
away, lest they should not find so good a place as this, where
they could find berries, and where they had seen nothing to scare
them, till the big dog came and lapped his mouth at them, and
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
would have bit them, if then had not thrown sticks at him, and
kept him off till the guns killed him, and scared away the others
that began to come.
Having thus spent a short time in calming, and restoring, with
as much food as was deemed prudent, the frightened and famishing
children, the party was called together to depart; when
two of the men taking each a child in his arms, and the others
carrying the guns, and the hunter's wolf skin, the whole set forward
with quick, and animated steps, to retrace their way down
the gorge to the settlement, where they well knew, minutes
would now seem hours till they arrived.
If ever men felt proud and happy at success, it was this little
band of honest-hearted woodsmen. And as they strode homewards
through woods, with their living trophies, all unharmed
and gaily chatting in their arms, their bosoms, at the thought of
what they had achieved, together with the anticipated pleasure
of restoring the little ones to the arms of their parents,—their
grateful bosoms swelled with emotions of happiness more pure,
more elevated, more exquisite, than they would have experienced
had half the treasures of the earth been unexpectedly won by
them.
When about half way out to the clearing, they suddenly encountered
the ardent Ethan Allen, hurrying on, at the head of
the main body, to meet them. “Ah, ha!” exclaimed the hero,
throwing up his hand in joyful surprise, “here they are, alive and
well. Glory to God, it is indeed at last accomplished! And now,
my merry men,” he continued, turning to his followers, “gather
up, gather up here, and let every one give voice to his feelings,
by joining in a round of cheers which shall make these hills skip
like those described by the brave old David of the scriptures,—
there, halt, ready now!” he added, himself leading off in the “three
times three,” of such thundering cheers, as never before rose
from the wild glens of the Green Mountains!
The company, having thus given vent to their overflowing
feelings, were now formed into a sort of triumphal procession,
with the recovered children and their deliverers in front; when
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[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
the whole, headed by their exulting leader, moved briskly on
through the remaining part of the woods, till they reached the
clearing; when as the long column began to emerge into the
open grounds, they were met by the anxious parents, who, having
heard the cheering we have described, and, for the first time,
found courage to leave the house with any expectation of meeting
their children alive, were now, with a company of sympathising
females, hastening on to receive them. But who can hope
adequately to describe that meeting, where tongues were mute,
and overcharged hearts only spoke in the dumb tokens of quivering
lips, and streaming eyes? The men who had found the
lost ones, and still bore them in their arms, had framed gallant
speeches for this occasion, but they were all forgotten now, and
the children were hurriedly passed to the eagerly extended arms
of the parents, and by them convulsively clasped to their bosoms
in silence. Even the iron nerved Allen, usually so free and bold
of speech, stood by and looked on without daring to trust his
voice in words. And, for some moments, not a single articulate
sound was heard among that touched and tearful group, till the
spell was broken by the simple exclamation of one of the wondering
children.
“Why, father and mother, what makes you cry so?”
“True, true, my little one,” said Allen, dashing away his tears,
and now finding the use of his tongue,—“here we are sure
enough, all crying like a pack of great boobies; when if any
company on earth had reason to rejoice and be merry, it is we.
Come, come, let us try to get our joy into a more natural channel,
and then move on to the house.” The head of the column was
again brought to order, and, passing on through the field, soon
entered the yard of that house whose recent sorrows were now to
give place to rejoicing and thankfulness. Here the company
were formed into two extended lines, a few feet apart, and facing
each other;—when the grateful and overjoyed parents, each
leading a child, that they might be seen by all, passed through
them, followed by Allen, alternately awakening, by his lively
sallies, and timely remarks, the mirth and good feeling of all
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[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
those around him, and declaring for himself that this was the
happiest hour of all his life. After this gratifying ceremony was
over, he once more mounted the stump, the rostrum of his former
successful appeal, and in behalf of the parents of the recovered
children, poured forth the warmest expressions of gratitude
to the company for their kindness, and long continued exertions,
and ended by an ejaculation of thanks to God for his mercy and
goodness in permitting those exertions to be rewarded with such
signal success.
The assembly then quietly dispersing, returned to their respective
homes, each proud of his own share in the achievement, but
prouder still of that of the distinguished leader, without whose
presence all felt conscious the affair must have terminated in sorrow
instead of rejoicing. And who shall say, great as the fame
of Ethan Allen is, for deeds of noble daring and brilliant exploit,
as a warrior,—who shall say, that his brightest laurel was not won,
after all, in that noble, though little known act of his life, which
resulted in the recovery of the “lost children” in the wilds of
Sunderland?
-- --
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A VERMONTER IN A FIX; OR A New way to Collect an Old Debt.
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
Young Hobson, not he of choice memory, but John Hobson,
a plain, hardy, shrewd Vermont farmer, having by dint of delving
and scrambling among the rugged rocks of his native hills, gathered
a respectable share of the solid lucre, began to bethink
him, with certain other secret motives, of rising a little faster in
the world by way of a spec. For this purpose he laid out his
little stock of cash in fat cattle, and, purchasing enough more on
credit to make out a decentish kind of a drove, as he termed it,
took up a line of march with his horned regiment through the
long woods to Quebec. After undergoing his full share of fatigue
and suffering from swimming rivers and worrying through
the mud of ten-mile swamps, sustained only by the meagre fare
of French taverns, which, but for the name of taverns had been
hovels, which a decent farmer in Vermont would have been
somewhat ashamed to have housed his hogs in, Hobson arrived
safe and sound at the great Northern Market. He soon had a
bid that exceeded his most sanguine expectations, and after receiving
from a by-stander an assurance of the bidder's pecuniary
ability for such a purchase, he struck off the whole lot; while
the purchaser, directing him to his lodgings, told him to call the
next day and he should receive his money. Chuckling with the
thought of his great bargain, and in fact the price was a thumping
one, Hobson returned to the Inn where he had bespoken quarters,
and informed the landlord of his lucky sale.
“To whom did you sell, friend Hobson?” said the landlord.
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“Derrick, he called himself, the good looking man of the Market,
there”—
“And you did'nt trust him, man, did you?”
“To be sure, I did, till to-morrow, when he promises the money
all on the nail—and another tall fellow told me Derrick was good
for thousands.”
“Bill Derrick,” then said the landlord, “and Catch-Gull
Luck, his everlasting surety, suppose they have made another haul.
It may be as you expect, Mr. Hobson, but this much I will say,
if you get your money to-morrow, or all of it ever, I will agree
to keep Lent twelve months at least.`'
“But I shall though,” said Hobson, “or by the hocus-pocus
of my grand mother, I will soon teach him the true cost of cheating
a Yankee.”
The landlord shook his head, and Hobson retired for the
night with his spirits wofully down towards zero; and though
he still could not persuade himself but that the man would be
punctual, yet he acknowledged to himself that he had been a
little too fast among these city folks, in taking every thing for
gold that shines, on their own word or the word of an abettor.
The next day Hobson waited on Derrick according to agreement,
and was received with all possible politeness by the smooth
tongued dealer—Mr. Hobson was very welcome, but really he
had ten thousand pardons to beg, that in the great hurry he had
entirely forgotten to make arrangements to meet his promise, but
the man he was to receive the money from he supposed would
require a day's notice or so, but he would see him immediately,
and by calling again to-morrow, every thing would be regulated
to Mr. Hobson's wishes, he presumed. All this, however, Hobson
was not quite as ready to take for gospel now as before; and
in order that he might know a little better the state in which he
stood with this ready promise, he diligently betook himself to
making inquiries into the man's situation and character.—
From these he soon learnt that Derrick had disposed of the
cattle as soon as he had purchased, and that although in reality
he might be worth some property, yet his promise was considered
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good for nothing, for he always contrived to conceal his effects
from his crediters, and, acting the bankrupt as occasion required,
he always put the law at defiance.—In fine, that he was an arrant
knave and had before played the same game on several unwary
drovers, who in their eagerness, to close a bargain at the great
price which he was ever ready to offer, had neglected the precaution
of making inquiries, and sold their cattle to him on a
short credit, and after being amused and dallyed by his promises
a few weeks, had given up their debts as lost and gone off in despair.
“So ho! John,” said our hero, soliloquizing along as he
trudged back to his lodgings, with the feelings of one whose own
folly had made him the dupe of a knave, and whose anger is so
nearly balanced between himself for his own stupidity, and him
who had taken advantage of it by an act of baseness, that he is
perfectly at a loss on which he shall give vent to his laboring resentment.
“So, ho! John, then it seems you're bit.—Yes, I John
Hobson, who about home was thought to be up to any thing for
a bargain, who out-witted old Clenchfist the shave, and Screwfast
the pettifogger, I John Hobson, am bit, cursedly bit, like a great
gull, as I am, by this palavering quintessence of a pack of d—d
rascals, it's a good one though, by the pipers if it a'nt!
The next day Hobson renewed his visit to Derrick with no
better success than before. The next, and the next, it was put
off with some new and ingenious excuse, and, his hopes excited
with a fresh promise of payment, till he entirely lost all faith in
the fellow's promises. What must be done? He could never
go back and face his neighbors in Vermont of whom he had purchased
part of his drove on credit till he returned, without the
money to pay them; besides, nearly all his own property was
vested in the drove. Yes, said he to himself, something must be
done to get me out of this dilemma—so now John Hobson for
your wits, and let them be stretched to their prettiest. With
this view of his case he sought the landlord.
“Is this evil genius of mine, this Derrick, said he, at all tinctured
with notions of a religious or superstitious nature?”
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“No! as it regards a future reckoning he neither fears God or
Devil.”
“Well, then, does he wish to be tho't a man of honor and honesty
with any of the big fishes of your city?”
“No, he has nothing to hope from them, nor does he care what
they think of him.”
“And what say you of his courage, can he face?”
“No! he is said to be a great coward and always a sneak from
danger.”
“Ah! that is something,” said Hobson, “hold easy and say
nothing.”
Our hero now mused awhile and retired to bed with a brightened
look, and the air of one who has got a new maggot in his head,
as he probably would have himself expressed it. The next morning
he was stirring as soon as it was light. Sallying out into the
town he soon came across a couple of Indians lazily lounging
about the street.”
“Sawnies, or whatever they call ye,” says he, “I want to hire
you to-day.”
“Me go,” said the spokesman of the two, “me go for the
money or de rum.”
“Well, then, do you know Derrick there about the market,
with a white coat and a black cane?”
“Me know him.”
“Very well, I will give you a broad shiner apiece if you will
dog that fellow untill bed time; don't touch him, or say one word
to him, but always keep your eyes on him; if he turns a corner,
you turn too; if he goes into a house, you watch till he
comes out, and if he comes near you, run till he stops and then
turn and watch again. Will you do it?”
“Yes! me do him,” was the reply.
Hobson now returned to his lodgings and remained there till
night, when he set out for Derrick's, to see if his plan of operations
had produced any effect; and if so, to give it such a turn
as he might think best calculated to accomplish his purpose.
Derrick was at home, and obviously, in no very cheerful mood.
After framing his usual excuses for not having the money ready,
he soon fell into a sort of reverie. Hobson now began to have
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some hopes that his scheme would succeed; and while he was
endeavoring, by various questions to draw out something which
would open a way for him to act his own part in the plan, Derrick
observed,—
“I have noticed a rather mysterious circumstance to day Mr.
Hobson; a thing I can't exactly account for.”
“What may that be,” said Hobson, “if I may so bold with
your honor?”
“Why there has been a couple of Indians dogging and spying
me out in every spot and place I have been in since morning.—
I tried to come up with them once or twice, and they vanished
like apparitions, but as soon as I turned, I could see them peeping
out after me from some other plaee; they kept at a distance, to
be sure, but they looked d—n'd evil, and I don't know exactly
what it all means.”
“It is quite singular said Hobson, “but what kind of looking
fellows were they?”
Derrick described them.
“Why, sir,” said Hobson, “they must be the very fellows
that helped me with my cattle through the long woods; I am
rather sorry that I employed them, for I begin to suspect they
are desperate and bloody minded fellows, though they stuck to
me as close as brothers on the way, and I should have paid them,
but I told them I could not until you paid me for the cattle;
then I mean to pay them well and get rid of them, for they begin
to look rather askew at me, and I confess, between you and
I, that I feel rather shy of the imps myself; but I believe I must
be jogging; you say I may call to-morrow?”
“Yes—yes, certainly,” said Derrick.
Hobson retired, and signing to the Indians, who were lurking
round the house to follow him, he took them aside.
“Well my lads, you have done well—here are your wheels—
go and drink, then come back to your business; be seen once or
twice more to night, and be at your post early to-morrow morning,
and keep up the same game till to-morrow night; here are
ofnother pair of shiners for you—will you do it?”
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“Yes! me do him, was again the laconic answer.
The next day, Hobson again waited on Derrick and found him
looking extremely ill and haggard, with the appearance of one
who had been sadly disturbed of his rest.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Hobson,” said he, “I am very
happy at length to be able to pay you; but you must be sensible
Mr. Hobson, that the sum I promised you for your cattle was a
hundred dollars over the market price; I made a losing go of it,
and I think that you will discount the hundred dollars at least.,'
“I fear that cannot be,” said Hobson, “for I have already
made a contract to pay away all this money, before I leave the
city, except enough to pay my expenses home and pay off the
bloody Indians; perhaps I could get away, however, by dodging
the knaves; could I not?”
“O no,” said Derrick eagerly.
“No, for heaven's sake no; pay them well, why, last night,
they waylaid my house and have been seen several times this
morning, though I have been so unwell that I have not been out
to-day; not that I fear them Mr. Hobson, but on your own account,
pay them off to the last farthing, for otherwise, depend on
it they will do you some cursed mischief, I was only in jest about
the discount.”
With this, Derrick brought out a bag of gold, and without further
ceremony counted out the full sum to the inwardly exultiug
Hobson, who, pocketing the guineas with great composure, bid
Derrick good morning and marched off in triumph to his lodgings
and recounting his good fortune to his admiring landlord, took a
hearty breakfast, and departed, having good-naturedly absolved
the landlord from his promise of perpetual secret, and leaving the
Indians to earn their days wages to the sad discomfeiture of the
nerves of poor Derrick. In two hours Hobson had crossed the
great river, on his way homeward, and pronouncing his parting
blessing on the walled city, “And you didn't knab John Hobson
after all,” said he, turning his head and spurring his pony into a
round trot up the great road towords the States; “you didn't
knab him so easily, ye mongrel, scurvy, rascalious crew of beef-eating
John Bulls, and parley vou francez frigazee, frog-eating
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Frenchmen, so leaving this specimen of Vermont fashions in turning
the tables on a rascal for your benefit, good bye says I and
be hanged to you.”
It was about a month after the occurrences we have described
that a gay wedding party was assembled at the house of Esquire—
at the Four corners in Slab City. The balance that had
been, for more than a year, doubtfully trembling at equipoise between
our young farmer and a more wealthy, but a less loved
suitor of the Squire's fair daughter, had at length turned in favor
of our hero, who always attributed his subsequent happiness to
his lucky speculation at the walled city.
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AN INDIAN'S REVENGE.
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Some twenty-five or thirty years ago, circumstances made me,
for a few days, an inmate of a family situated in the heart of the
Green Mountains. It was the family of a hardy young farmer,
who, with a wife, young, active and ambitious as himself, had in
a few years before, made his pitch on a lot of wild land, and was
now, by the steady efforts of his industry, rapidly transforming
the patch of brown wilderness, which he had selected as his
home, into a cultivated field. It was now the night of a beautiful
summer's day, and the sun was slowly sinking behind the
woody hills which, deeply environing the log house and the little
opening around it,stood clothed in all the green majesty of nature
sending forth on the fine atmosphere, cooled and moistened by
the evaporating spray of a thousand falling rills, their sweet and
healing breath impregnated with all the blooming fragrance of
the blooming wilderness. The farmer had returned from his labor
in the field, and was silently pacing the room with an air of
dejection and pensiveness. He gave no reason for this change
in his deportment, and remained silent until he was kindly interrogated
by his wife: “I know not how it is Rebecca, but I have
felt this day a sensation of uncommon uneasiness, rather of mind
than of body I believe, the same unaccountable feeling that I
have always experienced when some hidden danger was lurking
about me. “I think it all your own fancyings” replied she, with
some apparent concern. “My husband she continued,” turning to
me with the air of one who seems to consider some explanation called
for by the circumstances; “my husband is a little subject at
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times, to dark and moody turns, and often starts at imaginary dangers,
while real ones appear to be the least of his concern.”
While she was speaking, the husband had approached the side
of the house and was intently looking through a large crevice between
the logs from which the moss, a substance in common use
to stop the crevices of log buildings, had been partly removed.
In a moment, he started back with a look of dismay, seized his
rifle from the wooden hooks by which it was suspended from a
beam above him, and instantly cocked it. “Rebecca,” said he
in a hurried tone, “come here!” She tremblingly obeyed, and
looking through the crevice in the direction of his quivering finger.
She instantly recoiled from the view, with her husband who
was now in the attitude of raising the muzzle of the piece to the
crevice. Seizing it with both hands, “you cannot be so thoughtless,”
said she, “as to fire upon them—O! fly, fly out of the
other window, and you can reach the woods unseen.”
The husband pausing a moment and giving a quick glance in
every direction around him, replied, “You are right,”—while
she, as if reading at a look his wishes, reached his powder horn
and ball pouch, and was hurrying him to the window. As he
passed me he said “stay here and protect my family till I return,
and all but life shall reward you.” He then threw himself out
of the window, and bowing almost to the ground and sometimes
creeping, he pursued his way hastily through the weeds and bushes
that bordered a small rivulet, till he reached the woods and
disappeared. “There, said she,” drawing her suspended breath,
“thank heaven, he is safe!” Amazed at what I had witnessed,
I hastily asked for an explanation. Convulsively seizing my arm
she conducted me to the crevice. “Look beneath yonder clump
of trees,” said she. I did so, and to my surprise, I beheld three
Indians apparently holding a consultation and watching the
house, They were armed with rifles, tomahawks, cords, and such
other implements as their warriors are known to carry when on
expeditions of massacre or capture. “There, sir, is the cause
of our fears. We have before been alarmed in this manner, but
my husband, then, as he has now, providentially escaped them.
Had he been seen here, it would probably have been their endeavor
to have taken him to night and carried him off to their tribe,
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to murder him after their own fashion; or, had they failed in
this, they would have ambushed and shot him. But now they
have not seen him, they will watch for a day or two and depart
as noiseless as they came.” I expressed some doubts of their
hostile intentions, and suggested the improbability that they would
here dare to seek the life of an individual, since the country had
become so far settled, that on the least alarm, a force could soon
be rallied sufficient to exterminate the whole tribe. “My husband,”
said she, “was formerly a hunter on the lakes, and he then
innocently was the cause of an accident which terminated fatally
to an Indian, and which, it seems, they think he can only atone
for with his life. Though they pass peaceably through the country,
and as yet have committed no violence, still my husband too
well knows their deadly purpose. How they have discovered
his present residence is still unknown to him. But I choose that
he should tell his own story. Stay with us over to-morrow; they
will depart, and he will return.” I consented. The Indians after
reconnoitering the house from different positions disappeared for
the night. They repeated the same several times the next day,
when, towards night they disappeared, and were soon heard of
several miles off, making their way northward. The farmer returned
the next day, when he related the following adventure of
his early days:
“Several years ago, I made an excursion to lake Memphremagog
for the purpose of spending the fall in hunting and catching
furs around the shores of that lake, which is now associated with
recollections which I fear will always be fatal to my happiness.
I had been there several weeks, when, one day being out in quest
of a deer which my dog had started, I heard the report of a rifle
at some distance, and pursuing my way in the direction of
the sound, I soon came across an Indian who lay wounded and
bleeding on the ground. From appearances, as well as his signs,
I learned that being in the range of the game and his companions,
he had been wounded by the ball from one of their rifles,
and that they, unconscious of what they had done, had pursued
the chase and left him in this condition, fainting from the loss of
blood. I staunched his wound the best way I could, revived and
conveyed him to my tent. The wound was not dangerous, and
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in a few days, during which I paid all the attention in my power,
he was enabled to depart to his tribe who were encamped
round the other end of the lake. After this, he frequently visited
my tent, bringing me game and taking various ways to express
his gratitude, spending considerable time with me, and often joining
me in hunting excursions, I soon became much attached to
him, and repaid his kindness with many little presents of various
kinds of trinkets which I had brought with me. This probably
awakened the jealousy of his companions, as I afterwards noticed
an uncommon coolness and reserve in their manner towards
me when I met them. While matters continued thus, one night
as I lay in my tent, I was awakened by a furious barking of my
dog. The terrified animal, by his unnatural cries, and the manner
in which he ventured forth and frequently retreated back into
the door of my tent, told me that no common animal was
near me. I arose, renewed the priming of my gun, and looked
out in the direction where the attention of the dog was confined.
At length my sight was caught by two hideously glaring
eye-balls that were beaming out from the boughs of a thick
pine that stood but eight or ten rods from my tent. I at once
knew it to be an enormous catamount. And, judging from the
of the animal that he was about to leap towards me, I
resolved to hazard a shot, although sensible of the uncertainty of
my aim in the dark. I accordingly levelled my piece, and carefully
directing my aim between the two bright orbs that were
glowing down upon me with the intenseness of a furnace, I fired,
and the animal with a tremendous leap and a scream that
echoed for miles among the mountains of the lake, fell to the
ground about half way from the tree to where I stood, my dog
still refusing to approach the spot, and knowing the animal to be
dangerous, even with the last gasp of life, I hastily reloaded for
another fire. At this moment I heard a rustling among the bushes,
and discerning some dark object to move in the direction of
the animal, and supposing he was preparing for another leap, I
fired, something fell to the ground, and my blood curdled as I
heard the sounds of the human voice in the hollow groan that accompanied
the fall! I hastened to the spot: the lifeless body of
the catamount lay upon the ground—and a little further, I
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beheld a human being writhing in the agonies of death. I applied a
torch light to his face, and to my unutterable grief, discovered him
to be my Indian friend. Having been belated on an excursion,
he was probably approaching the tent for the night at the time
I was reconnoitering the catamount; and having seen him fall
he was cautiously approaching the animal when arrested by my
fatal shot, which it was my luckless destiny to give him. Though
unable to speak, a fierce and vengeful expression was beaming in
his eyes, as he beheld me. In a moment, however, as if satisfied
of the innocence of my motives on witnessing the agony of my
feelings, his countenance assumed a mild and benignant expression.
He stretched out his hand to receive mine; and with this
last convulsive effort of appeased and friendly feeling, he immediately
expired. I soon began to feel sensible of the peculiar
difficulties and dangers of my situation. If I should call in the
Indians, I doubted greatly whether I should be able to prevent
them from suspecting me of intentionally killing their companion;
and such suspicions, I feared, would be fostered by some of
the tribe in their present feelings towards me. And as suspicion,
in the creed of the Indian, is but little better than conviction,
and fearful of the fiery tortures that must follow such a conclusion
in their minds, I concluded, perhaps unwisely, to dispose of
the body secretly. With this determination, I took the rifle and
several steel traps which the deceased had with him, and lashing
them to the body, conveyed it to my canoe and rowed to the
deepest part of the lake. I shall never forget the painful and
gloomy feeling that attended the performances of this sad and
fearful office. Though conscious of my innocence, and of being
only dictated by prudence in thus disposing of him to whom I
could have wished an honorable interment, still a kind of guilty
feeling, and self-condemnation, weighed deeply on my mind.
Even the murmuring winds that were sighing mournfully through
the tall pines that stood towering along the shores of the lake,
seemed to upbraid me; and the low wailings of the waves, dashing
sullenly on the distant beach, seemed to fall on my ear in the
sounds of reproach for the deed I was committing; dark presentiments
of approaching danger oppressed and sunk gloomily on
my spirits. On arriving into the deep waters of the lake, I
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lifted the body over the side of the canoe into the water, and it immediately
sunk by the weight of iron by which it was encumbered,
and disappeared from my sight. I then turned and rowed
back hastily to the shore. As I was about to step out of my canoe,
I heard the plash of an oar at a distance down the lake.
This circumstance, though I could discern nothing, much alarmed
me, as I supposed the Indians were abroad on the lake, and
had probably observed my movement—in which case I feared
that a discovery was inevitable; for though they must be perfectly
ignorant of my business at the time, yet on missing their companion,
they would be sure to revolve this circumstance in
their minds, in every bearing, and perhaps with some ingenious
conclusion, connect it with his fate; for there are no people
who can vie with the natives of our forests in the scrutinizing
closeness of their observations, the minuteness and accuracy of
comparing circumstances, and the faculty of drawing conclusions
from presumptive evidence. I returned to my tent and lay down—
but not to sleep. Alone, in a dark wilderness, many miles
from the dwelling of a civilized being, and deprived of my only
friend by the very blow that had brought me into the situation
where he was the most needed—the gloomy stillness of the house,
and the dark forebodings of the future, rushed on my mind, and
conspired to fill my bosom with feelings of grief, anxiety, and
utter loneliness.
The next day I went out and was absent nearly all day. As
I was returning, when I came in sight of my tent, I saw two Indians
intently examining the spot where the deceased had fallen.
They then took the trail I had made in carrying the body to the
lake, carefully noticing each leaf on the way till they reached the
canoe, and after looking at it minutely awhile, they raised a kind of
wailing whoop and departed towards their encampment. Judging
from their appearance that they had formed conclusions unfavorable
to me, I packed up my most valuable furs and other articles,
and building a good fire at the door of the tent, I took a
bear skin and laid down in a thicket at a distance, from which
I could see directly into the tent. During the evening several
Indians appeared around the tent, and finally entered
it. Finding my moveables gone, they immediately raised the
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war-hoop and scattered in every direction. One came near me,
pursuing his way down the lake. I remained awhile, then rose,
and taking my pack, directed my course to the south end of the
lake, from whence I intended to steer to the nearest white settlement.
I reached the place before day, unmolested, and sought
a concealment in an old tree top on the ground, where I laid still
till nearly dark the next day. I then rose and was making my
way homeward, when two Indians rose from a thicket and rushed
upon me. I run for the shore of the lake which I had not yet
left, and reached it as the Indians were within two rods of me.
It was a precipice of rocks hanging perpendicularly fifty feet
above the waters. I must be taken or leap the rock. I paused
an instant, plunged headlong and was quickly buried in the deep
waters beneath. When I arose, I saw my faithful dog, who had
followed the desperate fortunes of his master, floating apparently
lifeless on the surface, having so flatly struck the water in his
fall that the shock had deprived him of breath and the power of
motion. With as little of my head above water as possible, I
swam under the shelving rocks so as to get out of the view of
the Indians. Several balls were in quick succession sent into
the body of the unconscious dog, it being now so dark the Indians
could not distinguish it from me. Supposing they had
done their bloody work, they ran up the lake, where they could
get down to the water, to swim in after what they mistook to be
my body. While doing this, I had swam in an opposite direction,
till, unseen, having effected a landing, I took my course with
rapid strides towards the settlements, and had proceeded some
distance before I heard the whoop which told the disappointment
of the Indians. I however travelled all night unmolested, and
the next day at noon was safely lodged in the house of an old acquaintance.”
After the narrator had concluded his story, I partook of some
refreshment and soon took my leave of the family. Several
years after, I was journeying through the town, and passed by
the same dwelling. It was desolate and tenantless, and the
weeds and bushes had grown up where I had before seen fields
of waving grain. On inquiry, I learned that the former
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occupant, having again been haunted by the Indians, and, perhaps
still more by his own imagination, had removed into the western
country, without informing even his nearest neighbors of his intended
residence.
-- --
THE BRAVO HUSBAND! A Tale of Italy.
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Ludovico Salvati was the captain of a troop of bandits infesting
the Lower Alps. Of lofty statute, muscular frame, and undaunted
temperament, he seemed especially fitted for the desperate
post in which his evil stars had placed him. We say
his evil stars, for Salvati was the cadet of a noble family, of
which honorable mention is made in the archives of Florence.
He was a man of cultivated intellect and high aspirations: one
who was never destined to tread the obscure path of mindless
mediocrity. But maddened by disappointment and despair, the
miseries of Salvati would have made a maniac of a less desperate
nature; they made him a robber. His name was the byword
of terror to the travellers and merchants, and the sound of
fear by which the matrons of the Alpine hamlets soothed their
wayward nurselings into submission; “Hark! Salvati!” sufficed
alike to silence the most turbulent, and to subdue the most refractory.
Meanwhile, Salvati himself knew no happiness on earth, save
that in the consciousness that his name could thus strike terror
to the hearts of those who in early youth had taught his own to
quail. He had been injured, deeply injured; and he had vowed
vengeance—nor was he one to breathe such a vow lightly.
In his first manhood Ludovico had loved; not as worldlings
love, but with deep devotedness. By day he walked through the
marble halls of the Salvati Palace, musing on the idol of his
soul; by night he closed his eyes only to dream of her.
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Beatrice Monti was a Florentine, with eyes like midnight when it is
bright with stars, and a voice like that of the bird which loves
the darkness; the brow of a Madonna, high, calm, and pale,
looking as though earthly passion could never overshadow it;
and a smile which shed sunshine where it rested. She was so
young and gentle that it seemed as if she were scarce fitted to
contend with the care's of life, and so light-hearted that she appeared
never to have had one dream of sorrow. Such was she
when she listened to Salvati's tale of love, as they sat together
beneath the boughs of a pomegranate tree, from which he pilfered
the rich red blossoms to twine them in her hair; while the
sound of minstrelsy came faintly from the distant palace, swelling
and dying as the wind rose and fell among the orange trees.
What recks it what he said, or how he said it, beneath the moon-lighted
sky, amid breeze and blossom; enough that she heard it
without a frown—that she answered with a smile; and that, as
Salvati pressed her to his heart, he called her his—his own! his
love—his world! 'Twas a sweet dream; and they walked
hand in hand, his arm around her, and her rich warm cheek resting
upon his shoulder—slowly, pausingly, under the delicious
night wind; and they told each other the history of their secret
affection—how it had grown and strengthened since they first
met; and if Beatrice blushed at the confession, he kissed away
her blushes, and she did not repent her confidence. Ludovico
told a less embarrassed tale, and she pressed her small hand upon
his lips to stay their utterance; but the lover heeded not the
gentle hindrance, and he showed her how long and how ardently
he had loved her—for days are centuries in a lover's calendar;
and the moon had risen high in heaven, and the orange buds
were shedding the perfumed dew from their snowy cups, ere they
remembered that the world was peopled by others besides themselves,
and prepared again to mingle with its denizens.
A fearful year followed that blissful evening. A rival's blood
crimsoned the blade of Salvati; but the stab was deeper at his
own heart's core! Could it be that Beatrice loved the smooth
lipped stranger? His own Beatrice? He could not think that
it was thus: and yet, she wept over the corse—such tears as
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women weep only for those whom they have enshrined in their
hearts. But Beatrice—the beautiful, the fond, the timid Beatrice?
No, no; it could not be; and Salvati held her to his
heart, and loathed himself that he had dared to doubt her.
He became a husband. Not a word, not a look of his young
bride, but was to him all as light and music. All that tenderness
which woman loves so well, he lavished upon her with a prodigality
which proved that his whole heart was in the homage; and
yet, she was not happy. The smile fted from her lip, her step
became less buoyant, and her voice more sad. Ludovico
mourned, wondered, yet never doubted; and when Beatrice
placed in his arms her infant girl, he forgot all sorrow in the contemplation
of its cherub face.
One day he had led his fair wife forth into the sunshine, and
the child slumbered upon his bosom. He talked to Beatrice of
all which that child might one day be to them, gifted as she
seemed with her her mother's beauty—that mother who was to
him fairer than aught else on earth. Suddenly a messenger approached
them,—the bearer of strange tidings,—he was a kinsman
of Salvati, and he came, with joy in his heart, to tell him
that the rival whom he had smitten he had nevertheless not slain;
that he yet lived, though his friends had borne him across the
sea, when they rescued him from death—there was no blood upon
the soul of the young husband.
Ludovico smiled scornfully in doubt, but the doubt was vain.
The stranger had been seen since his return to Florence: he
still bore the trace of Salvati's blade, but he lived.
Then, indeed, light returned to the eyes of Beatrice, though
she uttered not a word, as Ludovico gloomily led the way back
to their splendid home.
One more short month and the infant of the Count Salvati
was motherless. Beatrice had fled! The father and the child
were alike deserted. The wretched and bereaved man caught
up the weeping child—weeping it knew not wherefore—and, in
turn, abandoned the home which to him was now desolate. He
wandered, he cared not whither, for many weary days; the peasants
whom he encountered in his way shared with him, and
with his motherless infant, their simple, and often scanty, meal;
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and he slept with the child nestled in his bosom, under the bright
clear sky, or beneath a cotter's roof. It was thus the bandits
found him. He was a reckless man. They urged him to become
their chief; and he started at once from his lethargy of
sorrow. By their means he might yet taste revenge! The very
thought was of itself cabalistic. He told them all his wrongs,
and they talked of vengeance; that was enough; he was thence-forward
theirs—body and soul. He girt the pistols and the dagger
in his belt; he pressed the plumed hat upon his brow; and
he placed his little Beatrice in the arms of the gentlest of the
bandit's wives. It is true that he shuddered as he gave her into
such rude keeping, but he was anticipating vengeance; and he
turned away with a smile upon his lip.
He watched and watched for years, and yet his longing was
unappeased; and meanwhile, his child grew healthfully among
the Alpine breezes, with all the loveliness and grace of her mother
floating about her like an atmosphere of light, and all the
hardihood of a young mountaineer.
Salvati's revenge had been so long delayed, that the thirst for
its indulgence became demoniacal, when he heard that his enemy
was at length within his grasp—and Beatrice, too!—she who
had won his heart only to break it!—she who was once the wife
of his bosom—the mother of his infant girl! She was even now
with the man upon whom his curse rested—to whom it had clung
for years—upon whom it was now so soon to fall. * * The
seducer and the seduced were there, within arrow's flight; and
they breathed the same air with the outlaw and his child. Salvati
writhed with agony: the fair browed lover had been watched
into a palace at the foot of the very mountain whose fastnesses
were bivouacked the band of Ludovico. The false one and her
guilty companion could sun themselves boldly beneath the blue
sky of heaven, while the bereaved husband and his innocent
babe were hidden from the gaze of men, lest the arm of justice
should overtake them. The reflection was maddening; and excited
by this bitter thought, engendering memories still more
wretched, Ludovico took his deserted daughter by the hand, just
as a glorious sunset had flashed and faded into those sober tints
which steep the world in twilight, and tried to find comfort in
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the sweet looks and tones of the only being who loved him; but
he could not support even the converse of the light-hearted child;
and casting himself gloomily down, with his rifle in his hand, in
a chasm of the rock, he bade Beatrice go forth and gambol in
the soft air. For awhile the girl stood pensively beside him, her
hands folded upon her breast, and her large dark eyes riveted on
his countenance; but after a time she looked forth over the
ledge of rocks against which she leant, and watched the wild
birds as they winged their joyous way to their nightly resting
places.
Suddenly Ludovico was startled by her scream, and he hurriedly
sprang from the earth; in another instant he heard the report
of a rifle, and Beatrice sunk down beside him,—the ball
had entered her heart,—she was dead! Salvati laid her gently
down again upon the earth from which in his first terror he had
lifted her; and then fiercely gazing down into the valley from a
point whence he could not be perceived from beneath, he discerned
two human figures. The foremost was that of a tall cavalier,
and farther in the distance the bandit distinguished a party
of attendants. He saw the truth at once—the cavalier was
engaged in shooting with his rifle at the birds which were
flying homeward to their eyries in the rock, and the lady was
witnessing his prowess. The little Beatrice had attracted their
attention by her movements, and the sportsman, believing it to
be some mountain eagle watching in fancied security the destruction
of its feathered associates, and anxious to exhibit to his fair
companion a proof of his skill as a marksman, had but too fatally
taken his aim. But Ludovico, in another instant, learnt still
more than this,—it was not enough that the sweet spirit which
had so long and so lovingly ministered to his own, when all else
had forsaken him, lay quenched at his feet—it was not enough
that the pure and beautiful image in which that spirit had been
enshrined, was now a ghastly, senseless, gory heap—destiny had
not yet done with him. A light laugh came on his ear—a laugh
of mirth as a requiem for his dead infant—he could not be mistaken—
he had heard such laughter in by-gone years, ere the
blight of misery had withered him—it was the voice of Beatrice—
of his false wife! He turned, and looked at his lost child,
bent over her for an instant, as if to convince himself that there
was indeed no hope, and then seizing his rifle, he took a steady
aim, and again the sharp quick sound reverberated among the
heights—another peal of laughter rang out at its echo, but this
time it was the laugh of Ludovico. The cavalier, the murderer
of his little one, fell as that horrible mirth swelled on the
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evening breeze. As quick as thought the rifle of the bandit was reloaded:
and he looked for a second with a glad and gloating
look upon the affrighted party who cowered around the fallen
man; then again he raised his weapon; but this time his hand
was unsteady, and his frame shook—the strong man quivered
like a leaf! Again he glanced back on the dead object of all
his hope, and of all his tenderness, and that sufficed. In the
next instant a shout of horror rang upward from the plain: mother
and child were alike lifeless. Salvati had taken no coward
aim.
A few months subsequently, Florence was thronged by curious
crowds, who came to witness the execution of Ludovico, the
bandit chief. He had surrendered himself to justice; he had
avowed the murder of his wife; the pillage of travellers, the
control of a fierce band which had long been the terror of the
country. No voice was raised in mercy; it was a forgotten
word in Florence; while all cried aloud for justice. Men do
not judge by the racked heart and the wrung spirit; but by the
peril and the spoil—what to them were the anguish and the despair
which had wrought their ruin? their pity had been unchallenged,
for Salvati had borne a haughty brow before his accusers—
he had himself supplied them both the charge and the culprit;
and the morning at length arrived—two slowly for those
who were to be merely the lookers on at the legal tragedy—when
all might see if his high courage would still uphold him—what
marvel then that they panted for the trial? But they knew not
Ludovico Salvati! he had done with the world, and the world
with him. A busy throng entered his dungeon to summon him
to the death scene; his chains were lying on the earth beside
him, for he had wrenched them asunder, though his tortured
limbs had suffered in the effort; he was no longer to be a gaze
for the Florentines—his dagger had freed him.
