HYLAS.

———

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water.No cloud was seen; on blue and craggy IdaThe hot noon lay, and on the plain’s enamel;Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander.“Why should I haste?” said young and rosy Hylas:“The seas were rough, and long the way from Colchis.Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason,Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther;The shields are piled, the listless oars suspendedOn the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmenDoze on the benches. They may wait for water,Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander.”So said, unfilleting his purple chlamysAnd putting down his urn, he stood a moment,Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossomsThat spangled thick the green Dardanian meadows.Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskinsAnd felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure,Naked, save one light robe, that from his shoulderHung to his knee, the youthful flush revealingOf warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming manhood,Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty.Now to the river’s sandy marge advancing,He dropped the robe and raised his head exultingIn the clear sunshine, that with beam embracingHeld him against Apollo’s glowing bosom.For sacred to Latona’s son is Beauty,Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful feeling.A joy indeed, a living joy was Hylas,Whence Jove-begotten Hêraclês, the mighty,That slew the dreaded boar of Erymanthus,To men though terrible, to him was gentle,Smoothing his rugged nature into laughterWhen the boy stole his club, or from his shouldersDragged the huge paws of the Nemæan lion.The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his forehead,Fell soft about his temples; manhood’s blossomNot yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshlyCurved the fair cheek, and full the red lip’s parting,Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow;His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy,Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven;Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulder roundedTo the white arms and whiter breast between them.Downward, the supple lines had less of softness:His back was like a god’s; his loins were mouldedAs if some pulse of power began to waken;The springy fullness of his thighs, outswerving,Sloped to his knee, and lightly dropping downward,Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of motion.Musing a space he stood, a light smile playingUpon his face—a spirit new-createdTo the free air and all-embracing sunlight.He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirroredIn the still wave, and stretched his foot to press itOn the smooth sole that answered at the surface:Alas! the shape dissolved in glimmering fragments.Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catchingQuick breath, with tingling shudder, as the watersSwirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper,Till on his breast the River’s cheek was pillowed,And deeper still, till every shoreward rippleTalked in his ear, and like a cygnet’s bosomHis white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal.There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion,The lucid coolness folding close around him,The lily-cradling ripples murmured: “Hylas!”He shook from off his ears the hyacinthineCurls, that had lain unwet upon the water,And still the ripples murmured: “Hylas! Hylas!”He thought: “the voices are but ear-born music.Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is callingFrom some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley:So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontos,Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo’s forehead,That I misdeem the fluting of this currentFor some lost nymph”—again the murmur: “Hylas!”And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around himSlid like a wave, and down the clear, green darknessGlimmered on either side a shining bosom—Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closerWound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders,Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tanglesTheir loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him.Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting,They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral,And once againthere came a murmur: “Hylas!O come with us, O follow where we wanderDeep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling—Where on the sandy bed of old ScamanderWith cool white buds we braid our purple tresses,Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing.Thou fair Greek boy, O come with us! O followWhere thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot,But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet,Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hollow!We have no love; alone, of all th’ Immortals,We have no love. O love us, we who press theeWith faithful arms, though cold—whose lips caress thee—Who hold thy beauty prisoned. Love us, Hylas!”The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, callingStill as it faded: “Come with us, O follow!”The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressureLock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striving,Down from the noonday brightness. “Leave me, Naiads!Leave me!” he cried; “the day to me is dearerThan all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean’s quiet.I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure:I would not change this flexile, warm existence,Though swept by storms and shocked by Jove’s dread thunder,To be a king beneath the dark-green waters.”Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses;“We have no love. O love us, we who press thee!”And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas:“My love is mortal. For the Argive maidensI keep the kisses which your lips would ravish,Unlock your cold, white arms—take from my shoulderThe tangled swell of your bewildering tresses.Let me return: the wind comes down from Ida,And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber,Will fret to ride where Pelion’s twilight shadowFalls o’er the towers of Jason’s sea-girt city.I am not yours—I cannot braid the liliesIn your wet hair, nor on your argent bosomsClose my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices.Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being,Your world of watery quiet:—Help, Apollo!For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, thy musicDance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture:The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken,Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping.O leave me, Naiads! loose your chill embraces,Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining.”But still with unrelenting arms they bound him,And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices:“We have thee now, we hold thy beauty prisoned—O come with us beneath the emerald waters!We have no loves; we love thee, rosy Hylas.O love us, who shall nevermore release thee:Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradleFar down on the untroubled sands of ocean,Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces.”And slowly, slowly, sunk the amorous Naiads;The boy’s blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water,Pleading for help; but Heaven’s immortal ArcherWas swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead,And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated,So warm and silky that the stream upbore them,Closing, reluctant, as he sunk forever.The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros.Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshlyBlew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows.The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors,And up the ropes was heaved the snowy canvas.But mighty Hêraclês, the Jove-begotten,Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander,Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamysTossed o’er an urn, was all that lay before him:And when he called, expectant: “Hylas! Hylas!”The empty echoes made him answer: “Hylas!”

Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water.

No cloud was seen; on blue and craggy Ida

The hot noon lay, and on the plain’s enamel;

Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander.

“Why should I haste?” said young and rosy Hylas:

“The seas were rough, and long the way from Colchis.

Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason,

Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther;

The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended

On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen

Doze on the benches. They may wait for water,

Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander.”

So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys

And putting down his urn, he stood a moment,

Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms

That spangled thick the green Dardanian meadows.

Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskins

And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure,

Naked, save one light robe, that from his shoulder

Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing

Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming manhood,

Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty.

Now to the river’s sandy marge advancing,

He dropped the robe and raised his head exulting

In the clear sunshine, that with beam embracing

Held him against Apollo’s glowing bosom.

For sacred to Latona’s son is Beauty,

Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful feeling.

A joy indeed, a living joy was Hylas,

Whence Jove-begotten Hêraclês, the mighty,

That slew the dreaded boar of Erymanthus,

To men though terrible, to him was gentle,

Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter

When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders

Dragged the huge paws of the Nemæan lion.

The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his forehead,

Fell soft about his temples; manhood’s blossom

Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly

Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lip’s parting,

Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow;

His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy,

Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven;

Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulder rounded

To the white arms and whiter breast between them.

Downward, the supple lines had less of softness:

His back was like a god’s; his loins were moulded

As if some pulse of power began to waken;

The springy fullness of his thighs, outswerving,

Sloped to his knee, and lightly dropping downward,

Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of motion.

Musing a space he stood, a light smile playing

Upon his face—a spirit new-created

To the free air and all-embracing sunlight.

He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored

In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it

On the smooth sole that answered at the surface:

Alas! the shape dissolved in glimmering fragments.

Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching

Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters

Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper,

Till on his breast the River’s cheek was pillowed,

And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple

Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet’s bosom

His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal.

There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion,

The lucid coolness folding close around him,

The lily-cradling ripples murmured: “Hylas!”

He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine

Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water,

And still the ripples murmured: “Hylas! Hylas!”

He thought: “the voices are but ear-born music.

Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling

From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley:

So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontos,

Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo’s forehead,

That I misdeem the fluting of this current

For some lost nymph”—again the murmur: “Hylas!”

And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around him

Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green darkness

Glimmered on either side a shining bosom—

Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closer

Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders,

Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles

Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him.

Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting,

They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral,

And once againthere came a murmur: “Hylas!

O come with us, O follow where we wander

Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling—

Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander

With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses,

Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing.

Thou fair Greek boy, O come with us! O follow

Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot,

But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet,

Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hollow!

We have no love; alone, of all th’ Immortals,

We have no love. O love us, we who press thee

With faithful arms, though cold—whose lips caress thee—

Who hold thy beauty prisoned. Love us, Hylas!”

The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, calling

Still as it faded: “Come with us, O follow!”

The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure

Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striving,

Down from the noonday brightness. “Leave me, Naiads!

Leave me!” he cried; “the day to me is dearer

Than all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean’s quiet.

I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure:

I would not change this flexile, warm existence,

Though swept by storms and shocked by Jove’s dread thunder,

To be a king beneath the dark-green waters.”

Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses;

“We have no love. O love us, we who press thee!”

And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas:

“My love is mortal. For the Argive maidens

I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish,

Unlock your cold, white arms—take from my shoulder

The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses.

Let me return: the wind comes down from Ida,

And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber,

Will fret to ride where Pelion’s twilight shadow

Falls o’er the towers of Jason’s sea-girt city.

I am not yours—I cannot braid the lilies

In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms

Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices.

Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being,

Your world of watery quiet:—Help, Apollo!

For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, thy music

Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture:

The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken,

Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping.

O leave me, Naiads! loose your chill embraces,

Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining.”

But still with unrelenting arms they bound him,

And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices:

“We have thee now, we hold thy beauty prisoned—

O come with us beneath the emerald waters!

We have no loves; we love thee, rosy Hylas.

O love us, who shall nevermore release thee:

Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle

Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean,

Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces.”

And slowly, slowly, sunk the amorous Naiads;

The boy’s blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water,

Pleading for help; but Heaven’s immortal Archer

Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead,

And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated,

So warm and silky that the stream upbore them,

Closing, reluctant, as he sunk forever.

The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros.

Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly

Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows.

The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors,

And up the ropes was heaved the snowy canvas.

But mighty Hêraclês, the Jove-begotten,

Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander,

Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys

Tossed o’er an urn, was all that lay before him:

And when he called, expectant: “Hylas! Hylas!”

The empty echoes made him answer: “Hylas!”

THE HIGHLAND CHASE.

THE VISION OF MARIOTDALE.[1]

———

BY H. HASTINGS WELD.

———

My charge was in a beautifully romantic and fertile spot, the natural features of which would seem sufficient teachers of the power and the goodness of God, if, indeed, nature were, as some insist, a sufficient teacher without revelation. I soon found myself, upon here taking up my residence, almost the only man who thought it worth his while to study and admire the beauties which nature, with a lavish hand, had scattered over the scene. It was a valley, enclosed on all sides with hills, whose ascents, crowned with verdure, exhibited every variety of tint and shade of green; for the trees of our country display, more than any other, those varying colors and gentle yet distinctly marked contrasts which the painter envies, but strives in vain to transfer to his canvas. There were only two breaks in the surrounding amphitheatre. One was where a mountain stream came tumbling and babbling into the valley; the other where, in a more subdued and quiet current, it found egress. The sinuous path of this little river, or “run,” across the dale, was marked by a growth of beautiful trees, among which the straight-leaved willow, with its silver foliage shivering in the light, was most frequent and conspicuous; other trees which delight in water diversified the long, green defile; and a little boat, which belonged to one of my parishioners, offered me frequent twilight pastime. Some labor, to which, though unused at first, I soon became accustomed, was required to force the boat upstream; but the highest “boatable” point once reached, I had only to turn the shallop’s head and guide it down, letting my little barque slowly float, and conducting it clear of the shallows and obstructions. Delightful were the views which the turns in the stream were continually opening; the overhanging trees, forming a green roof above, were reflected below; and while I seemed thus suspended between answering skies and trees, over my head and beneath my feet, to look in either direction of the stream seemed like peering into a mysterious fairy grot.

One evening as I paused, looking delighted upon the scene of enchantment, a new feature was, as if by magic, added to the picture. A little girl—a child of surpassing loveliness—slipped out from among the bushes, and, skipping from stone to stone, stood on a high rock, near the middle of the current—the beau ideal of such a sprite as one might fancy inhabiting the spot. Her loose tresses floated on the evening breeze, and her scanty drapery—it was mid-summer—as the wind pressed it against her form, exhibited a delicacy and grace of contour which that artist would become immortal who could copy. She did not at first perceive me; and when the flash of my oar startled her, I almost expected she would prove herself a vision, by vanishing into the sky above in a cloud, or dissolving in a foam-wreath in the water which rippled among the rocks behind her.

But youth and innocence are courageous; and she took no other notice of my approach than to seat herself, to await my coming, upon the same stone on which she had been standing. Her artless ease and beauty won my heart—as men’s hearts are often too easily won, through the eyes. Hers was grace unaffected and natural. No drawing-room belle, after years of practice before her mirror, could have vied with this rustic nymph. She possessed what art can with difficulty imitate, and that never entirely—perfect and unconscious self-possession; and she was the more admirable, that in her child-like simplicity she dreamed not of admiration.

I pushed my shallop up beside the rock, and commenced a conversation with her. I was grieved and amazed to find her helplessly ignorant upon the commonest subjects which those who fear God teach their children. She could not even read, she told me. She was born far away, she said—in another land, mother used to say—and did not remember that she ever went to church; but mother had told her that she was carried there once to be baptized, and her name was Bessie.

“Is your mother dead?” I asked.

“No—not dead—I think not; but father—”

A hoarse voice from the shore now shouted her name; and, unalarmed as she had been when I approached, her little frame now shook with terror, and her interesting face was pale and sullen with mingled fear and anger.

“Is that your father?” I said.

She did not stop to answer, but instantly commenced picking her way back to the bank. While she did so, her trepidation several times almost tripped her into the river. I should have watched her every step at any other time, but my attention was irresistibly drawn to the repulsive form which hadcome, like a dark and unwelcome shadow, over this fair scene. The face was positively one of the most demoniacal in expression I have ever met. Thick, black hair, unkempt, hung over the low forehead, and the shaggy dark eye-brows seemed to glower in habitual gloom over a rough and unshaven face. The expression of the whole was that of a man whose countenance is saddened into surliness, like a clay image of Satan, by habitual strong potations. A slovenly disregard to dress completed the picture of a man who has sold himself to the vilest and most disgusting habits of intoxication.

While I trembled for the fate of such a child, in such hands, she had come within his reach, and, stretching forth his arm, he dragged her to him by the hair, tripping her from her footing into the water, and pulling her to the shore with more inhuman rudeness than I can describe—her dress draggled and muddied, and her limbs bleeding from contact with the sharp stones and pebbles. Blow upon blow the ruffian inflicted upon her, which I could hear as well as see from where I stood. Not a sound, not a cry escaped her; and while I was hesitating whether I ought not to try to reach and rescue her, he ceased beating her, and turned up a path in the bank-side. She silently and doggedly followed him; and I sadly took my way home, lamenting that the beauty and peace of such a place should be so brutally interrupted; and sorrowing more than all, that frequent ill-usage had so deadened the child’s sensibilities as to make her, otherwise so natural and unaffected, thus endure pain with the sullen fortitude of an old offender. I trembled for the life of a child growing up under such influences; for I could see in her future nothing but crime, suffering and degradation.

It was later than my usual time of return when I reached the landing, and there were already lights in the few houses which stood there. I might have mentioned before—but that I hate to acknowledge the fact—that the utilitarian habits of our era had converted my romantic streamlet into a “power” to turn a mill-wheel. It is not a grist-mill, which is a proper appendage to rural scenery, but a woolen manufactory, which, with its unromantic surroundings, caused me many a joke from my friend, the owner of the boat and of the mill. When I excepted to such things as stretching frames, as a blot on the beauty of the landscape, and to the dirty wool and dye-stuff as ruining its romance, he would tell me that if these valleys and rocks had never heard the clatter of his machinery, neither would the “sound of the church-going bell” have disturbed their echoes. There was no answering this, because it was perfectly true, and I could therefore only “humph” and be silent. Though wrong in some points of his course, Mr. Mariot, our “owner,” was a liberal man and well disposed—would there were more such! He built the little church in which I officiated, and he, in effect, supported the rector. If he had not done so, there could have been neither church nor service. And he found his account in the superior order of his establishment; and would have done still more if, beside building the church, he had abated or forbidden a nuisance which sadly impeded my usefulness.

Mr. Mariot stood at the landing, and as I stepped ashore said, “I came down to meet you, Doctor, for Yorkshire Jack is in one of his furious fits, and vows he will beat you—priest or no priest.”

“And who is Yorkshire Jack?” I asked, though a suspicion who he might be instantly shot through my mind. My suspicion was correct—for, upon Mr. Mariot’s explanation, I found that he was the very ruffian whose conduct I have been describing. As we passed the house dignified with the title of the “Mariotdale Hotel,” loud voices came through the open windows. Mr. Mariot would have hurried me past, but I laid my hand upon his arm, and in a low but determined tone said, “Wait, sir!”

Sunday after Sunday I had preached—to little purpose—and here was the reason. Several of my usual congregation, upon whose hearts the word of God fell like seed upon a beaten path-way, sat listening, half laughing, half terrified, at the blasphemy ofthis fiendish fellow—Yorkshire Jack—and half a score more, who never, by any chance, were seen within the church walls, were applauding him at the top of their voices. O, they will have a fearful reckoning who have supplied fools who deny God with words of blasphemy, and with the scoffings of infidelity, through a prostituted press—who have caught the thoughtless with profane wit, and betrayed the daringly wicked with the hardihood of declared infidelity! The worst words of the worst men were rolled from this wretch’s lips, as if they were his own utterance; the shallowest cant of infidel literature came from his mouth as if his own heart had originated what, indeed, it had only harbored. Out of the borrowed abundance of a vile heart, his lips spake; and the applause of his auditory was scarcely less disgusting than his words were.

Women began to gather round the windows of the house—they dared not enter—and to call in hoarse whispers to their husbands, fathers and sons to come out. Children climbed up and looked in, now gazing, open-mouthed, with terrified interest to the drunken maniac’s fury—now laughing, in thoughtless merriment, as his antics became ridiculous. At length, spent with the vanity of a successful orator to a fit audience, filled with drink, and worn out with rage, Yorkshire John sank on a chair. The efforts of his satellites failed to awaken him to new ravings. The joke was worn out—the women coaxed their husbands away, the children walked off, rehearsing, describing, and laughing over what they had heard. The place was soon hushed and still, the monotonous voice of the water only breaking the silence of the night, and Mariot and I took our way homeward—for I lodged with him.

On our way nothing was said. The family, except Mrs. M., had retired; and Mariot seemed as if he would have made that circumstance a pretext for following them in silence. He put a night lamp in my hand, but I placed it on the table, and, sitting down, took upThe Book. He sat also—but it wasevidently with unwilling politeness. Conscience was at work—and he was desirous to evade, rather than listen to, her warnings. I opened to the twenty-eighth of Isaiah, and he started as I read, “Wo to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim!”

“Edward Mariot,” I said, “God will holdyouaccountable for the sin which we have this night witnessed!”

He arose—I thought angrily. He commenced to speak, but a look from his wife dissuaded him. How would he defend himself with such facts so fresh? But I knew that there was a coldness in his manner as he returned my “good night,” with a half nod, such as I never before had witnessed from him. I feared that our friendship, and of course my further residence in Mariotdale, was at an end; but I feared more, that it would be written of my generous but business devoted friend, “Ephraim is joined to his idols—let him alone!”

[1]The incidents which follow are not offered as from the writer’s own observation. As the simple narrative can be best told in the first person, the reader must consider us both as having listened to the aged clergyman who related it. He was a veteran in the Christian army, and truly adorned his vocation by unaffected dignity and sincere piety. Long experience and close observation had given him power to penetrate character, and to read the very thoughts of those whom he addressed. The listener might often be startled at what seemed abrupt harshness, but the result always showed that he knew in what manner to approach all persons. Sympathy and gentleness he well understood are lost on some natures; and positive words are as widely improper for others. Clergymen are too apt to regard all men but as so many copies of each other. They are taught better as they grow older; but our friend seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of human nature.

[1]

The incidents which follow are not offered as from the writer’s own observation. As the simple narrative can be best told in the first person, the reader must consider us both as having listened to the aged clergyman who related it. He was a veteran in the Christian army, and truly adorned his vocation by unaffected dignity and sincere piety. Long experience and close observation had given him power to penetrate character, and to read the very thoughts of those whom he addressed. The listener might often be startled at what seemed abrupt harshness, but the result always showed that he knew in what manner to approach all persons. Sympathy and gentleness he well understood are lost on some natures; and positive words are as widely improper for others. Clergymen are too apt to regard all men but as so many copies of each other. They are taught better as they grow older; but our friend seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of human nature.

——

There was an air of uncomfortable constraint over our little family at the breakfast table on the morrow. All thoughts were full of the same thing, but none liked to broach it. Edward Mariot’s manner seemed to say, “I am disposed to forget, if you will be silent.” But I was determined, at any cost to myself, to insist upon Mariot’s doing his duty in relation to the disorderly house upon his premises—or, failing in that, to leave the parish. I felt that my usefulness was at an end if I hesitated to do what Mariot, as well as I, knew was incumbent upon me; for a clergyman who compromises his conscience to keep his parish, is not only an unfaithful servant but an ally to the enemy. Events, however, were so ordered that I retained my friend, and was spared the pain of giving him further reproof. I was informed that Yorkshire John was at the door, and desired to see me.

I rose instantly and went out. Mariot followed, fearing violence—a danger which did not once occur to me; for there are few—very few—so base and cowardly as to make an attack upon a clergyman. The man could not look me in the face. He was abashed and evidently afflicted, and, merely muttering that Bessie was “very bad,” andwanted me, turned and strode hastily away.

Mariot accompanied me down to the little village, and, as we walked, gave me some particulars of the life and character of this singular being, Yorkshire Jack. He had only the one child, and its mother was still living, but had been forced to leave her husband, on account of his cruel treatment. Nobody knew precisely where she lived, or in what manner she supported herself; but she was occasionally seen hovering about the dale, with the intention of seeing or carrying away her daughter. The father detained the child in the hope that the love of a mother would bring her back to him; for, in the years that she had been absent, with a drunkard’s inconsistency, he had earnestly desired her return, and vehemently promised amendment. In these professions, which had reached her through a mutual acquaintance, she put no faith. She had been compelled to fly more than once before; and having, on those occasions returned only to discover the hollowness of his promises, and to receive new abuse, she had resolved to trust him no further. She heard, moreover, through common fame, of all his wild and wicked proceedings; and learning what her child suffered, was the more firmly resolved not only never herself to return, but to take away Bessie if possible. This made John but the more cruel, especially when in drink; and he was at all times mad with suspicion that some one would aid her in the abduction. Hence his rage against his daughter and against me; for as he never conversed even with his own child, he could conceive of no purpose but a sinister one, in my accidental interview with little Bessie. I was tempted to chide Mariot for suffering this state of things without interfering; but judged it discreet to be silent.

John’s house—or rather his room—was the picture of neglect and desolation. He had converted it into a sort of fortification, so that none but a most expert burglar could get in without his permission. Neither couldthe child get away when once the premises were locked. During the day he had been in the habit, often, of fastening her in, and when she went abroad it was with him. It was shocking to hear that the poor infant had been the forced auditor of her father’s violence on the night before, till, spent with fatigue, she fell on the floor and slept. No wonder, you are ready to exclaim, that she was ill.

But her disease was evidently something more than mere exhaustion. Now feverish and languid, she would anon become chilled. Pains in the head and back, redness of eyes, a husky voice, and sore throat, and a loathing rejection of food, with other symptoms, which I will not expose my medical ignorance by attempting to describe, marked her affection as one of no light character. A hint sent the father for a physician—for remorse often hastens those whom affection cannot influence. Upon his arrival he confirmed my surmises, and pronounced the case one of decided small-pox, and of a very dangerous and malignant type.

The father was frantic, and raved like a madman. He denied stoutly that such could be the case—called us fools and idiots, and ordered all—the physician, Mariot and myself—to leave his house. I looked at my friend, and saw tokens of the indecision and lack of resolution, which was his infirmity. Then turning to the father, I said, “We will not leave this sweet child to perish in your hands; and unless you desist from violence, if Mr. Mariot will not act, I will cause you to be committed as a disturber of the peace!” The man was in a frenzy, and absolutely foamed at the mouth; but the physician and Mariot supported me, and taking advantage of his temporary absence, we turned his own fortifications against him and barred him out, while we should consult what to do in the emergency.

“Mariot,” I said, after he and the physician had proposed and rejected as impracticable several expedients,“there is apest houseready to your hand. Take that.”

“The tenant will not suffer it,” said he.

“Leave that to us.” And, with the doctor, I went directly to the tavern, and without circumlocution informed the landlord that we were about to bring a small pox patient to his house, and desired a room!

He, too, stormed and threatened, but we insisted. The terror among the residents had now grown intense, for the rumor had spread; and they having collected, with one voice demanded that the house should be taken. It stood apart from the rest, and was in all respects eligible for the purpose.

“If you do bring the child here,” said he, “I will leave.”

“Do so before, if you choose,” I answered, “for in one hour she will be here.” And I further informed him that upon his future quietness and good behavior it would depend whether he should be proceeded against for the sale of spirits to minors and his other misdeeds.

A new cause of alarm was now discovered. The mother of the child lay sick in another house; and investigation into the nature of her illness developed the fact that, in a stolen interview with poor little Bessie, it was she who had communicated to the child the infection. Both mother and daughter were removed to the tavern, a nurse was provided, and all proper steps were taken for their comfort. Yorkshire John, having become subdued by these events, was suffered to be their attendant. The landlord, having received Mariot’s assurance that his reasonable charges should be met, sullenly acquiesced, and did not carry out the threat of removal. The customers, however, fortunately for themselves, avoided the “Pest House,” and his business was reduced completely to that of an infirmary. Thus, what fear of moral contagion could not accomplish, was effected by the dread of physical infection.

——

Pass over a couple of years, and behold me, the energetic actor—perhaps almost unclerical—in the events of the preceding narrative, now domiciled permanently in the “Mariotdale Hotel.” The old landlord—a good weaver—has resumed his place in the works, and frequently avows his satisfaction at the change which circumstances compelled him to make in his pursuits. Yorkshire John, his very self, is my landlord—and a quieter dwelling there is not in the country. Perhaps much of this is due to the good management of his wife—for she, after all, is the man of the house.

And Bessie?

Poor Bessie! We laid her down to rest in the churchyard two years since, for the illness she had was unto death. It was this shock which recalled the father to his senses; and rest assured I did not spare him. He was not a man who couldbear consolation, for it seemed as if he could almost strike the person who offered it. He rebelled against the blow, but found that he was in the hands of a God who will reach those by affliction who refuse to be persuaded by mercy.

Poor Bessie—did I say? Blessed child! If the dead can look on earth, she knows that her father and mother have been reformed and reconciled through her death; that father and mother have learned to believe that the early lost are early saved.

And Mariot, my warmer friend than before, admits that my counsel was sound—that the souls as well as the bodies of his people are in some sense in his charge, and that he who neglects his duty in regard to the first cannot atone for that neglect by care of the last.

I often float in the evening down to Bessie’s rock, and seldom fail to see in the twilight,The Vision. Nor does it now prove to be of the earth, earthly, as once it did—for I know that she is in Heaven.

SORROW.

———

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

———

I saw at sunrise, in the East, a cloud—A form upon the sky; at first it seemedGloomy and threatening, but at length it beamedInto a glow of tender light endowedBy the soft rising light. How mild and sweetIt shone! how full of holy tenderness!How like some hovering Angel did it greetMy heart until I almost kneeled to bless!It brightened more and more, but less and lessIt melted, leading further still my gazeInto the heavens; with lovelier, lovelier dressIt shrunk, until it vanished in a blaze.Thus sorrow, kindled by Religion’s light;Turns to a tender joy, pointing toward heaven our sight.

I saw at sunrise, in the East, a cloud—

A form upon the sky; at first it seemed

Gloomy and threatening, but at length it beamed

Into a glow of tender light endowed

By the soft rising light. How mild and sweet

It shone! how full of holy tenderness!

How like some hovering Angel did it greet

My heart until I almost kneeled to bless!

It brightened more and more, but less and less

It melted, leading further still my gaze

Into the heavens; with lovelier, lovelier dress

It shrunk, until it vanished in a blaze.

Thus sorrow, kindled by Religion’s light;

Turns to a tender joy, pointing toward heaven our sight.

SONNET.—MORAL STRENGTH.

———

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

———

The spirit that in conscious right is strong,By Treachery or Rage may be assailed;But over single-handedRight, hathWrongNever by art or multitude prevailed;As Samson, shaking off the withes that failedTo hold the Titan, rose all free amongThe weak Philistines that before him quailed,And bade defiance to the coward-throng!So the Titanic soul through moral powerRending the toils of Calumny, doth tower—A host within itself—sublimely free,Above the foes that in their weakness cower.Shorn of its strength the human soul must be,Ere overcome by truth’s worst enemy.

The spirit that in conscious right is strong,

By Treachery or Rage may be assailed;

But over single-handedRight, hathWrong

Never by art or multitude prevailed;

As Samson, shaking off the withes that failed

To hold the Titan, rose all free among

The weak Philistines that before him quailed,

And bade defiance to the coward-throng!

So the Titanic soul through moral power

Rending the toils of Calumny, doth tower—

A host within itself—sublimely free,

Above the foes that in their weakness cower.

Shorn of its strength the human soul must be,

Ere overcome by truth’s worst enemy.

TAMAQUE.

A TALE OF INDIAN CIVILIZATION.

———

BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD.

———

One day, during a ramble in the interior of Pennsylvania with my gun and dog, I found myself on the top of a high mountain, which commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country. The charms of the landscape soon drew off my attention from the pursuit on which I had set out so zealously in the morning; and leaving my dog to chase the game at his pleasure, I indulged myself in pursuing the phantoms of my imagination. In this mood of mind I approached the end of the mountain, whose rugged cliffs overhung the river which washed their base. My dog running to the brink, looked over, but instantly bounded back again, ran to and fro, looking up in my face then crept back cautiously to the spot, and gazed intently at some object below him. Curious to learn what it was that so deeply interested my faithful companion, and anxious to secure it, if worth shooting, I looked to the priming of my gun, and stretching myself on the rock, projected my head over the precipice. A single glance made me follow my dog’s example, and draw back; for, on a kind of shelf, formed by a projecting rock, a few feet below me, sat an old man, his white hairs flowing over his shoulders, calmly surveying the scene around him. From his dress and whole appearance, I judged that he was, like myself, a stranger in that neighbourhood, which made me still more desirous to seek his acquaintance. I soon found a winding path which led to the front of the bluff, and in a few moments brought me to the side of the stranger. To my increased surprise I found that he was sitting at the mouth of a cavern, which had been scooped out of the solid rock by the hand of Nature. Here was as convenient a cell, and as profound a solitude as any hermit could desire. But it was clear that he was no hermit. His was neither the garb, nor the look, nor the address of a man living in seclusion from his fellows. When a sudden turn in the path brought me close to his side, he rose calmly, and saluted me as blandly and as kindly as if we had been old acquaintances. Stammering out a few words of apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when he interposed with a courteous gesture.

“Would you not like to have a look at my hermitage?” said he; then, perhaps, noticing my look of incredulity, he added, “It is mine now, at least, by the right of possession.”

“Pardon me,” said I, “but I should not take you for an inhabitant of these mountains.”

“And why not, pray?”

“It is not customary, I think, for wild men of the woods and rocks to wear white neckcloths and polished boots,” said I.

The old gentleman laughed at this remark, and then said, “you may call me atemporaryhermit, then; for you certainly found me alone, and sitting at the mouth of my cave. Indeed, if I were to assert my claim to it, I doubt whether there is any man living who could show a prior right; for I knew this place when few white men had ever penetrated what was then considered a remote wilderness.”

“The prospect must have changed very much since then,” said I.

“In some respects it certainly has,” he replied; “but the main features of a scene like this continue ever the same. The plough cannot level mountains, nor cultivation change the course of rivers. I have been tracing the windings of this stream with my eye, and find them just as they were; and I recognize every soaring peak, and every projecting rock as an old acquaintance; I saw broken clouds just like these floating above the mountain tops fifty years ago; and I would almost swear that yonder eagle is the same which then sailed so majestically through the air.”

“Those villages and forms, however, must be new to you.”

“Ah, yes!” said he, “there we see the hand of civilization. Where now our eyes take in no less than four neat and thriving villages, there were not then as many clusters of rude wigwams; and these green fields and blooming orchards were an unbroken wilderness.”

“A most happy change,” said I.

“So reason doubtless tells us,” he replied. “Better the peace and industry which now reign here, than the war-whoop, or the listless indolence of savage life. And yet it is melancholy to think how quickly these old lords of the forest have disappeared. Many a league was made in their rude fashion to endure between the parties and their descendants, as long as these mountains should continue to stand, or this river to run. The eternal hills still cast their shadows on the ever-rolling waters; but the powerful tribes who appealed to them as perpetual witnesses of their faith are extinct, or live only in a few wretched stragglers, thousands of miles away in the far west. We have possessed ourselves of their heritage; and to show our gratitude, we abuse them for not having made a better use of their own possessions, and congratulate ourselves on the happy change we have effected.”

“There will never be wanting romantic persons,” I remarked, “to celebrate the glories of savage life, and the felicity of spending a northern winter half naked and half starved, under the precarious shelter of a wigwam.”

“Well,” said he, with enthusiasm, “let them embalmthe memory of the Red Man! It will appease the manes of those ambitious warriors to be renowned in song and story. The noblest spirits of the world have gained but a few lines in a Universal History, or a single page in a Biographical Dictionary, and have deemed themselves well paid for a life of toil. Ambition is everywhere the same; and its essence is a desire to be remembered. It may happen that the sad fate of the Indian will perpetuate his memory when the achievements of all his conquerors have been forgotten.”

“I cannot help suspecting,” said I, smiling, “that you have yourself been a warrior, perhaps the adopted son of the chief who presided over these hunting-grounds.”

“No,” said he, “I was not so great a favorite with the chief of these hunting-grounds.”

“Ah, then,” continued I, “your sympathy is that of a generous conqueror for an unfortunate adversary.”

“Not exactly that either,” said he; “I was neither for nor against them. If you are inclined to hear my story, I will relate it here, in sight of every spot to which it refers.”

We then sat down on the rock together, and he proceeded as follows.

I came out as bearer of despatches to what was then the frontier settlement; but an errand of my own induced me to come on here. It was at the time that the Moravians were making zealousand apparently very successful efforts to civilize and Christianize the Indians; and they had a station, under the care of the venerable Luten, which I know must be somewhere in this neighborhood. Although I had known and honored Luten from my boyhood, I should scarcely have ventured on such an expedition for the mere pleasure of seeinghim; but he had brought his wife with him, and what is more to our present purpose, his daughter, Mary. Well, it was a rash undertaking to penetrate this wilderness without a guide, just then, for the Indians were in a state of angry hostility toward the whites, in consequence of some real or supposed injuries lately received; but what will not an enterprising young fellow risk in such a cause? Even the bold hunter often carries his life in his hand; and the game I was pursuing was better worth the risk than a wolf or a panther.

Having struck on this chain of mountains, and finding that they commanded a view of the surrounding country, I followed them up until I reached the brow above us, when I caught a glimpse of a figure suddenly gliding down the face of the hill toward where we are now sitting. I cautiously followed, and saw a man whom I knew, from his appearance, to be anIndian conjurer, enter this cave. Without disturbing him, I returned to the hill above, and carefully explored the country round for the station I was in search of. I had given up the search, with the full conviction that there was no settlement in sight, when the light breeze wafted to my ear the sound of human voices. I soon made out that it was a familiar strain of sacred music, and sweeping over the valley again with my telescope, discovered an encampment just where yonder creek empties into the river. It was the hour of evening worship; and the savages were tuning their voices to the unwonted notes of a Christian hymn. Of the venerable missionary, it might emphatically be said, that he pointed to heaven, and led the way. He had left country, home, and friends; the habits of a lifetime, and the tastes of a highly cultivated mind, for the sake of the poor Indian; and it mattered little to him whether his head reposed in a palace or a wigwam, or whether his bones were laid in the Fatherland or in some wild glen of the New World, so that his Master’s work was sped. If such thoughts passed through my mind whilst my eye rested for a moment on him, they were instantly put to flight when I saw another figure in the group. But he would have forgiven my irreverence, if he had known of it, for the love he also bore his gentle Mary.

I quickly descended the mountain, and reached the encampment just as the sun was setting. Luten received me as a son; Mary as a brother, except that the blush which suffused her face and the agitation of her nerves were something more than fraternal—so, at least, I flattered myself. When I inquired for the missionary’s wife a tear started into the eye of both father and daughter. I understood it all—she had found a grave in the wilderness.

I had many questions to ask as well as to answer, and much news to tell, and the evening wore away before curiosity had been satisfied on either side. But I felt anxious to know their plans and prospects for the future; I therefore inquired of Luten how he was succeeding with the Indians.

“Far beyond my most sanguine expectations,” he replied.

“You really think, then, that it is possible to change their savage natures,” said I.

“Why should it be thought doubtful?” said he. “Are we not all descended from the same parents—all partakers of the same fallen nature—all hastening to the same bourne? But you would scarcely recognize the gnarled and stunted oak, springing from the scanty earth afforded by a crevice in the rock, as belonging to the same species with the monarch of the forest, striking his roots deep in a generous soil, and spreading his branches proudly toward heaven. Pour into the minds of these poor heathen savages the light of civilization and Christianity, and in a few generations they will have become the noblest race of men in the world.”

“It is a very common belief, however,” said I, “that they are incapable of civilization; and does not experience seem to justify this opinion?”

“Myexperience proves the contrary,” said he, with emphasis. “The people now in this encampment were lately fierce and blood-thirsty warriors; I wish the docility and meekness they now exhibit were more common among white men.”

“But has there been time,” I asked, “to warrant the conclusion that the change will be permanent?”

“I have no fear as to that,” he said; “the change is radical—the savage nature is extinct in them; and,like children, their plastic minds can now be moulded into any form by education.”

“I hope it will prove so,” said I; “but do their chiefs go with them?”

“Their favorite young chief, Tamaque, now leads them as zealously in the path of peace, as he formerly did in the war-path,” he replied. “A noble young fellow he is, too.”

“Indeed he is,” said Mary, who had hitherto been listening to our conversation in silence; “he is always so kind and gentle. I love him as my own brother.”

The very bluntness of her words might have satisfied me that she meantonlywhat she said; but somehow or other I did not like her form of expression, and I began to feel anything but partial toward the person they referred to. “Pray what does he look like?” I inquired.

“Oh, he is very handsome,” said she, with the same provoking simplicity.

“And no doubt very accomplished,” said I, drily.

“Why, yes,” she replied, “he is by no means wanting in accomplishments. He was educated at one of our own schools, and, it is said, proved a very apt scholar. Indeed, his civilized accomplishments are very respectable; and as to his savage ones,” she added, laughing, “he is foremost in all the exercises of his tribe.”

I joined in the laugh, rather faintly, and then added, maliciously:

“No doubt even his copper color is unusually bright.”

“By no means,” she replied; “his color is that of a white man a little tanned by exposure to the sun.”

“The truth is,” said Luten, “he is only half Indian, and he seems to be endowed with most of the virtues of both the white and red man, without the vices of either.”

The affair had now become serious, and I could no longer help regarding this accomplished half-breed chief as a formidable rival.

“On him, more than any man,” continued Luten, “rest my hopes for the regeneration of his race. I imagine to myself that I see in him the future founder of Indian civilization. Yes, my young friend, ere you have attained the age which now bears me to the ground, you will see these savage tribes every where pursuing the arts of peace; you will see them kneeling at the altar of the living God, and putting to shame the boasted civilization of the white man. My old body will be dust long before that; but this hope, and belief, have sustained me amidst all the toils and privations of a life in the wilderness.”

I looked anxiously in the speaker’s face; for the thought struck me that his mind had become unsettled. But his placid countenance and clear, steady eye, at once convinced me that what I had deemed madness, was nothing more than the enthusiasm of a bold and sanguine reformer. I could not find it in my heart to disturb the vision which afforded him so much delight by any expression of my doubts, and still less did I feel inclined to enter upon any further discussion of the merits of Tamaque. I had heard too much about them already for my repose that night; and every remark I had made on the subject had only served to call forth a fresh eulogy. I therefore gladly accepted Luten’s invitation to retire to my bear-skin couch. Many were the visions that chased each other through my brain during my broken slumbers, and Tamaque was connected with them all. Sometimes I saw him the king of a mighty people, with Mary at his side, crowned as a queen. Again I found myself engaged in deadly conflict with him, and waked just in time to escape receiving the death-blow at his hands. At another time I seemed to have got the better of him, and was about to plunge my sword into his bosom with fierce exultation, when my hand was arrested by a reproachful look from her, and started up and thanked heaven that it was only a dream. At length, however, I fell into a sound and tranquil sleep. But I was not permitted long to enjoy it; for, just at the dawn of day, a strange Indian rushed into the camp, yelling the war-whoop until the mountains echoed it back again. The whole camp was instantly in motion; in a few minutes the council-fire was blazing, and the Indians had ranged themselves around it.

The messenger soon told his story. A number of fanatic white men had banded together and sworn eternal hostility to the Indians. They professed to consider them as standing in the same relation to themselves as the Canaanites of old did to the children of Israel; and, therefore, in the name of God, they waged an exterminating war against them. They had just fallen upon an Indian village of Tamaque’s tribe, and slaughtered the inhabitants, without regard to age or sex. This messenger had alone escaped to tell the dreadful tidings. His words produced a deep sensation on these fierce warriors, just emerging into civilization. The old instincts of their natures were evidently reawakened; and it seemed as if a signal only were wanting to make them rush forth, as in former days, with tomahawk and scalping-knife.

Luten hastened to check the torrent of passion which threatened, in one moment, to sweep away the fruits of all his labors. Standing, like a venerable patriarch, among his rebellious household, he endeavored, by a skillful blending of persuasion with parental authority, to restore them to a sense of duty. Reminding them of their solemn vows, he conjured them by that regard for plighted faith which is the red man’s boast, not to forget or break them in this moment of passion. He pointed out the high destiny they had to accomplish, in spreading light and knowledge all through the wilderness, and leading the way to a great reformation of the Indian race. Then, in a more solemn tone, he spoke of the world to come; painting the happiness in store for those who persevere to the end, and the uncontrollable miseries reserved for the unfaithful. His earnest eloquence was perfectly adapted to their simple apprehensions, yet eminently calculated to strike their imaginations by the wild imagery with which he embellished it.Their stern natures relented as he spoke, and he seemed to be on the point of regaining all his influence over them, when another messenger arrived, and signified that he had important news to communicate.

He told of new outrages, more cruel, if possible, than the first; and whilst every heart beat high with rage and horror, turned to Tamaque and addressed him thus:

“These griefs are common to us all; but the words I am now to speak will fall more dismally on Tamaque’s soul than the howling of a famished wolf. Yesterday you had a father and a sister. I saw that father’s gray hairs red with blood; I saw that sister, when flying from the blazing wigwam, driven back by the white men’s spears—and she returned no more. Then I came, swift as a hunted deer, to sound the war-whoop in the ears of Tamaque and his warriors.”

Throughout the whole scene Tamaque had been sitting as impassive as a statue. It was impossible to gather from his looks any hint of what was passing in his mind; and when, at length, he rose, the fire that beamed from his eye alone enabled me to anticipate his purpose.

“Warriors!” he said, “we must listen to the song of peace no longer. The white man’s words are love, but his embrace is death. Let us return, without delay, to the customs of our fathers. Even now I hear their voices, from the land of spirits, calling us to war and vengeance.” Then turning toward me, he continued: “The stranger has come just in time—seize him and drag him to the torture.”

With savage yells some gathered round me, whilst others hastened to prepare the stake, and others to collect the implements of torture. I had seen the operation once in my life, and remembered it well. In that case, the victim was stripped naked and tied with a grape vine to the top of a pole, having a free range on the ground of ten or fifteen feet. At the foot of the pole was a flaming fire of pitch-pine, and each Indian held in his hand a small bundle of blazing reeds. The death-signal being given he was attacked on all sides, and driven to the pole for shelter; but, unable to endure the flames that scorched him there, he again rushed forth and was again driven back by his tormentors. When he became exhausted water was poured on him and a brief respite given, that he might recover strength for new endurements. The same scene was acted over again and again, until they had extracted the last thrill of anguish from his scorched and lacerated body.

Similar preparations were now making for me, and I watched them with shuddering interest as the fire was kindled and the faggots distributed. Just as they were about to drag me to the stake, however, Luten interposed. But all his appeals and entreaties were unheeded; and when at last he begged them, if they must have a victim, to take him and spare his young friend, Tamaque rudely repulsed him, and ordered him to be carried away to his tent. My last hope of escape was now extinguished, when lo! a figure glided suddenly into the arena, arresting the attention of all, as if she had been a messenger from Heaven. Can the daughter control these wild spirits who have rebelled against the authority of the father? She binds her white handkerchief round my arm, and then whispers in the ear of Tamaque. The words, whatever they are, act like a charm on him. His stern countenance relaxes almost into a smile, and he stands for some moments absorbed in meditation. Again she whispers a few earnest words; upon which he comes forward, takes me by the arm, and leads me, in silence, to the outskirts of the encampment.

“Now go!” he cried, pointing toward the east; “you are indebted for your freedom to one I love better than you. See that you make a good use of it; for, if you should be retaken, and brought here again, not evenherentreaties shall save you from the torture. Away! and here,” he continued, handing me a red belt, “bear to the false-hearted cowards you came from this token of the hatred and defiance of Tamaque and his warriors.” He waved his hand to prevent my replying, and stalked away.

I was now free, but by no means satisfied with the manner in which my liberty had been procured. What meant this mysterious influence of a fair young Christian girl over a haughty savage chieftain? What were those whispered words which had wrought the sudden charm? Had she yielded to some request, or given some pledge in order to make her prayer effectual? My mind was racked with torments scarce less poignant than those which just before had threatened to assail my body. I resolved at all hazards to see the end of it; and, therefore, in defiance of fire and faggot, concealed myself at a point close by, which commanded a full view of the neighborhood.

I had not been long in my hiding place when I saw a procession, with Tamaque at its head, move from the camp in the direction of this mountain. I conjectured at once that they were coming here to consult the conjurer, and resolved to follow them. When they had descended the face of the precipice to the spot where we are now sitting, I crept cautiously forward on the rock above, and found myself in full hearing of their consultation.

“How often have I warned you,” said the conjurer, “against the teachings of the white men. I told you they only wished to rob you of your courage that they might destroy you the more easily; but you refused to listen to me.”

“Well, well,” said Tamaque, “that is past; there is no help for it now. Let us talk of the future.”

“Last year,” continued the conjurer, “when no game was to be found, and when the corn all withered away, I told you the Great Spirit was angry because you were forsaking the customs of your fathers; but you turned a deaf ear to my words.”

“I remember it all,” said Tamaque, “but go on, and tell us of the future.”

“They promised you,” persisted the conjurer, “that if you would worship their God you shouldgo to their heaven when you died. I told you that your spirits and theirs could never live in peace in the same spirit-land; but you would not believe me.”

“Come, come, I am tired of this,” said Tamaque.

“No forests, no rivers, no deer, no hunting and no war,” continued the conjurer, “what would the Indian warrior do in the white man’s heaven?”

“Cease your babbling!” cried Tamaque, in a tone no longer to be disregarded. “If you can foretell our fortunes in this war speak; if not, out on your boasted wisdom!”

The conjurer seemed to feel that it was necessary to come to the point. After a long pause, he asked:

“What have you done with the white stranger that came to your camp last evening?”

The old impostor had no doubt seen me at the same time I had seen him as I crossed the mountain, but he was determined to make a mystery of it. Tamaque seemed puzzled.

“How did you know of his coming?” he inquired.

“Tamaque doubts the conjurer’s wisdom,” he replied.

“No!” said Tamaque, “you would not tell me what I come to hear. Go on, now, and I’ll believe you.”

“Has the stranger been put to death?”

“He is gone,” said Tamaque.

“It was wrong,” said the conjurer; “he should have died at the stake. The Great Spirit calls for a sacrifice. The missionary and his daughter must die.”

“No!” said Tamaque, “it is impossible.”

“It must be so,” replied the conjurer; “they must die before sunset.”

“It cannot be,” said Tamaque firmly; “command me to do any thing but that.”

“I command you to do that,” replied the conjurer, “or I will call down confusion on your war-party.”

“I tell you,” said Tamaque fiercely, “they shall not die. Say no more about it.”

“Obstinate man!” said the conjurer, “you dare not disobey me. They shall die, and you shall kindle the fire beneath them.”

Tamaque now sprang forward and seized the conjurer by the throat. “Villain!” he exclaimed, “I warned you to speak of that no more. Name it again, and I will toss you headlong down the mountain.”

Finding that Tamaque could not be overawed, the wily conjurer now changed his tactics.

“You might safely spare them,” he said, “on one condition; but I dare not name it.”

“Go on,” said Tamaque, “you have nothing to fear, if you do not speak of their death.”

“The anger of Tamaque is dangerous,” continued the conjurer; “and who can tell what words will rouse it?”

“No, no!” said Tamaque mildly, “I will hear you patiently; and if you require me even to leap down this dizzy precipice, I’ll obey you.”

“Listen, then,” said the conjurer; “and if my words sound harsh in your ears,” said the old hypocrite, “let not your anger be kindled. They shall live if you choose, but then the white maiden must become Tamaque’s wife.”

I was looking over, at the moment, from the rock above, full at Tamaque. He started convulsively; his whole frame shook with emotion; whilst a gleam of joy absolutely lighted up his dark features. My own sensations were not less violent, perhaps, though somewhat different in their character.

After a pause Tamaque asked, in a tone of affected indifference:

“If I consent to this, do you promise success to our expedition?”

“Yes,” said the conjurer, “you will conquer all your foes, and reestablish the power and glory of the red man. Behold! a vision of the future rises up before me. I see Tamaque great and powerful, the ruler over many nations; and far off, for many generations, I see his children’s children walking in his footsteps.”

“Your words are good,” said Tamaque.

“So will be your deeds,” said the conjurer. “Strike boldly, and fear nothing.”

“Tamaque knows no fear,” replied the haughty chief. “To-morrow he will go forth with his warriors, and thus will he rush upon the foe.” As he spoke he heaved from its resting place a huge fragment of rock, which bounded down the mountain roaring and smoking, and crushing all before it, until, with a loud plunge, it disappeared beneath the bubbling waters.

I had now heard and seen enough; and there was no time to be lost if I wished to saveherfrom—from what? Confusion on the thought! My head reeled, and I came near falling down amongst them. But I soon rallied, and made all possible haste to reach the camp before Tamaque.

Suddenly, as I emerged from a clump of trees yonder on the bank of the creek, I saw her whom I sought close before me, kneeling on a mound of earth,—doubtless her mother’s grave. I stood entranced, and listened, in spite of myself, to the broken sentences which she uttered aloud.

“And save, oh, merciful Father,” she murmured, “save his white hairs from the dangers which surround us.” Her filial words here became inaudible. The next sentence that reached my ears related to a different person. “May thy powerful arm protect us from the cruel rage, and the still more cruel love of that dreadful man!” My jealous ears drank in these words with ecstasy. They were a balm to my wounded spirit; a compensation for all my sufferings. Again she spoke aloud: “And him, the stranger, who wanders, unprotected, through the wilderness; oh! guard his steps from harm, and grant, in thine own good time, that—” her voice now died away into a gentle whisper. When it rose again she was saying, “And for me, in mercy, give thy unhappy child, here, in this hallowed spot, a peaceful grave.” I began to feel that my listening, howeverinadvertent, was little less than sacrilege; and, therefore, quietly stole away out of hearing.

As soon as I discovered that she had risen to her feet, I again drew near. Great was her surprise and consternation at seeing me.

“Oh! why do you linger here,” she cried. “You should, ere this, be far on your way toward home. Fly instantly, and look not behind you; for, if you should be taken by these cruel savages no human power can save you from a dreadful doom.”

“I know that well,” I replied; “but can you think me so careful of my own life as to run away and leave you to their tender mercies?”

“Fear nothing for me,” she said; “they do not rank me among their enemies, and will not harm me.”

“But although you may be safe from their hatred, have you nothing to fear from their friendship?” said I.

The tide of confusion mounted to her brow at these words, and she trembled in every limb. But, quickly recovering herself, she said: “Come what may, I share the fate of my father.”

“But go,” said I, “bring your father quickly, and we will all escape together.”

“No,” said she, sadly, “he is old and feeble; his absence would soon be noticed; they would certainly pursue us, and easily overtake us.”

I could make no reply to this, for I knew that we could not take her father with us, and I felt sure that she would not go without him. With the dogged resolution of despair, therefore, I said:

“Your own fidelity teaches me my duty. I shall remain in these woods to watch over your safety. Seek not to change my purpose. Better endure all the torments these fiends can inflict than the shame and remorse I should suffer if I left you.”

I spoke in a tone that could leave no doubt of my sincerity or firmness. She evidently felt it so, and stood for some minutes with her eyes fixed on the ground in silent meditation. Then, at length, raising her head, she abruptly asked:

“Can you paddle a canoe?”

I replied that I could with considerable skill.

“Then go down immediately to the mouth of the creek,” she continued; “I will bring my father there, and it is possible that we may yet escape across the river. It is worth the trial, at least, and is our only hope.”

I hastened to the place designated, where I found two canoes moored to the shore. In a few minutes Mary appeared, almost dragging her father along. When the old man understood our purpose he refused to get into the boat.

“No,” said he, “I cannot leave these poor children, whom I have so long taught and prayed for. Deserted by their pastor, they would soon return to their old habits, and the labor of long years would lose all its fruits.”

“But, sir,” I replied, “they have already withdrawn themselves from your authority. You cannot safely remain amongst them, for they now regard all white men as their enemies.”

“I will stay,” he answered, “and bring them back to the fold from which they are wandering, or else lay down my life among them.”

“But your daughter,” I continued; “surely this is now no place for her. Come! let us place her in safety, and then, if you choose, you can return.” I saw that he hesitated; and so, taking him by the arm, I led him, with gentle violence, into the canoe.

“Are these the only canoes at the station?” I asked.

Being answered in the affirmative, I directed Luten to hold fast to the empty one, and then pushed off from the shore. My intention was to cut off pursuit by carrying the empty canoe some distance into the stream and then setting her adrift. The river was then about at its present height, and dashed over these rapids with the same violence as now. It was certain that no boat could drift through them without being swamped or broken to pieces.

Accordingly, when we had attained what I thought a sufficient distance from the shore, I directed Luten to let go his hold. Scarcely had he done so when a shriek from Mary, whose face was turned toward the shore, was immediately followed by a plunge, and then another, into the water.

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