( 
 
Jt7 
 

THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIYER. 
 
THE OLD HOUSE BY THE EIYEE, 
 

 THE 
 
 OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE OWL CREEK LETTERS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 Nos. 329 AND 331 PEARL STREET, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 
 1853. 
 

 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, 
 
 BY HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 In the Clerk s Office for the Southern District of New York. 
 
TO 
 
 TIT HEN this book was prepared for the press, 
 several years ago, your name, as you will 
 remember, was on this dedicatory page, and I 
 would not displace it now. But the book is not 
 dedicated to you, nor will you value it any the less 
 for that. Times change, and we change with them ; 
 and although nothing has occurred, or could pos 
 sibly occur, to change our close attachment, yet it 
 will not be necessary for me to explain to you why 
 I give the book to one who now has a place nearer 
 to me, and to all my thoughts and hopes, than ever 
 you or Joe Willis have had. 
 
 The old house on the river stands where it did 
 when the book was written, but its tenants are no 
 longer there. Joe Willis, our friend, is a wanderer. 
 
DEDICATORY. 
 
 The old house is closed, the housekeeper its only 
 occupant ; and Anthony, prince of family servants 
 that he was, sleeps in the graveyard, near his young 
 mistress and old master. 
 
 I am in my city home, surrounded by new 
 friends, new scenes, and new employments ; and I 
 ought to add here, that these scenes and days are 
 happier than those, strange as it may seem. 
 
 I do not care to say what reasons have induced 
 the publication of the volume after so long delay. 
 You may guess at them, provided you like the 
 book. I trust you will like it. 
 
 I need not say to you that there is some fiction 
 in the volume, for a certain amount was necessary 
 to conceal the identity and personality of the inci 
 dents. 
 
 The heart of every reader will spare me the ne 
 cessity of saying how much there is in the volume 
 which is no fiction. 
 
 There are experiences such as no imagination 
 can paint, joys and sufferings such as none can de 
 scribe but those who have known them experi- 
 
DEDICATORY. 
 
 mentally. However much in this took may be 
 called sentimental, or weak, I care not. I have a 
 hope for the book. It is that it may reach some 
 hearts that will acknowledge the faithfulness of 
 much that it professes to delineate, and that it may 
 lead the minds of those, who in the busy scenes of 
 the world are forgetting their own histories, back 
 to the gentler and purer days, when the springs of 
 life gushed from cool, deep fountains, unstained and 
 sparkling in the light of heaven. 
 
 Do you remember that day, (how many years 
 ago !) when we lay together on the deck of the 
 Phantom, and looked down into the clear deep 
 water. You then spoke of the everlasting impress 
 ion of thought on the mind, and shortly after that 
 one of us suggested the idea of a volume something 
 like this. I retained the idea, and prepared the 
 book. It has lain among my papers ever since. 
 Neither of us then thought that one of the gay 
 company who was with us on the boat that day, 
 would win me from the old hall, the Phantom, 
 and Joe Willis. But so it has proved ; and to her, 
 
DEDICATORY. 
 
 dear as she is to both of us, you will be glad to 
 have me give this volume, as I now do, with ear 
 nest hopes for its success, and with fear, not on my 
 own account, but lest I should not have done her 
 sufficient honor, by offering such pages as these. 
 I am, my dear James, 
 
 Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 $. 
 
 APRIL, 1858. 
 
I. JOE WILLIS 11 
 
 II. ADAM PIERS ON 39 
 
 III. THE BEAR HUNT - - 61 
 
 IV. DELIRIUM TREMENS - 65 
 
 V. DEATH OF THE PANTHER -" 75 
 
 VI. GHOSTS IN THE HALL ... 83 
 
 VII. THE CRUISE OF THE PHANTOM - - 99 
 
 VIIL MONTAUZ - - - . H5 
 
 IX. THE WAIL OF THE WIND - - 125 
 
 X. INDIAN RELICS ..... 139 
 
 XL TROUT-FISHING - - - - 151 
 
 XII. FOREST LIFE - ... 193 
 
 XIII. WIFE-HUNTING - - - - 223 
 
 XIV. THE OLD CHURCH AND OLD FRIENDS - 253 
 
 XV. LATER TEARS 305 
 
I. 
 
npHE old house stands on the river-bank, in a grove of 
 -* oaks, the growth of more than a century. The 
 house is large, built of stone in the substantial style of 
 fifty years ago, with broad halls, endless suites of rooms, 
 deep windows and large chimneys. The antique appear 
 ance of the building is forcibly contrasted with the per 
 fection of modern luxury in the interior arrangements ; 
 nor is there a wish that the most fastidious of tastes will 
 find ungratified, in the various portions of the establish 
 ment. 
 
 At the foot of the lawn which slopes to the river s 
 edge, is a stone wharf, at which our boat is lying in 
 pleasant weather. The stables are at a convenient dis- 
 stance from the house, and the road is a half mile off, 
 the park grounds stretching away toward it. 
 
 About four miles from us is the village and the post- 
 office, while nearer, and at various distances, are old 
 places, mostly visible from the upper windows of the hall, 
 where some of the pleasantest families in the county 
 reside. 
 
14 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Here, surrounded by all that can make the days pass 
 calmly and joyously, my old friend and I live together, 
 quarrelling not with time or weather ; and here the years 
 glide gently along by us, or bear us along with them unto 
 that pleasant land of rest to which we look forward with 
 out fear or hesitation. 
 
 My friend is no ordinary man. To know him you 
 must know all his history, for his character is made up of 
 the experiences of a life of much joy, and not a little sor 
 row. To look at him as he sits in his easy-chair yonder 
 under the swinging lamp, you would not fancy his life 
 had been so varied a story ; but as you know him you 
 will learn to love him for the sacred love with which he 
 treasures all the past, and then the wealth of his soul 
 will open to you, and you will grow rich in his mem 
 ories. 
 
 He has been my friend from childhood, and we two 
 have roughed it together thus far through the world. In 
 the forest, and in the crowded city alike, we have been 
 side by side for many years, more indeed than either of 
 us now care to admit. 
 
 In the month of January, in a year which I will not 
 name, for the years go so fast that I dare not tell you 
 how long ago these things happened, Joe and myself 
 were still at the cabin. It was late for hunting, and the 
 deer were in poor condition. But there had been very 
 little snow, and now indeed it was all gone. The air 
 had for several days been soft and May-like, and we 
 found it pleasant to trudge over the hills together, sing- 
 
M 
 
 JOE WILLIS. 15 
 
 ing, laughing, or shouting ; and we had almost concluded 
 to winter it at the cabin, and wait for trout-fishing in the 
 spring. One morning, when the sky was uncommonly 
 clear, and the sun almost like June, we left the cabin for 
 a long day s tramping. Our rifles had been carefully 
 cleaned, and the patches cut with all the exactness pos 
 sible. Somehow we had a fancy that the day s sport 
 would be good. The dogs seemed to feel as we felt. John 
 was a noble fellow. Leo was a large, heavy-chested 
 hound, lithe and active, while he was strong as a lion. 
 They stalked behind us, occasionally looking at one 
 another, and at times lifting their heads so as to look 
 into our eyes, but without even an inquiring look. Their 
 expression seemed to be one of perfect readiness for any 
 emergency. It was nearly noon. We had thrown our 
 selves down on a pile of leaves where the sun was shining 
 pleasantly, when suddenly Leo raised his head and broke 
 out in a long bay that was as strange as it waa startling. 
 I looked at him, and he came up to me, crouched at my 
 side, and laid his head on my lap. As I rested on my 
 elbow, my face was turned close to his. He looked into 
 my eyes, and I saw that something was ailing the dog. 
 Again he raised his head, and commenced a low whine, 
 which finally broke out in a long, clear, musical but 
 mournful baying, that made the forest ring. 
 
 The next instant a deer dashed across the open hollow 
 below. He was a fine buck, and had evidently been 
 startled from his noon rest in the thicket. He took to 
 the cover again the instant he caught sight of us, and 
 
16 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 breasted the hill gallantly. The trees were nearly leaf 
 less, quite so excepting the evergreens, and we could see 
 him for a hundred jumps. Suddenly he doubled on his 
 track, and came down the hill again. Leo, whom a word 
 from Joe had kept quiet, now watched my face for the 
 signal to start. 
 
 "Phil, let the dogs manage him. John has turned 
 him yonder, I think, and if Leo meets him in the hollow 
 he will stand fight." 
 
 " I don t like to risk the dog, Joe. I wouldn t have 
 Leo harmed for a thousand bucks like that." 
 
 " I ll trust him I ll trust him. On, Leo !" 
 
 The brave dog went down the hill like lightning. 
 The deer did not see him till he broke from the cover, 
 and they met on as pretty a sward as a knight could 
 have asked for a tourney. It was a round grassy basin, 
 a hundred feet across, with smooth hard turf, surrounded 
 by forest trees and a thick underbrush. The deer came 
 in with a bound over the low ring or hedge of scrub-oak 
 that surrounded the basin, and suddenly meeting the dog, 
 turned and coursed half way around the circle, then 
 dashed into tlie centre, and turned at bay. John came 
 in at this instant. They were in a position for a picture 
 then. The deer standing with head down, his nostrils 
 close to the grass, his keen blue eyes flashing like fire, his 
 hair bristling on the ridge of his back like a hyena s ; 
 the one dog, Leo, standing quietly as if looking curiously 
 at the spectacle and I thought his head was canted a 
 little on one side with a quizzical expression ; the other 
 
JOE WILLIS, 
 
 17 
 
 crouching low on the ground, his feet planted out on each 
 side of him, his broad chest expanded, his eye like a 
 snake s, watching every motion of the game, his head 
 slanting upward, and his whole body indicating that every 
 muscle was ready for the fight. 
 
 The next instant the deer made a long bound ; his feet 
 planted close together came down with a force that would 
 have cut John through and through, if he had not met 
 the plunge with a dash at the ear of the buck, which he 
 tore to ribbons. Leo had not moved an inch, but looked 
 on as a cool spectator, and as the deer turned he saw 
 John crouching close by Leo s side, waiting him as be 
 fore. But now the attack was made on the other side. 
 Before the buck well understood the new state of affairs, 
 Leo s teeth were in his throat, and John seizing him by 
 the lips dragged him down. Now followed the worst of 
 the battle. A deer s strength is all in his legs, and when 
 down he uses them madly. I once took a deer by the 
 head, with my knee on his neck ; but before I had time 
 to think, much less to act, he planted his two hind feet 
 on my breast, and sent me flying a rod into a heap of brush. 
 
 They rolled over and over and over. Now the deer 
 was nearly on his feet, and now the dogs were on him, 
 but they never loosened their hold. Once he sprang up, 
 and they both swung clear of the ground, but they 
 brought him instantly down again. I could stand it no 
 longer. Even Joe began to feel uneasy. I stepped for 
 ward to a rock from which I could command the scene, 
 now about a hundred and twenty yards distant, and 
 
18 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE KIVEK. 
 
 shouted to the dogs. They instantly let him up. With 
 a wild bound, (frightened at the sound of a human voice,) 
 he sprang for the cover ; but my bullet was swifter, and 
 stopped him on the edge of the basin. 
 
 The battle over, Leo relapsed into his usual calm and 
 dignified condition, looking complacently on, while John 
 had his nose in the bloody heart of the deer, which I had 
 thrown to him ; but when I had bent down a sapling, and 
 fastened the saddle of venison to it, and let it swing up 
 again, and was slowly walking up the hill, Leo ap 
 proached me, and touching my hand with his cold nose, 
 again gave voice to one of the most melancholy wails 
 that I have ever heard. 
 
 And now I must pause to relate what perhaps I should 
 have stated before. Leo was given to me some years 
 previously by a friend, whom I valued highly, and who 
 valued me so much as to give me one of the two young 
 dogs which he had received from England. 
 
 At a short distance from my own home was the resi 
 dence of Joe Willis, who was the ward of Judge Willis, 
 a distant relative of his father, and a man of some note 
 in the county. With him Joe had lived from mere 
 childhood until he attained his majority, and succeeded 
 to the large estates left him by his father. Nor did his 
 manner of life change at all then ; and I shall not have 
 to explain why he remained a resident of the old hall for 
 a year longer, and why, at the date of which I now speak, 
 it was still his home. Judge Willis had but two chil 
 dren living, his daughters Ellen and Lucy. 
 
JOE WILLIS. 
 
 19 
 
 Our families were on such terms as country neighbors 
 are apt to be on, and Leo was as much at home in the 
 one house as in the other. Perhaps I should say he was 
 more at home in Judge Willis s house than in our own, 
 for he never ventured beyond the large hall and my 
 rooms in the one, except by special permission, while at 
 the other he was welcome from kitchen to garret. I did 
 not part with my title to the dog, but it was now mani 
 fest that I was not half so much his master as Ellen 
 Willis was his mistress. It was a rare sight to see them 
 together she a fragile, fairy girl of eighteen, and he a 
 gaunt, strong hound, standing always close by her, or 
 yielding his head nobly to her caresses. 
 
 She was of the mould of heaven, which some (and I 
 sometimes, since she left us) have fancied has been broken. 
 Light and graceful as a dream when she moved across 
 the room or the lawn, she was still more like a dream 
 when she sat thoughtfully at her window, crowned a 
 queen and an angel by her golden hair. Her eye was 
 blue, not with the lustre of the sky, but that soft shade 
 which the distant sea has of a summer evening just be 
 fore sunset. Oh, what an ocean lay in those blue depths ! 
 of purity, of faith, of hope, of love, pure holy woman- 
 love ! Her lips were chiselled as Eve s must have been, 
 or better if that might be ; for Eve s had the passion on 
 them which tasted the forbidden fruit, but her s had only 
 the imprint of the sounds of Eden on their delicate lines, 
 and were fit to talk with angels and with God. 
 
 Two years more made her a woman; but I do not 
 
20 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 think any of us expected she would stay long among us. 
 She never left home, never visited in the village, but 
 lived within the little circle of the two families, and made 
 pets of all of us, and familiars of her gallant horse and 
 my noble dog. Her father loved her better than all the 
 world, and Joe I will not speak of him. 
 
 And now to return to the forest. That wail of Leo s 
 went through me. I have always had faith in dogs. 
 
 " Joe, what s the matter with that dog ?" 
 
 Joe was pale and silent. He thought as I did. Our 
 last letters had spoken doubtingly of the health of Ellen, 
 and we connected her brave guardian s distress with 
 those letters. The day s sport proved good, and we 
 reached the cabin just at dusk. We had scarcely seated 
 ourselves at Black s table, when a shout was heard on 
 the other side of the river, answered instantly by another 
 long wail from the dog. I grew pale, and trembled as I 
 went to the door. Joe was speechless, and we entered 
 the canoe together and pushed across the river. As we 
 neared the shore we saw two men standing on the bank, 
 one of whom was Anthony, a favorite family servant, 
 who advanced to the water s edge, and touching his hat 
 in reply to my quick demand for his news, said simply, 
 " Letters for Mr. Joseph, sir," and handed him a pack 
 age. He tore off the envelope, tossed me a couple, which 
 by the dim light he could see were for me, and springing 
 into the canoe, hurried Anthony and his companion in 
 also, and pushed across the river. 
 
 The conclusion of my letter contains the whole story. 
 
JOE WILLIS. 21 
 
 " She cannot live a week, the doctor says. You will 
 come instantly. The horses will be sent out for you. 
 Ride day and night. Joe will need no such directions." 
 
 Anthony had brought our horses. They were at the 
 bridge, and he had pfocured a hunter to guide him to the 
 cabin. In five minutes we were all in the long canoe. 
 Joe, Black, and myself, each had a paddle, and Anthony 
 and his man and Leo lay in the bottom. The river was 
 swollen, for the warm weather had melted the snow in 
 the up-country, and as we pushed out into the stream, 
 the current took her prow around with the speed of 
 thought, and we shot swiftly down the lower rapids. 
 
 I cannot forget that night. The stars were above me, 
 calm, clear, and companionable, as they had been and 
 have been a thousand times in scenes of joy and sadness. 
 Call it romance, as you will, but I love and worship 
 them, and they are to me the torches which the holy 
 dead (dead in fact, or dead because epitaphed in mem 
 ories) hold over the path I have trod and am treading. 
 
 There was no sound of life on the banks of the river. 
 All was profound silence, broken only by the dip of the 
 paddles, or the gush of the stream along the rocky shores. 
 None of us uttered a word. For an hour we flew down 
 the stream. We reached the Black Rapid, than which 
 none on the river was more dangerous. I was forward, 
 guiding our course. The flat rock was out of sight, only 
 the obelisk (as Joe had named it) was visible. The best 
 pass was to the left of one and to the right of the other. 
 They were not fifty feet apart, the obelisk being the 
 
22 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 lower. I braced myself, and taking firm hold of my 
 paddle threw her a little over to the left bank. (" Star 
 board a little," would have been the direction to a man 
 at the tiller, had we been in salt water ; but this was 
 fresh, and we steered without a rudder.) Black and Joe 
 stood with paddles raised, watching the current and our 
 course. The lightest touch possible in the water kept 
 her steady, and she shot down the boiling surface of the 
 stream, with her head direct for the tall black rock, as 
 if she were seeking destruction. Steady so for a mo 
 ment longer; we shot by the flat rock, every paddle 
 struck the water at the same instant, and she sprang 
 suddenly to the right, and flew by the ghostly-looking 
 pillar of stone, down the last slope of the rapids, and 
 slowly floated out into the frothy basin, on the opposite 
 side of which the horses were awaiting us. 
 
 Joe s black horse, Zephyr black as night stood paw 
 ing the ground under an oak tree, impatient to be away. 
 My own dark bay, the pride of the county for his mag 
 nificent limbs and neck, and his small but beautiful head, 
 stood like a statue, looking toward the shore as we 
 stepped from the canoe ; but as I came up toward him, he 
 greeted me with a loud and glad neigh, shaking his mane 
 at the same time, and stretching out his head to my 
 shoulder as familiarly as any good and true friend might. 
 Leo sprang toward the horses with a yelp of delight ; and 
 the instant that I cast loose the ropes by which Anthony 
 had left them fastened, and had taken off their blankets, 
 the three, horses and dog, commenced a series of steps 
 
JOE WILLIS. 23 
 
 not laid down in any of the books on dancing ; but which 
 indicated, at least, the great flexibility of their limbs, and 
 their keen pleasure at a meeting which was manifestly 
 unexpected. For a moment we forgot the overpowering 
 sadness which oppressed us, and almost smiled at the 
 happiness of our noble animals. I could write reams of 
 paper to tell of the long and adventurous journeys we 
 had all made together dog, horses and masters or of 
 the pleasant sunny (and moonshiny) canters, when the 
 horses bore graceful forms, of which they well knew the 
 value, and with which they stepped as daintily and gently 
 as ever lady s palfrey; of breasting at midnight the 
 wild torrents of Western rivers, or swimming in pleasant 
 summer days side by side in the broad, calm Hudson. 
 Those who have owned such treasures will not marvel 
 that we became attached to them as to our best friends, 
 and it needed none of all these to make me value my 
 bay; for he, like Leo, was a favorite of Ellen, and when 
 I was away, was always kept in the Judge s stable. 
 
 A low whistle brought him to my side instantly, and 
 he threw up his head and reached out a fore-foot to me 
 a fancy of Ellen s teaching. I patted his fine neck, and 
 threw on the bridle. I rode then always without saddle, 
 having a broad girth strap around him, and a soft fox 
 skin thrown across his back. I was younger and more 
 lithe and active then, and I eschewed stirrups as bother 
 some and ungraceful. 
 
 There was a little hand strap on the side of the girth, 
 which I sometimes took hold of, and then rode half lying 
 
24 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVEK. 
 
 down. At times I rode slowly for hours in that way, 
 when travelling. But speed was now the object. Willis 
 was on his horse. He rode as I, except that he had light 
 stirrups and a black cloth seat. Anthony had our traps 
 in the wagon ; and with a parting shake of Black s hand, 
 I sprang into my seat, and we were off. As we dashed 
 out of the wood into the road, I looked back. Black 
 stood motionless, gazing after us ; but as we swept out of 
 sight, I saw him raise the worn cuff of his plaid hunting 
 coat to his eyes. Poor fellow ! He had learned from 
 our stories by the cabin fire, to love the gentle girl he 
 had never seen, and whose grave he supposed we should 
 find fresh sodded. 
 
 I need not describe the rest of that night s adventure 
 Had you seen us pass your own house in the wilderness, 
 as we passed the cabins along that half-beaten track, you 
 would have shuddered all night, or dreamed over all the 
 old stories you have heard of the wild huntsman. Zephyr 
 did not flag a step, nor did the bay horse falter an in 
 stant. We paused once or twice by streams to dash 
 some water over their limbs and cool their mouths ; and 
 after a moment s rest, flew on and on again, until the for 
 est began to grow thinner, and occasional frame houses 
 indicated the advance of comparative civilization. Anon 
 we saw lights in the houses, as the farmers were rising to 
 commence their early morning work ; and at length a dull 
 gray light dawned in the East, and day approached. It 
 came heavily, and oppressed us, as the breaking day 
 always brings oppression to the sad. It seems always to 
 
JOE WILLIS. 25 
 
 lend new pangs to pain, to add severity to grief. I don t 
 know the philosophy of it ; but I have thought it might 
 be, that we are so accustomed to wake to life and strength 
 and hope, that when we welcome the morning only to 
 shine on our crushed happiness, we by the contrast j feel 
 more bitterly our sorrow. Not one word all that long 
 night had my friend spoken. Lifting his black horse 
 steadily with firm grasp on his rein, and looking intently 
 forward, we had pressed on in silence, each knowing that 
 the other had thoughts too sacred to commit to words. 
 
 But as the sun came up in the sky, I turned to look at 
 him. His features were calm and pale, his lips com 
 pressed, his whole air that of a man standing erect under 
 a weight that would have crushed one of less gigantic 
 power. He caught my eye, and a soft sad smile stole 
 over his face, as he spoke. His voice was clear, not 
 tremulous, but musical though low, and you could not 
 say whether it was very cheerful or very sad. 
 
 " Phil, she is dead. She has died while we were on 
 the road to-night." 
 
 I looked at him without reply. I could not speak, but 
 I believe I gave utterance to some ejaculation of an 
 guish, at which he smiled again, and now spoke in tones 
 of comfort and cheer that reached my heart through 
 thick folds of grief and rebellion ; but as he finished a 
 sentence of most cheerful words, Leo, who had kept even 
 pace with us all night, again gave voice to one of those 
 long wails, and Joe suddenly dropped his head on his 
 breast, and was again silent. 
 2 
 
26 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 We bad now reached the country of bad roads. Civ 
 ilization in the shape of farm wagons and ox carts had 
 cut up the track, and it was frozen in deep ruts, so that 
 we could only walk our horses. But I spare you any 
 farther recital of our journey. In less than four days we 
 had reached the bank of the river, and we then took to 
 the smooth ice, and in six hours were at home. 
 
 Our horses appreciated our haste, and seemed to un 
 derstand it. They strained every nerve. The ice was 
 broken in shore by the ebb and flow of the tide. Zephyr 
 cleared the open space at a flying leap, and the bay fol 
 lowed in as gallant style. I shouted to Joe to take the 
 little river hedge, and not go around to the park gate. 
 We went side by side over the hawthorn, cantered up the 
 lawn, and sprang from our horses at the front of the long 
 piazza. 
 
 Anxious eyes had watched for us on the river, and we 
 had been recognized half an hour before. As we threw 
 the reins on the necks of our horses, the door opened, and 
 the old Judge stood awaiting us, with his finger pressed 
 on his lip, as if to command our silence. 
 
 But she was not yet gone ! Thanks evermore for that, 
 that my friend was there in time to hear her latest words 
 and blessings. 
 
 A week flew by. It was the evening of a glorious day 
 when I entered the old hall and passed unchallenged by 
 servant or friend, to the very chamber door of the dying girl. 
 The scene in the room was startling. Joe was bending 
 over the couch in a passionate attitude. She was dead ! 
 
JOE WILLIS. 27 
 
 In vain did he lift her hand to his heart, in vain press 
 his lips to hers, in vain speak in that low deep tone of 
 fondness and of earnestness which, if aught can, will 
 always prevail to wake a sleeper. He did not call aloud, 
 for he seemed to fancy she was indeed only slumbering, 
 and he might frighten her 5 so natural is it to imagine 
 that the dead cannot be dead. She was marvellously 
 beautiful as she lay there, and her lips were pressed to 
 gether closely in an expression of determination, which, 
 united with the loving smile on her face, seemed to say 
 to him, " I will love you, Joe, through life, through 
 death;" and if she was thinking thus, how could she be 
 dead ? But she was dead ; and it was thus that she died. 
 
 The windows were covered with the folds of gorgeous 
 curtains, on which, through the shutter bars, stole the 
 last beams of the setting sun, crimsoning the dim light 
 in the dying girl s room, and shedding on her cheek a 
 glow of exquisite beauty. 
 
 The fire in the broad grate was burning slowly, each 
 coal covered with a coat of ashes; but the room was 
 warm, and a fragrance of some aromatic drink filled it. 
 In the south window, behind the curtain, stood her sis 
 ter, a girl of sixteen, springing up into lovely womanhood. 
 Poor Lucy ! She was sobbing all to herself, and not a 
 soul in the room knew that the curtain was so often 
 shaken by the emotions of that young and almost break 
 ing heart ! 
 
 On one side of the bed sat her father, bending eagerly 
 forward to catch every word she spoke. Oh, did we but 
 
28 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 
 
 listen thus all life long to the words of voices that we 
 love, as we listen eagerly for every syllable when the 
 voices grow fainter toward the hushing, how many mourn 
 ings would we save ! 
 
 On the bed sat her mother, with one hand holding the 
 right hand of her daughter, with whom she was convers 
 ing. On the other side of the bed stood Willis. He 
 was then but twenty-two years of age, about five feet ten 
 inches high, and his broad, massive chest indicated his 
 great strength. His face was not beautiful ; but as you 
 examined it, its striking mould won your admiration, un 
 til you could but do homage to the perfection of manli 
 ness which was in it. The forehead was heavy and 
 broad, but very clear and white ; and the eye under it 
 reposed, as if content with such gu ard. But as you 
 looked into that eye, you saw there all the life of a clear 
 intellect, a quick but deliberate habit of thought, and un 
 bounded affections. 
 
 Now he gazed with mournful earnestness into the eyes 
 of Ellen Willis, and watched each thought through those 
 windows of her soul. At length she turned to him and 
 spoke. " Joe I am dying now. I shall not live an hour 
 call Lucy." 
 
 " You mistake surely, Ellen. You have no need to 
 fear death now. The doctor says you will live till 
 spring." 
 
 " No, no, Joe dear, the doctor knows nothing at all 
 about it. I have that within me now which warns me 
 that I must count time by seconds. It is strange, I 
 
JOE WILLIS. 29 
 
 can t explain it, but I feel that life is separating even 
 now from this dear body. Oh, Joe, how well I have 
 loved the earth ! Sometimes I fancied that its flowers 
 grew dim-colored and were no longer fragrant, and the 
 hills were not green, and the valleys did not smile, and I 
 could then have died and left them all most willingly. 
 But now I cling to the dear earth with all a mortal s 
 fondness. I have often loved to think that somewhere 
 in this world, borne on the winds, or treasured in some 
 happy valley, by the border of a mountain stream, or 
 mayhap giving life to the flowers down in the glen, (our 
 glen, Joe,) sleeps dust that was once the prison of the 
 Son of God ! Think you he carried it away from us 
 when he ascended ?" 
 
 " I think not," said Willis ; " I think that all that was 
 material of that body remains with us somewhere, scattered 
 perhaps, but sanctifying the earth ; and when I think of 
 this, I love the earth far better than before." 
 
 " Just so, dear Joe just so I think. I used to wish 
 I might die far at the eastward. I would love to die on 
 some hill of Lebanon. Not in Palestine, for the foot of 
 the unbeliever still defiles the land once sanctified by the 
 Saviour s footsteps. But to lie down on some high peak 
 of those old hills, in body as in spirit, close to the en 
 trance of the Promised Land, where my brow might grow 
 cool with the dews of Hermon, and the soft south wind 
 would come up to me with the music of Gennesaret ; oh, 
 that would be pleasant ! How pleasant to see, in the 
 far distant south, the blue beauty of Galilee ! But I 
 
30 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 would be buried here, in my own land. For, Joe, I 
 have had a fancy that the dust of our Lord s body was 
 carried on the winds very far from Jerusalem, and that 
 in this distant land I should be more likely to rest in 
 Him and with Him than there. And then with you, 
 Joe ! Oh, we will sleep together I know, my love, it 
 matters nothing where we lay these chains when we have 
 done with them, but I have a wish to wake and see you 
 first in the morning." 
 
 She paused ; and they were weeping all of them : for 
 the music of her voice was thrilling, and those tones, 
 low, earnest, cheerful, surpassed all description of melody. 
 So she spoke again, but now in lower tones, and some 
 what broken. She murmured her farewell in a few faint 
 words. An hour passed, and she spoke then as if her 
 mind were wandering. 
 
 " I feel strange breathing on my forehead, as if I were 
 on Lebanon, but the wind is cold. Joe, darling, kiss my 
 forehead ah, there is warmth in that ! earthly love is 
 warm mother, is this your hand ; where s father ? 
 Lucy, how beautiful you are ! my eyes are dimming 
 I told you I was dying, Joe. Lift me in your arms." 
 
 He lifted her to his breast, and as she nestled her 
 cheek in his bosom with a trusting smile, the spirit left 
 the clay to repose in the love that it knew was eternal ! 
 
 It was at this moment that I advanced into the room. 
 He gently unfolded his arms from around her, and sank 
 on his knees by the bedside. I knelt by him, with my 
 right arm thrown over him, and looked into her face. 
 
JOE WILLIS. 31 
 
 She lay on a low couch, appearing much as in life, with 
 her eyes closed, and her lips a very little parted, as if 
 she were about to speak. There was no smile on her 
 face, no expression that could be taken at the first 
 glance ; but when you looked again and again, when you 
 studied the beauty of that most heavenly countenance, 
 you began to perceive what was meant when the face of 
 one was spoken of as being "as it had been the face of 
 an angel." Beyond all reach of human care, sorrow, 
 doubt, or suffering, beyond all disturbance from earthly 
 discord, beyond all darkness, all clouds, all stars, she had 
 passed into the presence of her God. Before she left 
 the earth she had felt on her brow the spray of the river 
 of the water of life, had heard the music of the leaves 
 that fell in its pure stream from the trees on its banks, 
 and why or how could her features express any emotion 
 that could be interpreted by those she left here ? All 
 her life long she had been nearer heaven than any of 
 us, and had heard and felt the softness and the balmy 
 sweetness of the winds that blow over its hills. And 
 now as we saw a tress of golden hair waved over her 
 forehead by a passing breath of air, we knew well that 
 those breezes were fanning her brow, and so we were 
 comforted. 
 
 I have said her soul was an ocean of purity and love. 
 That was an earthly metaphor. Somewhere in holy writ 
 there is a promise like this, " There shall be no more 
 sea." Her great, broad soul was moved no longer by 
 changing moons, or those deep hidden currents that stir 
 
32 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 human life from its lowest depths. Calm, like the peace 
 of God, lay on her forehead, and we knew that calm had 
 forever settled on her soul. 
 
 I rose from my place by her side, and left Willis still 
 kneeling. As I turned away I saw Leo. He had en 
 tered and lay now at the foot of the couch, his head 
 raised, and his fine eye fixed on mine. I do not know 
 that he meant it, but I interpreted the look as asking 
 permission to see her. I nodded, and he came slowly 
 toward the bed-side. He was tall enough to see her as 
 he stood there ; but with my permission he placed his 
 fore paws on the side of the couch, and looked fixedly at 
 her face for the space of two or three minutes. He then 
 returned to his position at the foot, and stretching him 
 self on the carpet, followed every movement in the room 
 with his eyes, but did not leave his watch until she was 
 carried out forever. 
 
 We buried her. She had asked to be laid in the north 
 graveyard, by a sister who had died five years before. 
 We carried her into the old church, and for awhile rested 
 her coffin under the pulpit, while the choir sang a hymn 
 of rest. It went up peacefully in the little church, but 
 she heard it not; and as they sang the last verse I 
 heard one voice in the choir grow tremulous, and then 
 cease suddenly, and at length a low, suppressed sob called 
 my attention, and I turned and saw one who had loved 
 her since they prattled their first words together in the 
 bright days of infancy. 
 
 It grew late, later than we had thought, and the cler- 
 
JOE WILLIS. 33 
 
 gyman spoke briefly and eloquently, and then we carried 
 her to the graveyard. Down the long street through 
 which I had often walked, holding her little hand, I 
 followed her now to the hill where the village dead are 
 resting. How desolate the scenes of life appear when 
 we follow the dead past them ! 
 
 Twilight was passed, and the stars were out when we 
 reached the grave. It was dark and forbidding, and my 
 hand trembled as I held the cord and slowly let her 
 down into the gloom. But as I heard the coffin touch 
 that of her sister, by whom she was laid, I felt that she 
 was not alone, and thanked God that at length the 
 weary one was at rest. 
 
 Then the earth was thrown in. Lightly at first, so 
 that that saddest of all earthly sounds might not fall 
 harshly on the mourners ears. The stars were shining 
 before this solemn work began. They looked down on 
 the coffin in its lowly place, and their beams disputed 
 each inch of depth as the earth was heaped on it, as if 
 they longed to rest there with the holy sleeper. Strug 
 gling to reach her they peered into each crevice, and 
 every mass of earth appeared to frighten and scatter a 
 host of holy ones that were down in the grave with our 
 angel lost one. Driven back at length to the surface, 
 when the sod was laid on the mound, they rested among 
 the blades of grass quietly and peacefully. There they 
 will rest, keeping loving watch above her till the years of 
 sleeping are ended. Father and mother have been laid 
 beside her, and the moss has grown over the crumbling 
 2* 
 
34 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 head-stone but the heavenly watchers have come back 
 nightly, and when the last mourner shall have ceased to 
 mourn, will not forget their priceless charge. 
 
 She sleeps from sorrow. The glorious hair that waved 
 in the mountain wind, lies waveless now where wind may 
 never reach it. The lip has forgotten its melody, the 
 eloquent lip has forgotten its words of love ! Her eye is 
 dim, the glad eye that answered ours so often, and so 
 gaily, and so lovingly; and the heart that beat once 
 wildly with the joys of life-loving youth, now rests in 
 dust. In the ocean of our lives there is an island, on 
 whose shores the waves of memory break with heavy roar ! 
 
 Four years passed swiftly after that, and Leo was our 
 constant companion, the hero of a hundred days. 
 
 He died one pleasant Sunday morning in summer, and 
 we buried him with not a little grief. We dug his grave 
 across the foot of the grave of his gentle mistress ; and 
 somehow I always feel easier about her being out in the 
 long stormy nights in autumn and winter, lying there in 
 the church-yard, since her brave guardian took his old 
 place at her feet. 
 
 It was thus that Willis became the bachelor he now is. 
 From the day that we stood together by the grave of 
 Ellen Willis, a closer bond than ever before has held us 
 together, and we have lived more and more for each 
 other, and less and less for the world that surrounds us. 
 My own old home has given place to a comparatively 
 modern house, which has none of the attractions to me 
 that the old place had. 
 
JOE WILLIS. 35 
 
 Years ago the spring-flowers bloomed that Lucy plant 
 ed on her sister s grave, and more winters have shed 
 snow on it than I would dare to confess have shed their 
 frosts on my head, but Willis has by no means forgotten 
 one particle of his love for her. He is rich as we count 
 this world s riches, and Lucy, whom he in some sort 
 adopted, owes to him a princely fortune which she be 
 stowed on a worthy husband. 
 
 And Willis is rich in affection. Not alone in the love 
 of a friend, and of Lucy and her bright-eyed boy, but in 
 the waiting, watching love of Ellen Willis. Beyond the 
 river they will be happy. 
 
 Sometimes in the night, seated by our cabin fire, we talk 
 of her ; and we always speak low, and as gently as we 
 can, for we know she hears us. Sometimes Willis turns 
 restlessly on his bear-skin and speaks in his sleep. But 
 his murmurs are indistinct, and yet I once heard him 
 murmur as if she were talking to him. 
 
 When her father died he left his house to Joe, and di 
 vided his vast fortune between his wife and Lucy. But 
 by some mismanagement Lucy s share was lost almost 
 entirely, and Willis supplied it from his own full coffers. 
 He lives now most of the time in the old house, and I 
 pass much of my life with him. A suite of rooms ap 
 propriated to my use has always been my favorite resting 
 place when I am not at my own house, which, to say truth, 
 I like so little that I am here four-fifths of the time. He 
 occupies the room in which she died. The same rich 
 curtains, scarcely at all faded, hang over the windows. 
 
II. 
 
 urs flit. 
 
WHILE we are at the Hall we have plenty of occupa 
 tion in looking after the tenantry of Joe s lands, 
 and my own, which join his on the north. Many of the 
 farms are occupied by families that have been born, as 
 their fathers were, in the houses they now dwell in ; and 
 not a few of these people are near and dear to us by the 
 memory of many kindnesses which we and ours have ex 
 perienced at their hands. We seldom allow a winter to 
 pass without having visited every house on the estates, 
 and I believe we are safe in saying that no landlords 
 were ever better loved by tenantry than are we. 
 
 On the dividing line of our estates, and entirely sur 
 rounded by our lands, is a farm of nearly a hundred 
 acres, of as fine land as can be found in the county. You 
 reach the house by a lane shaded with old elm trees, that 
 give it an avenue-like appearance, and indicate at least 
 the antiquity of taste in the residents of the Hickory 
 Glen farm. In a hollow, protected on the north by a 
 hill covered with a forest of fine growth, and at the point 
 where the brook leaves the glen, and passes out into the 
 meadow lands, is the old farm house. It is a cottage, 
 very large, and very ancient in appearance. When you 
 
42 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 look at it, you think it covers nearly half an acre of 
 ground, but find that the various dairy-houses, and other 
 farm buildings which are apt to be near the house, give 
 it this extensive appearance. 
 
 This farm was purchased about fifty years ago from 
 my grandfather, who was a clergyman and a man of con 
 siderable wealth. He sold it to Adam Pierson, senior, 
 who had a son of his own name. It was sold because he 
 loved Adam Pierson. So says his will. The sale was a 
 conditional one ; but on the death of the old clergyman, 
 his will released it from all conditions ; and, in memory 
 of the faith and friendship of Adam Pierson in a trying 
 day, when death came suddenly into the old hall, he 
 gave to Adam and his heirs forever, the whole of the 
 farm, charged only with a small annuity to my old maid 
 en great aunt, who lived but six months to enjoy it. 
 
 And after the death of his friend and adviser, Adam 
 Pierson lived nearly twenty years, but looking always 
 much as if the world and he were not on terms of inti 
 macy; and when he died, he left the farm to his son 
 Adam, who was the friend and patron of my early years. 
 Many a quail-snare did he teach me to set, and many a 
 partridge fence did he help me put down. I remember 
 not a few rabbits marked by him for my shooting ; and the 
 first fox I ever succeeded in unearthing, was by his direction. 
 
 As Joe and myself grew older, we retained grateful 
 recollections of his kindness, and when his head grew 
 white in the winter of life, we loved him well, and no one 
 was more welcome at the hall than Adam Pierson. 
 
ADAM PIERSON. 43 
 
 There was one incident in his family history that we 
 recall, with pleasure now, and have not infrequently re 
 lated to those who saw the fine form of the old man in the 
 church on Sundays, and admired his herculean propor 
 tions. It was a Christmas story too, worth relating again 
 just at this season, for as I write it is the birth-night ! 
 
 Joe sits before the grate in silent meditation. A 
 smile. is on his face and I know the companionship he has 
 sought and found. The night is bitterly cold, but clear 
 and beautiful withal. It was such a night as this, a score 
 of years ago, when the incidents I have to relate occurred. 
 
 It was then, as now, the birth-night. A thousand years, 
 almost two thousand, have the hearts of men clung to that 
 day ; children lisped carols with their earliest voices, and 
 old men gone tremblingly to the church altar, to thank 
 God that they lived to celebrate another of the days of 
 the coming of the Lord. Who does not love the day ? 
 Around it cluster the holiest associations of childhood 
 and of youth ; the holiest memories of old times, when 
 pleasant stories and happy songs made the fireside glad, 
 songs and stories told by voices that are silent now, and 
 long since. 
 
 Then, there are other and sublimer recollections and 
 associations. Thoughts of martyrs and holy men of old, 
 who were burned in the flames on Christmas day, and of 
 the midnight vigils of the persecuted in the ancient days, 
 when they celebrated the birth-night in the cities of the 
 infidel. I never see the stars on Christmas eve without 
 fancying that they look lovingly down on the earth then ; 
 
44 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 and that they remember the night of their reward and 
 rejoicing, when a new one burned with unknown lustre 
 on the breast of the Almighty ! 
 
 What said you ? It is not the exact day ? Why not ? 
 and what if it is not ? You celebrate the landing of 
 the Pilgrim Fathers on the very day they did not land, 
 and the round world itself has made such grievous error 
 every year in time, that even our Sabbaths are all wrong. 
 But what of that? 
 
 It was Christmas eve. The hearth in the cottage of 
 old Adam Pierson was broad, and the hickory logs blazed 
 brightly ; but no one sat before it, for Adam s youngest 
 daughter was sick and nigh unto death, and in her 
 father s room the family were all gathered to watch and 
 wait until the change should come. 
 
 Sarah was a well-beloved child. Her calm and pleas 
 ant face was known all through the country around, and 
 her sweet voice in the village choir was the winsome 
 sound that brought many a young man to the church 
 and kept him there till the doxology. 
 
 But Sarah Pierson was dying. So said the doctor, and 
 he was a good and wise, if he was a quaint old man ; and 
 so said the pastor, and he was old, and ought to know 
 much of the ways of life. He had seen her grandfather 
 and grandmother die, and had watched by her mother s 
 side when the hand of God was heavily on her, and he 
 said her face looked much as the old man s (her grand 
 father s) face looked, when he was drawing near to the 
 land of his final rest. 
 
ADAM PIERSON. 45 
 
 By the bedside was one who had loved Sarah Pierson 
 for many a year with pure and true love. Philip Winter 
 was the son of the pastor, and had been a wild boy and 
 a dissipated young man. But when he was nearly thirty 
 years of age, the vision of Sarah Pierson s beauty had 
 crossed his path, and he compared her loveliness and 
 purity with the false form of beauty he had been worship 
 ping, and he straightway turned to her and wooed and 
 won her. Or she won him, for thereafter there was no 
 more pleasure for him in the wine-cup or the revel, and 
 he became a sober, earnest man, and began to make rapid 
 advance in his profession as an advocate. 
 
 His intellect was of high order 5 his tastes naturally 
 refined and delicate, and his powers of conversation un 
 surpassed. Sarah was but a child, yet she soon learned 
 to value that high heart which was all her own, and from 
 constant association with him, became his equal and com 
 panion. He guided her reading and studies, and made 
 her an accomplished woman before she was eighteen. 
 She looked up to him as a stout soul, on whose strength 
 she depended ; but in all that was pure, and gentle, and 
 lovely, he worshipped her as a star of heaven. 
 
 Well, she was dying. It could not be denied or doubt 
 ed. They all said so, and she said so ; and she said it in 
 those low, moving tones, that convinced all who heard it 
 that that voice had already ceased to be of the earth. But 
 it most of all convinced him, whose life seemed to hang 
 on hers. He had knelt long at her bedside in silence, 
 while his father wept and prayed and prayed and wept 
 
46 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 by turns. Adam Pierson had not opened his lips for 
 many hours, except to give directions at the door of the 
 room, and then he spoke in a low tone of anguish which 
 thrilled through the hearts of all who knew him; for 
 Adam Pierson had been a somewhat stern man, and 
 when agony was in his soul, they knew that his pride 
 made it suffer the more. 
 
 The night struggled painfully along. It was bitterly 
 cold, and the wind wailed out of doors around the old 
 house, as if wild with frolic or madness. Never did its 
 tones seem so cruel, so mocking. But Sarah, the gentle 
 girl, who lay there pale and peaceful, awaiting the com 
 ing change, heeded it not, except to smile once and whis 
 per, " Phil dear Phil, you ll think of me when you hear 
 the wind blow." But the stout man did not lift his 
 head, only a convulsive sob shook his iron frame, and he 
 was still again. Midnight had passed. The wind had 
 lulled somewhat, and it seemed now, at times, as if it 
 brought angel voices on its wings, now far, now near, 
 now out on the plain, now on the hill-side, now in the 
 branches of the old oak tree, now at the very casement 
 of the. sick girl s room, and then suddenly floating away, 
 as if among the stars. 
 
 " Philip," said Sarah, in a low whisper. He rose and 
 bowed his face to hers. " Philip, I am going from you 
 I think. I must sleep. I cannot keep awake longer. 
 This must be the sleep of death stealing over me, and 
 I am dying. I shall not wake again, Phil dear, to put 
 my arms around your neck ; I shall not feel your kiss 
 
ADAM PIERSON. 47 
 
 again, nor look up trustfully into your eyes ever again. 
 God will take me, Philip. I feel his arms drawing me 
 closer to him now. I will not ask any promise from 
 you. I only ask you to remember my grave. Come to 
 it often, Philip, and oh, when darkness is around you, 
 when the night of temptation comes, as I know it will 
 come in your desolateness, after I am gone, come to my 
 grave and kneel there and remember me. I am strong 
 in the confidence of our love, and I know that, come 
 what may, your strong heart will never burst these bands 
 which I bind around it again, and yet again." 
 
 As she spoke these words she wound her arms around 
 his neck, and kissed him twice, gently and fondly, and 
 looked then into his eyes with a long gaze of devoted 
 affection, and then continued in a lower and more broken 
 voice, with frequent long pauses. 
 
 " Good-bye, good-bye; oh, what sad words now ! Some 
 times I think I can t be dying. I don t believe I am. I 
 hear voices, Phil. Do you hear them ? I am very, very 
 sleepy. There, put your arms so close around me 
 and lay your cheek close against mine, and I will go to 
 sleep, to sleep forever to sleep with all the dead. Is it 
 daybreak yet ? Oh, Phil, do you remember the Christ 
 mas morning two years ago ? I wish I wish oh, I 
 have so many wishes ! Now I must sleep." 
 
 A few more words like these were murmured in tones 
 scarcely audible, until her voice ceased, and her eyes 
 closed, and her white cheek lay on the pillow, and Mr. 
 Winter sobbed aloud, and falling on his knees prayed 
 
48 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 God to give them all strength for that terrible blow. 
 But the doctor alone stood firmly, only leaning a little 
 forward, gazing intently at Sarah Pierson s face, and at 
 length spoke in a few low words of holy writ, " She is 
 not dead, but sleepeth." 
 
 The effect was magical. Philip sprang to his feet. 
 The old man sank back in his chair, and the pastor knelt 
 still by the bedside, with eyes fixed on the face of the 
 girl, while he prayed that those hopeful tones of the 
 good doctor might not be without reason. Three hours 
 of anxious watching passed, and day broke on the 
 country side. The Christmas sun was very bright and 
 clear on the snow, but the sexton was not called that day 
 to dig a grave among the drifts. 
 
 " Where am I ?" asked the sick girl, as she awoke at 
 length from the long and refreshing sleep. 
 
 " You are in a little heaven, my beloved," answered 
 the low, glad voice of Philip Winter, as he sat on her 
 bedside, and held her thin, white hand, " You are in a 
 little heaven, since you have come back to us." 
 
 There was joy in the cottage of Adam Pierson that 
 evening, and the Christmas fire blazed gloriously on the 
 hearthstone, and the stars winked and blinked down the 
 great chimney, as if the smoke was in their eyes, but 
 didn t move any farther away, for they seemed to know 
 there was great joy in the farm-house and around the 
 hearth fire ; and when the voice of Philip Winter was 
 heard in a loud clear Christmas carol, they listened to 
 it, and sent it echoing from one to another of them, until 
 
ADAM PIEKSON. 49 
 
 verily it seemed to Adam Pierson and to Philip Winter, 
 that night, as if the song of creation were renewed, or 
 else the hosts of heaven were busy in welcoming again a 
 star among their number, as on that night almost two 
 thousand years ago. 
 
 But the voices of the wind seemed sad, and well they 
 might be, for the angels had hoped to have another 
 among them, and they were disappointed, and their sad 
 voices floated all night around the house. But the happy 
 ones within did not heed them ; and as they threw new 
 logs on . the fire, and the sparks went dancing, and the 
 blaze went floating up the chimney sides, the voice of 
 Philip Winter grew clearer and gladder, and at length 
 he broke out into a song of thanksgiving, which sounded 
 through three or four doors, so that Sarah heard it where 
 she lay, and smiled joyously in her mother s face, and then 
 fell asleep, and dreamed of the little heaven that Phil had 
 spoken of, in which his voice seemed that of a chief spirit. 
 
 And that house was a heaven for many a year. Adam 
 grew older, and was gathered at length to the grave-yard 
 among the hills. When the sun is at noon on Christmas 
 day, the point of the shadow of the church spire is at the 
 very head stone of his grave. Philip and Sarah were 
 married, and to-morrow they will dine with us. 
 
 Lucy will be here with a party from the city, and we 
 shall have a pleasant Christmas day. it is midnight, 
 and I will rouse Joe from his reverie to wish him a 
 inerrie Christmas. 
 
 3 
 
III. 
 
IT would be easily gathered from the sketches of our 
 past and present lives, which this volume will contain, 
 that Willis and myself have little regularity of habits. 
 To confess the truth, we have none. As the whim seizes 
 us, we act, move, or sleep ; and it is unusual to have a 
 plan for more than a week in advance, and not very fre 
 quent for us to" know what adventure the coming day is 
 likely to find us engaged in. Our boat, the Phantom, 
 lies at the wharf near the old hall, and our horses are in 
 the stables. We cannot say whether, to-morrow morn 
 ing, we shall be at sea in the Phantom, or on our way 
 to the forest with the horses. Perhaps neither ; for the 
 notion may seize one of us to go to the city, and the 
 other will infallibly consent, and we shall go together. 
 
 If at sea, Block Island, Newport, and Stonington are 
 our post-offices, where we call for books and letters. If 
 in the forest, we are at our cabin on the river bank, with 
 Black for a host, and the winds for company. For there 
 is no human residence within five miles of that cabin. 
 
 A more lonesome, yet a more beautiful place is not to 
 
54 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 be found. A magnificent creek pours its deep current 
 into a lordly river, at a point where the low, oak-covered 
 shore on the one side, is forcibly contrasted with the high 
 rugged mountain on the other. The roar of the river 
 through the lower pass is constant, while immediately in 
 front of the cabin it is as placid as a lake, slowly gliding 
 toward its turbulent outlet. Here, for many years of 
 our aimless, yet be it hoped not useless lives, we have 
 passed much of almost every autumn and early winter, 
 as well as some of the weeks in May and June. In this 
 region the deer abound ; the bear are not unfrequently 
 venturesome ; wolves have been shot, and smaller game 
 of every kind are to be had for the seeking ; while the 
 creek is stocked with trout, such as would do old Izaak 
 good to behold, and more good to feel on his line. 
 
 We have but recently returned from our usual autumn 
 visit. We were at the cabin only three weeks, and had 
 some bad weather. On the day of our arrival, Black told 
 us he had seen a bear on the mountain, and we were off 
 in the morning before daylight. 
 
 Thinking it dangerous work for the dogs, I chained 
 Nora and John at the cabin, and determined to try the 
 old plan of tracking the bear by his foot-prints. Not a 
 very easy task in the forest, after the leaves have fallen, 
 but not so difficult as it might at first appear. 
 
 We pushed across the river in the small canoe, and 
 crossed the mountain ; pausing on the summit, to watch 
 the coming of the dawn. 
 
 It was a glorious sight, as the stately footsteps of the 
 
THE BEAR HUNT. 55 
 
 day began to be visible in the east, calmly and steadily ad 
 vancing into perfect light. The stars retired gracefully, 
 one by one disappearing. Only one remained glowing in 
 the flush of the coming sunlight, when we plunged into 
 the forest. 
 
 Two hundred rods from the brow of the mountain was 
 a hollow, with a swamp thicket in the centre, always wet, 
 and usually producing a short, crisp, green grass, on 
 which the white frost was plainly visible till the sun 
 struck it. The slightest touch changed the silvery color 
 of the grass to a dark watery black, and it was here that 
 I expected to find traces of the game. Nor was I disap 
 pointed ; for on entering the hollow, I saw before me the 
 foot-prints of two bears, distinctly marked on the grass, 
 going toward the thicket and not returning. 
 
 Between us and the swamp was a broad open space of 
 fifty rods, across which they had passed. The first matter 
 to be decided was, whether they had left the thicket on 
 the other side, and if not, what was the best means of 
 provoking them out of it, without exposing ourselves. 
 
 Leaving Joe at the point where we first saw the foot 
 prints, I went cautiously around the hollow, keeping 
 under cover, until I had made a complete circuit of the 
 swamp and was satisfied that we had run our game to 
 cover without the slightest trouble. Accordingly I re 
 turned to the side of Joe, and we held a council. 
 
 If we should expose ourselves, the chances were in 
 favor of the bears ; for either both of them would show 
 fight, or else both of them would run, and that doubtless 
 
56 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 at the most distant point from us in the thicket. If we 
 took opposite sides we should be sure to lose them, and 
 our only hope was a stratagem of some sort. 
 
 " I say, Joe, what do bears eat ?" 
 
 " Honey, Phil." 
 
 " Honey don t make a noise. Try again." 
 
 " Sheep ; when acorns are scarce." 
 
 " Are you certain ?" 
 
 " No, but I ll try it and find out." 
 
 " Ba a." 
 
 The bleat was perfect, but might have answered as 
 well for a doe as a sheep. It was very well, however, for 
 we heard a crash in the thicket. 
 
 " That moved them. Now for our quarters." 
 , Accordingly we each mounted a tree, one about sixty 
 yards from the other, selecting them so small that a bear 
 would not be likely to attempt to come up also, and yet 
 stout enough to be a protection. Having safely braced 
 ourselves, we commenced a duet, well calculated to cheat 
 a bear if he wasn t uncommonly bright. A human being 
 would unquestionably have taken us for sheep, whatever 
 a sheep might have thought of it. 
 
 Iii a moment we saw the two bears coming along at a 
 shuffling pace, at once ludicrous and astonishing. I never 
 saw a bear move without being surprised at his velocity, 
 and the noiseless manner in which he got along. An 
 owl s hoot from Joe indicated that he saw them, and we 
 suspended our calls. 
 
 At this moment two new actors entered the scene. 
 
THE BEAR HUNT. 5? 
 
 Nora and John had been taken out by Black to feed, an 
 hour after we left, and in spite of all lie could do, took to 
 the water like fish, swam the river, and overtook us just 
 in time to see the bears advancing. The latter no sooner 
 saw the dogs than they paused, and, with a low snarl, 
 seemed to be preparing to repay what they appeared to 
 regard as a low piece of cheating. The idea of dogs imi 
 tating sheep, to cheat bears into the expectation of a 
 good breakfast ! and hounds too, thin as rails and per 
 fectly destitute of fat ! A dozen of them wouldn t make 
 a comfortable meal for a cub ; and here were two fellows, 
 all bone and gristle, (as the bears soon learned,) that had 
 deliberately led them into this disappointment ! 
 
 But the dogs flew at them with very different senti 
 ments, and Nora s broad breast and stout limbs soon 
 convinced the one she seized that he had a job before 
 him. 
 
 They shook the dogs off and rose on their haunches, 
 back to back. The scene was comical beyond descrip 
 tion. No one who has not seen a bear in this position 
 can imagine the ludicrous imitation of humanity he 
 presents. And here were two of them, braced firmly 
 each against the other, looking gravely with their little 
 sparkling eyes, at the dogs, and waving their paws with 
 gestures of dissatisfaction, or warning, to their tormentors, 
 that seemed clearly enough to advise them to keep a safe 
 distance. 
 
 The dogs did n t take the hint. Nora sprang at the 
 largest one, receiving a pat from his paw that only 
 3* 
 
58 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 changed the direction of her attempt, for she seized the 
 ear of the other and tore it badly. The bear, enraged at 
 the attack from the rear, which he supposed fully guarded 
 by his companion, attributed the wound, of course, to that 
 source, and wheeled instantly, and struck his ally a blow 
 on the side of his head that might have felled a profess 
 ional boxer. It did the business for the bear, for it laid 
 him flat on the ground, and before he could recover him 
 self, thanks to the teeth of John and Nora, he was minus 
 an ear and the end of his nose, while his mate was mak 
 ing long strides for the woods beyond the hollow. The 
 whole scene occurred out of rifle shot from us, and we 
 were therefore silent witnesses of it ; for though we had 
 forsaken our trees, and were hastening to the rescue of 
 the dogs, the whole affair had been so brief, that we were 
 in sight of the bear only when he found himself deserted. 
 
 As he rose and freed himself from the dogs, he caught 
 sight of us, and again rose on his haunches, waving his 
 paws furiously as if to clear away a cloud from before 
 his eyes, and assure himself that he saw correctly. 
 
 There could 410 1 be any mistake about it ; he saw dis 
 tinctly two specimens of the human sort, and this in 
 creased the vexation of his disappointment about the 
 breakfast. But a bear is a wise animal, and discretion 
 with him, in the present case, was decidedly the perfec 
 tion of valor ; and he incontinently exhibited to us a 
 round ball of flesh growing smaller as it grew more dis 
 tant : for a retreating bear looks like nothing but a 
 black ball on legs. Joe sent-a rifle ball after him, which 
 
THE BEAR HUNT. 59 
 
 had the effect to make him turn his head and snarl at us, 
 retreating steadily ; and when he entered the forest there 
 seemed little prospect of our finding him or his compan 
 ion again that day. 
 
 The dogs would! have followed him but for my sharp 
 call, that brought them to our feet, and I was glad to find 
 that they were not wounded by the fray. 
 
 The sun was now tinging the tree tops with that rich 
 lustre of the autumn morning that seems to make more 
 glorious the varied robe of the hills. The sky was clear 
 and deep blue ; the air was still and calm ; the forest 
 voiceless. There was not a sound to disturb the repose 
 of all the world we could see around us. 
 
 That little world of ours was a pleasant one, after all. 
 What more so ? There was Joe Willis, the companion 
 of a lifetime, and there were the good dogs that had been 
 with us many a day like that, and there was the sky 
 and the forest, the sun and the earth. To us a golden 
 world, of calm and of joy ; and within us there were a 
 thousand happy thoughts. We might have seated our 
 selves on the grass, and talked the sun-light down the 
 western sky with pleasant talk, nor grown weary, or 
 wished for a change. Such is our forest life, and so full 
 of enjoyment are all our days passed together. 
 
 We rested a few moments, and discussed some hard 
 bread and dried venison for breakfast, while we arranged 
 the proper plan for circumventing the bears. 
 
 About three miles from us was a deep hollow, or basin, 
 in which the fallen trees lay as they had fallen for a 
 
60 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 hundred years, and to which the sun-light scarcely pene 
 trated through the overhanging branches of hemlock 
 and pine. I had once before found traces of bears near 
 this glen, but I had no notion of meeting one alone in its 
 mazes; for it was a half hour s work to climb the fallen 
 trees and get into the hollow, a piece of business very 
 short to a bear. The chances were ten to one against a 
 man with one bear there, and forty to one if he found 
 two. But with two men the case was different, and the 
 chances materially varied. I made up my mind that our 
 friends had sought that cover, and Joe coincided with me 
 in opinion. So we trudged along the oak opening to the 
 brow of the hill, at the foot of which lay the basin ; Joe 
 all the way whistling cheerily, and occasionally singing a 
 line of an old song, with a clear rich voice, that floated 
 through the forest as you would have loved to hear it. 
 He was silent as we approached the cover, and I crept to 
 a rocky point overlooking the hollow, and laughed aloud 
 in spite of myself at the curious spectacle presented be 
 low. The two bears were there, seated facing each 
 other, and manifestly disputing. Whether the one 
 was charging the other with cowardly desertion at a 
 critical moment, or the other was justifying himself by 
 accusing his companion of a dastardly attack in the rear, 
 it was impossible to say, but there they were, snarling, 
 growling, and gesticulating, as much like two politicians 
 in a bar-room as brute animals could be. 
 
 Joe, seeing me laugh, approached and enjoyed the 
 scene awhile. But now it became necessary to determine 
 
THE BEAR HUNT. 61 
 
 on our course. Willis proposed to try the sheep again, 
 and see if it would not scare them this time. If they 
 left the hollow it could only be within near gun-shot of 
 our stand. Accordingly he gave one faint bleat. 
 
 The effect in the hollow was electrical. One bear 
 vanished under a pile of fallen trees, while the other 
 came up the side of the ravine as rapidly as he could 
 ascend. 
 
 Half way up the hill he was exposed to Joe s unerring 
 aim, and a ball crashed through his head just under his 
 eye. 
 
 " A little too low, Joe. Give him the next ball on 
 his cheek, between the eye and ear." 
 
 " (rive him your ball, Phil. I have forgotten to load 
 my second barrel." * 
 
 He had paused a moment, and now stood on the trunk 
 of a tree, which he was crossing, when my ball met him. 
 His hold loosened, and he fell back, and rolled a hundred 
 feet down into the very spot where he had been standing 
 with his companion. 
 
 " Now, Joe, about that other one. It is a clear case 
 that we can t get this one s hide without a battle with 
 the other. What say you ?" 
 
 " I am ready. Let us load first." 
 
 We loaded both barrels, (we each carry a swivel 
 breech rifle,) and began our perilous descent, in which a 
 misstep or a stumble would send us into the embrace of 
 an enemy that would have little mercy. 
 
 The bear continued under cover of the trees which lay 
 
62 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 piled in the hollow, and it was a slow task to approach 
 him, for we had to climb over masses of fallen timber, 
 jump down into spaces between them, and climb again 
 to the top of other masses, and so ascend and descend 
 until we reached the spot. 
 
 As I sprang from a pile of trees, some ten feet high, 
 into a square sort of enclosure, surrounded by similar 
 piles, I was startled at a sharp, quick snarl, and out 
 rushed the enemy tenfold more frightened than I was. 
 He went up the breastwork of trunks like a cat. I 
 sprang at him, but could only reach his hind legs with 
 my knife, which I drew swiftly across them both, and 
 effectually ham-strung him. At the same instant Joe 
 gave him the ball from one barrel, within twenty feet of 
 him, and he tumbled back into the enclosure, out of 
 which I sprang as rapidly as he fell. Never were 
 mingled pain and rage more thoroughly displayed. He 
 gnashed his teeth and growled, and fairly howled with 
 agony, while he tore the ground, bit the barks of the 
 fallen trees, and even seized the stones in his mouth and 
 crunched his jaws on them. Seven balls were necessary 
 to quiet him. We shot always at his head, so as to pre 
 serve his skin as perfectly as possible ; but it was not 
 till half an hour had passed after the last ball was shot 
 into him, that either of us ventured into the enclosure. 
 Meantime, we had skinned the other and selected a few 
 steaks ; but there are only a half dozen pounds of meat 
 on a bear fit to be eaten by any man, and those only 
 when he is starving. We were not precisely starving, 
 
THE BEAR HUNT. 
 
 63 
 
 but we were reasonably hungry. So we broiled the bear- 
 steaks while they were warm, and ate them with salt and 
 hard bread, and made a meal out of him. Then we 
 skinned the other, and found our way back to the cabin 
 with our trophies. 
 
 Such was one day at the cabin, and such was each suc 
 cessive day, until the storm came. Then we lay on our 
 bear-skins before the fire and read all day long, or talked 
 of other times and scenes, or told stories of the chase, or 
 planned expeditions for the coming pleasant days. 
 And in the evenings, when the night came down on the 
 forest, as it never comes on the city, in majestic stillness ; 
 and calmly as a great thought of death or sorrow comes 
 down on a strong soul ; when the river s rushing along 
 the lower pass was the only sound outside the doors, and 
 the stars peered down our cabin chimney at our fire on 
 the broad hearth ; then we lay watching the flickering 
 shadows on the walls, tapestried with the trophies of many 
 a chase, and telling tales of childhood and youth ; pass 
 ing from memory to memory with thoughts as bright and 
 as changeful as the firelight, until in the small hours after 
 the noon of night, we would all lie sleeping on the cabin 
 floor, a pleasant company of woodmen, scarcely to be 
 recognized as the masters of the old hall in which we are 
 now sitting. But so our lives vary. 
 
IV. 
 
 dirhtm Cnmnis. 
 
ON the north side of the upper bend of the river, five 
 miles from our cabin, was a log-hut occupied by a 
 man who had lived a better life in his earlier years. He 
 was sometimes peculiarly attractive in his manner of 
 conversing about forest matters, and once when he was 
 half drunk, I was quite sure I detected him muttering to 
 himself one of the odes of Anacreon. I looked then 
 closely at him ; but he eyed me suspiciously, as I thought, 
 and raised his voice so that I could hear him distinctly, 
 but he was now talking English in his usual rough style 
 and dialect. I might have been mistaken. He was a 
 hard drinker, but perhaps never was actually drunk. He 
 could drink more than any man I have ever known, with 
 out being on the floor, and yet when in that condition 
 which was consequent on his potations, if not really 
 drunk, he was usually insane, and it was dangerous to be 
 in his neighborhood. These fits were periodical, but 
 whether caused by his visits to the post-office being quar 
 terly, at which time he carried down a canoe -load of 
 skins, or whether he was able to restrain himself for 
 
68 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 three months at a time, and then was impelled by his 
 thirst to make the trip to the settlement, I am unable to 
 say. 
 
 Such habits as these, it need not be said, would wear 
 out the frame of a giant. Such indeed was his. He 
 was at least six feet one inch high, and proportionally 
 broad-shouldered and heavy-limbed. I have seen him 
 shoulder two deer which must have weighed over two 
 hundred and eighty (they were not very large ones) and 
 carry them through the woods as easily as I would have 
 carried one. Had you been with me that morning in 
 the forest you would have shrunk as I did from the idea 
 that that gigantic form could be in so short a time a 
 handful of dust. Yet so it was, and I watched the 
 struggle of the destroyer with the stout man as I never 
 watched battle before. I need not tell you that the vic 
 tory was complete at last ; and when I took his brawny 
 hand in mine there was no pressure, not the slightest 
 touch of recognition, in the limb which had possessed the 
 strength of Hercules. 
 
 It was a cold autumn night, the fifteenth of October. 
 Black was sitting at the hearth, and heard a call on the 
 opposite bank of the river. It was repeated, and the 
 second cry, coming with a gust of wind that made a 
 loud wail in the branches of the oak, woke Willis and 
 myself. 
 
 It proved to be a neighbor of " Big Ben" (as he was 
 called, although I believe his real name was unknown to 
 any one). He had come down to beg some of us to go 
 
DELIRIUM TREMENS. 69 
 
 up and see Ben, who, from his account, it appeared was 
 laboring under one of his fits of insanity. 
 
 We went up, and found him raving in delirium tre- 
 mens. To attempt any description of such a fit would 
 be folly in me, and only disgust the reader. Those who 
 have never seen the victim of such madness, can obtain 
 from words no idea of the horror of the scene. It has 
 always seemed to me to approach, nearest of anything 
 earthly, to the agony of the damned. Ben continued in 
 this condition, with intervals of stupid silence, until the 
 day ; alternately moaning in a low agonizing tone, and 
 then shrieking until the forest in which his cabin stood, 
 rang as if with the laughter of fiends. I stood outside 
 of the door for an instant, and I believe I was actually 
 scared at the unearthly sound that filled the air. Toward 
 morning he appeared to be exhausted, and sank into a 
 sort of stupor or sleep, from which it was impossible to 
 rouse him. 
 
 I afterward learned that this was the fifth day of his 
 madness, and was not surprised to see that he was nearly 
 worn out. In the course of the day he was almost mo 
 tionless, and it was only by the most powerful exertions 
 that we could force anything into his mouth, so tightly 
 were his jaws clenched. In the early part of the next 
 night, I was sleeping on the floor not far from him, when 
 I felt the grasp of his stout hand on my arm, and waking 
 instantly, found his eyes wide open and staring fixedly at 
 me. His grasp tightened until it was painful, and I con 
 fess to a momentary terror, but his eye had no madness 
 
70 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 in it, and when not in the fits I have spoken of, Ben was 
 a kind-hearted, and really gentle fellow. 
 
 " There, Ben, there ; not quite so tight," said I mildly, 
 laying my hand on his. 
 
 " I thought it was you choking me," said he in a 
 husky, broken voice, speaking with great difficulty. 
 
 " Why should I choke you, my dear fellow ? You 
 were dreaming. I m glad to see you re awake." 
 
 " I say Phillips, I m not dreaming and I tell you 
 something s on my throat and Grod ! how it tight 
 ens." 
 
 He tried to raise himself from the floor, and succeeded 
 at length. Reeling like a drunken man, he crossed the 
 cabin to the water gourd, and taking it up in both hands 
 guided it with difficulty to his lips and drank till it was 
 more than half empty, then reeled back to the bed of 
 skins again, and throwing himself down, commenced sing 
 ing in a voice which, always good, was now uncommonly 
 clear, an old mountain song ; but before he had finished 
 the first verse he paused, with an oath, cursing his throat, 
 which was again parched with the raging fever that now 
 had possession of him. Black, who had lain silent dur 
 ing all this, now came to his side, and I also took a seat 
 on the bearskin which covered his bed. 
 
 " Ben, you re sick, do you know it ?" said Black. 
 
 " Yes, yes, Black, I m used up. I thought it would 
 come to this at last. Every dog has his day, and I ve 
 had mine." 
 
 " Keep quiet, Ben, and we ll put you all right in a day." 
 
DELIRIUM TREMENS. 7l 
 
 " Don t you believe it ; don t you believe it. I ve had 
 my last spree, and now comes the finishing." 
 
 I fancied I heard him muttering to himself something 
 like a quotation from Scripture, but I couldn t detect it 
 clearly. I had long looked with great interest on Ben, 
 for he had a fine soul. I had met no less than three 
 men in the forest who had been elegantly educated, and 
 doubtless were valued members of society, who from 
 some strange whim or misanthropy had taken to the wild 
 life of the woods, and I was fully prepared to find that 
 Ben was just such a man. I was therefore not surprised 
 when he looked up at me and said, " Mr. Phillips, what 
 do you think my old father would say if he should see 
 me dying here ? The old man thought me always a wild 
 boy, and I have proved myself one, haven t I ?" 
 
 " You re a long way off from dying, Ben." 
 
 " Not so long as you fancy. I ve felt this day coming, 
 and I remember when I was a boy I used to dream of 
 just such a death as this will be. My father, he was a 
 good old minister, used to say to me, Mend your ways, 
 boy, mend your ways, or you ll repent some day in sor 
 row ; but I always laughed after he left me, sober as I 
 was when I was with him. I couldn t bear to grieve him, 
 for I did love him ;" a pause, and he continued in a low 
 tone, " Yes ; I loved him and my mother. I remember 
 now more than I ever thought I should. This life has 
 pretty much spoiled my memory, but I see it all now. 
 The old parsonage ! It wanted paint more than the church 
 did. Old Deacon , curse him, could have spared 
 
72 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE EIVER. 
 
 paint from his hypocritical face, and enough to cover the 
 church too. Ha, ha ; the deacon had the worst of it that 
 morning I wish I could have seen the old man in his 
 coffin though. I did nt think that he d die so very soon 
 or I might have staid longer." And so he continued 
 muttering sentences, by which I gathered that he had 
 been the unruly son of a country pastor, educated with 
 the usual care of a clergyman s children, but that one 
 day after he had a quarrel with one of the officers of the 
 church, his father had punished him severely, and he had 
 that day left home and began the wandering life which 
 ended in this cabin. 
 
 In the course of the next three days, in the delirium 
 of fever, he spoke of scenes in many lands which con 
 vinced me he had been a traveller ; and I gathered, too, that 
 he had not always been without company ; but whether 
 the Lizzie of his dreams had been his wife or not, I could 
 not determine. He spoke of her in tones of very deep 
 affection, but as if he had wronged her and she had died. 
 I do not wish to be understood as saying that he spoke of 
 these touching memories in the way which would have 
 been most fitting. On the contrary, he used the roughest 
 language, not infrequently coupling the names of father 
 and mother and Lizzie with oaths too shocking to be re 
 peated. Yet there was a burst of agony occasionally 
 which recalled the long-concealed emotions of his heart, 
 in language such as he might have used in his better and 
 more refined boyhood. 
 
 At the close of the third day he was speechless, and 
 
DELIRIUM TREMENS. 73 
 
 evidently dying. Black, Winter, Smith, (from below,) 
 Willis, and myself, took turns in watching by him, and 
 at this time we were all with him. 
 
 His giant form was stretched out on the black skins, 
 covered with blankets, and the long, separated heavings 
 of his massive chest indicated that the breath of life 
 came heavily and with pain. His large and muscular 
 arms lay outside of the blanket ; the hands were clasped 
 together as if the dying forester were praying. I im 
 agined him, however, then perfectly senseless. No prayer 
 passed his lips, unless when for an instant his eyes opened 
 and a faint motion indicated some unexpressed wish. The 
 fire flickered on the hearth and cast a red glare on his 
 marbling features. A cold, calm smile, more as of con 
 tented scorn than anything else, seemed to be settling on 
 his face, but changed suddenly into a mournful express 
 ion, and as suddenly again to a look of relief from pain. 
 (I wonder if a phantom had passed before his vision 
 then !) These frequent changes of countenance continu 
 ed for a long time, and I was watching them with anx 
 iety, when he suddenly raised his right arm with clenched 
 fist and held it for a moment in the air, dropped it on 
 the blanket, rigid and motionless, then a shudder as of 
 remorse or horror, passed through his frame, his lips 
 quivered an instant, and then the fire light flickered on a 
 changeless face. Willis, who had been standing at the 
 foot of the pallet, with folded arms and fixed gaze, inter 
 rupted the solemn silence in the cabin with his deep- 
 toned recitation, "Requiem Eternam dona eis Domine," 
 4 
 
74 THE OLD HOUSE BY THK RIVER. 
 
 We buried the woodman on the bank of the river, and 
 ca-rved a stone rudely with the sign of salvation, which 
 appears to be the most fitting mark for the resting place 
 of clay, whose only hope is in the cross. 
 
 I do not pretend to say what mercy the apostate boy 
 found in his extremity, yet I humbly hoped that the 
 prayers of a father and a mother, and mayhap of a dearer 
 one than father or mother, might have been heard by the 
 God who has promised blessings on the children of the 
 righteous, and that the last motion of the hunter s lips 
 was in a petition that found acceptance. 
 
V. 
 
 *atfr of t|e 
 
WILLIS and myself, after a long day s hunt, found 
 ourselves fifteen miles from our cabin, and the 
 night had set in with a tempest. But before it was quite 
 dark, we had hunted the country round for a safe resting 
 place, and had come to the conclusion that such an one 
 was not to be found in the district. Ascending a high 
 hill, and climbing to the top of a tree, Willis had seen 
 smoke rising over the forest at not more than two miles 
 distance in the North- West. The wind was North-West 
 too, and it was cloudy, and occasional snow squalls chilled 
 us ; but, heading the wind, we hurried on toward the 
 smoke. Hurry means something different in those wilds 
 from what is ordinarily understood by it. A mile in 
 three quarters of an hour is extraordinary travelling over 
 fallen trees and through dense swamp thickets. A mile 
 in two hours is often swifter than is either convenient or 
 possible. 
 
 Darkness, dense and unwelcome, overtook us in the 
 forest, and now we dared not trust the wind for our guide. 
 We did not know North from South, and of course not 
 
78 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 East from West ; therefore, it was not safe to move a 
 step after we lost the direction, nor when we found it 
 again could we trust ourselves to keep it, for every one 
 has heard of the tendency to go in circles, when one is 
 lost in the woods. 
 
 After satisfying ourselves which was North and which 
 South, by an examination of the bark of the trees, we 
 proceeded on a plan which Joe and myself had frequent 
 ly practised in similar cases. I would go on in the proper 
 direction a hundred yards, and then shout. If I had 
 pursued the right course, Joe would come up. If not, he, 
 who had been standing facing the course, would direct me 
 till I was due North- West from him, and then come up 
 to me, walk directly past me, and I would face his course, 
 and again set him right if he wandered, and walk up to 
 and past him. So we kept on for another hour, and 
 found we had not mistaken. A little to our right we 
 saw through the forest a gleam of light, and Joe imme 
 diately said, " It must be the cabin of old Paint, the In 
 dian. You know, Black said he lived about here, and this 
 is on the bank of a stream, just as he described it." 
 
 So we approached, and were glad to obtain admission ; 
 for the wind was blowing almost a hurricane, and we had 
 been forced to walk so slowly that we were chilled. 
 " The Panther" was the English of the old Indian s 
 name, and this had been shortened by the hunters to 
 " Paint" (thus, Panther, Painter, Paint,) and he was dis 
 tinguished from his son, who alone occupied the cabin 
 with him, as old Paint. 
 
DEATH OF THE PANTHER. 79 
 
 He was emphatically old. Certainly not less than four 
 score years and ten had left their marks on his dark 
 forehead. There was no hair on his head. Even the 
 scalp-lock was scattered on the winds of years ago ! And 
 that night the old man s pilgrimage was ended. The 
 storms of a century had not bent his body ; the clouds of 
 a hundred years had not dimmed his eagle eye. 
 
 As we entered the cabin, he lay on a rude deer-skin 
 couch, elevated some inches from the floor. His quick 
 glance caught in an instant the features of our race, and 
 the first words I heard, as the cabin-door swung on its 
 rough hide hinges, were, ""White men, white men," 
 muttered in a low tone to himself. I walked up toward 
 him, and taking his hand in mine felt his pulse for I 
 saw at a glance that he was sick. But I could scarcely 
 distinguish it, so very feeble was it. And as I looked in 
 his eye I knew that he was beyond my skill, or help of 
 man. 
 
 " Ha, Ha !" laughed the old man with a deep guttural 
 laugh. " The Panther will not leap again, you think ?" 
 He had read my face, and I replied calmly, " I fear not, 
 my old friend. Your life has been a long one, and some 
 what adventurous I imagine. But you ll not have to 
 struggle much longer." 
 
 In a little while we were lying asleep on the floor by 
 the fire. It was after midnight when I awoke. The fire 
 in the stone chimney was blazing brightly, and the whole 
 cabin gleamed in the light. The younger Indian was 
 standing by the side of his father, whose giant limbs were 
 
80 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 straightened on his couch. I thought he was dead, and 
 laying my hand gently on Joe, he started up and watched 
 with me the scene. A moment undeceived us as to the 
 old man s death, for his eye was flashing with the fitful 
 glare that precedes the glaze of death. He spoke some 
 words occasionally in a low and distinct voice, and to my 
 surprise used the English language instead of the musical 
 dialect of his nation. I soon saw that his mind was wan 
 dering among the scenes of years long gone, and that he 
 fancied himself sitting by the fire and telling to his son 
 the stories of hard-fought fights and the golden days of 
 his tribe. There was one eloquent story that I gathered 
 from his broken English, wherein he told his son of the 
 manner in which he first met and carried off his mother. 
 Then he spoke of her. The Fawn," I believe, was the 
 translation of the name he gave her, and his eye flashed 
 vividly as he recounted her beauties and his love. It is 
 not strange that that early love of the heart should come 
 back, as it so often does, when the dim eye is brightening 
 with its last light. It is not strange that the freshest 
 fountains the heart has ever known in its wastes, should 
 bubble up anew when the life-blood is growing stagnant. 
 It is not strange that a bright memory should come to a 
 dying old man, as the sunshine breaks across the hills at 
 the close of a stormy day ; nor that in the light of that 
 ray, the very clouds that made the day dark, should grow 
 gloriously beautiful. 
 
 " Air, air ! I can t breathe," moaned the dying war 
 rior. His son stalked to the door, threw it wide open, 
 
DEATH OF THE PANTHER. 81 
 
 and returned to his statue-like position by the side of his 
 father. Turning on his side the old man looked out of 
 the door. The moon had risen, and the clouds were 
 gone, and the stream was brawling aloud to the wind, 
 which was even wilder than in the early evening. I saw 
 the moon-beams glancing on the water-fall before the 
 door, and the old man saw it too and smiled. I saw that 
 smile stealing across his face, and, the flickering fire-light 
 perhaps deceived me, but I was certain that it was a bit 
 ter smile before it left his rugged countenance. Perhaps 
 the memory of a boyhood in the forest, of a seat by the 
 brookside with an Indian girl, of a gay glad heart, gave 
 place to memories of a race that passed away like the 
 dreams of that childhood, of a life that was closing among 
 scenes unworthy the Panther warrior of the Mohawks. 
 
 At length he spoke ; and now in the low musical lan 
 guage of his earlier years. I could understand but a 
 word here and there, and the son afterwards translated 
 for me the last words of his father : 
 
 " I have no song to sing, my son. My life has been 
 like yonder stream, flowing along in darkness and over 
 rocks and down steep hill sides. Once, only once, there 
 was a bright still place in its current, like yonder place 
 where the stream rests awhile in the moonlight, before 
 the door, and then falls over the rocks again, and passes 
 on in the forest. 
 
 " I will tell The Fawn that her son lingers yet on the 
 river bank, and sometimes we will come to the cabin and 
 talk with him. The snow is deep on her grave by the 
 4* 
 
82 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 shore of the great lake. I will go there and see it before 
 I go to the great council of our tribe up yonder ! The 
 winds moan over her. The waves dash up about the 
 mound. I built it high. I dug her grave deep deep 
 deep." 
 
 His voice ceased suddenly, and he lay motionless, 
 looking up at the rude covering of the hut. After some 
 time, seeing that he was silent, I turned over and slept 
 till daylight. We then rose, and walking across the 
 cabin found that he was sleeping, and left him thus. He 
 never spoke again. Before that night he had joined his 
 fathers. 
 
 I have fancied a scene in the hunting grounds of his 
 tribe that day. There was a gathering in a lofty lodge, 
 where the old chieftains sat in solemn council. And, 
 at a moment of silence, a shout was heard without, and 
 all eyes were turned toward the entrance. A hand 
 thrust aside the deer-skin that hung across it, and the 
 giant form of the Panther stalked across the ring, and 
 took the seat which had been left vacant for the last 
 great chief of the Mohawks. 
 
VI. 
 
 in 
 
 all. 
 
AMONG- our favorite friends we number the family of 
 Mr. B , who is the near neighbor of Mrs. , 
 
 (our Lucy,) in the city, and who, with all his house, is 
 ever welcome at the Hall. For a week past they have 
 been with us, and the house has been unusually gay. 
 The morning breaks with the shouts of children on the 
 lawn, waking up the sun, whose face, peering over the 
 park trees, they love to see, unused as they are to look 
 on him smiling so gloriously ; and the whole day long 
 they shout around the halls as freely as if in the woods. 
 For somehow they do not seem to have the fear of Willis 
 or myself before their eyes, but greet the appearance of 
 either of us with new vociferations of delight. 
 
 Tom, the oldest boy, is a rare genius. He is at home 
 from school in the autumn holidays, and takes pleasure 
 in showing the acquirements of his schooling. These 
 consist chiefly in those departments of which he ought to 
 be entirely ignorant, and it is already manifest that he is 
 much keener at a practical joke than a verse in Virgil, 
 and can see much farther into the mysteries of fun and 
 frolic than into equations or conic sections. 
 
86 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 We mounted him between us for an afternoon ride, 
 and thinking him a novice, Stephen the groom gave him 
 Bright, Lucy s gentlest horse, and added all sorts of 
 cautions as to his management of the check rein. Im 
 agine our astonishment at seeing the boy lift the horse 
 at the park hedge, instead of taking the avenue gate, and 
 wave his cap at us as he cleared it and dashed off for the 
 village, where we found him half an hour later, bargain 
 ing with Hugh Stimson, the landlord at the tavern, for 
 a pair of setter pups, that he values at about ten times 
 their worth. Joe couldn t have the heart to scold the 
 boy, but I threatened him so sincerely, that he rode home 
 by my side very demurely ; only once managing, instead 
 of riding around a drove of sheep as Joe and myself did, 
 to involve himself in the centre of the drove, and com 
 mence a series of curvets, to the terror of the owner and 
 the hopeless dispersion of the sheep. It was impossible 
 to blame the boy, for he had managed it so adroitly as 
 to throw all the fault on the drove, and claim all the 
 credit to himself of his extrication without accident. 
 
 " Mr. Phillips, wasn t that well done now ?" said he, 
 with a face full of fun. 
 
 " Capitally," said I, with a face as full of seriousness 
 as I could make it ; " but look out next time, my boy, 
 
 or Mrs. will not be apt to trust you with Bright 
 
 again." 
 
 This intimation served to quiet him for the rest of the 
 ride, but when we reached home, he was full of accounts 
 of the wonderful things he had seen and been a part of, 
 
GHOSTS IN THE HALL. 87 
 
 to the gaping mouths and eyes of his beautiful little sis 
 ters, who are as full of fun as he, but not so free and 
 easy with it. 
 
 The dinner bell interrupted his stories ; but after din 
 ner he got them into a corner, and when their bed time 
 came, he was holding forth in so loud a voice that I, who 
 had been attracted to listen by the open eyes of little 
 Lucy, heard something about a monster that haunted 
 the park, which he had caught sight of, and which he 
 warned them would catch them if they ever went out of 
 reach of call from the house, or ventured ever to tell 
 their mother what he had told them. 
 
 So little Lucy and her twin sister Maria, or Byrie, as 
 she is called, went trembling up stairs to their room, 
 which was across the hall from Tom s, and whether they 
 went to sleep or not, depended much on the firmness of 
 their little brains to expel unpleasant fancies. 
 
 At all events, by eleven o clock, Joe and myself were 
 alone in the library ; and the old house was quiet, while 
 we smoked and chatted before the fire. 
 
 Just at that hour a scream rang through the house to 
 the very cellars, and we sprang to our feet as the library 
 door opened, and the kitchen servants rushed in en 
 masse, led by the coachman, and backed up in the rear 
 by Anthony. The cook was as blue as blanc mange, 
 though rather darker, and she spoke first. 
 
 " If you please Mr. Joseph, Mr. Philip, the the 
 the devil s here sure I saw him myself." 
 
 " What does he look like, Susan ?" 
 
88 THE OLD HO USB BY THE RIVER. 
 
 " He had horns, sir ; and was black, sir ; black as as 
 as Stephen, sir." 
 
 " Yes sir," broke in Stephen, without in the least re 
 senting the odious comparison; " and he had claws, sir." 
 
 " Ah claws a new feature in the prince of darkness. 
 Did you ever hear of his scratching any one, Philip ?" 
 
 " Can t say that I have, Joe ; but let s inquire about 
 this. Anthony, what does all this mean?" 
 
 " Don t know, sir. I didn t see anything of it. We 
 were going up stairs, Stephen ahead, and Susan next, 
 when Susan screamed and fell against Henry ; and that 
 knocked us all in a heap ; and the light went out, and 
 they all rushed in here." 
 
 "Well, keep quiet awhile, all of you, and we ll see 
 what s going on up stairs." 
 
 I accordingly ascended the staircase very cautiously, 
 without a light, but found all quiet above ; and, return 
 ing, sent the servants to their rooms ; and the hall again 
 sank into stillness, and Joe and myself resumed our con 
 versation. 
 
 Fifteen minutes afterward I heard a queer sound on 
 the second floor, and stole out and up the staircase. The 
 moon was past the full, and shone in at the large bow 
 window, lighting the broad hall so that everything was 
 distinctly visible. On the walls hung the trophies of 
 many a chase, and in the dark oak cases were many rare 
 and curious specimens of birds and fish, and strange 
 products of many lands. But in the centre of the hall, 
 on the billiard table, was an object of considerable inter- 
 
GHOSTS IN THE HALL. 89 
 
 est that puzzled me not a little. It seemed to be a bear, 
 but had the horns of a stag, and withal it was very indus 
 triously poking a long Spanish lance at the door of the 
 room in which the children, Lucy and Ryrie, were sleep 
 ing. From their room proceeded, as yet, no sounds ; but 
 a moment after my head rose above the level of the hall 
 floor, I heard their door latch move, and the lance was 
 suddenly withdrawn, while the bear or nondescript ani 
 mal retreated into the bright moonlight in the centre of 
 the table. Little Lucy opened the door, and put her 
 head out. I intended to step forward quickly enough to 
 prevent the fright which I feared would ensue ; but the 
 little fairy, before she looked around the hall, caught 
 sight of my face. I winked, and she saw me ; for she 
 was close by the head of the stairs, and it was very light ; 
 and the next moment I pointed toward the billiard table. 
 The little one was as strong-minded as a woman, and 
 saw at once that there was some hoax in the bear-skin. 
 She turned back, and calling Ryrie to her aid, the two 
 rushed out together ; sprang on to the table ; one seized 
 the horns, and the other the bear skin, and exposed poor 
 Tom to the moonlight, utterly discomfited. Ryrie seized 
 the lance, and drove him to his room at the point of it, 
 while little Lucy rushed to the head of the stairs to kiss 
 me, and Joe who by this time had come up to investi 
 gate the racket, which had already caused the other doors 
 to open, and woke the whole family to see the little fai 
 ries flitting about in the moonlight. 
 
 All was soon quiet and we returned -to the library, and 
 
90 THE OLD HOUSE BY THH RIVER. 
 
 when the clock was lifting its two hands wearily and im 
 ploringly, as if fatigued with its twenty-four hours labor, 
 Joe rose from the large chair, in which he had dozed since 
 the occurrence up stairs, and lazily striding back and 
 forth across the floor, demanded of me somewhat as fol 
 lows : 
 
 " Philip, do you believe in ghosts ?" 
 
 " Firmly, Joseph." 
 
 " Did you ever see one ?" 
 
 Once." 
 
 " When, where, and how?" 
 
 " In Princeton. The ghost sat in my old rocker, 
 while I was lying on the bed. I awoke and the ghost 
 looked at me, smiled, lifted his hand, and when I moved 
 slowly disappeared." 
 
 " Were you sick ?" 
 
 " As well as I am now." 
 
 " Do you believe that ghosts are ghosts, or only spec 
 tral illusions ?" 
 
 " I don t recognize the distinction. My eyes are given 
 me to see with, and if my eyes tell me I see anything, you 
 may argue with me till you are tired, and I will believe 
 my eyes first. Beside all that Joe, you believe in ghosts, 
 and so does every one else. I never saw a man or woman 
 yet, that was perfectly certain he or she would not see a 
 ghost in any dark night, especially in the neighborhood 
 of a graveyard or the scene of a murder. And you, 
 with all your coolness, never yet went across the scream 
 ing hollow, without a firm conviction that before you 
 
GHOSTS IN THE HALL. 91 
 
 reached the village you would hear the dead man s yell, 
 or see him with his bleeding throat." 
 
 " Phil don t talk in that way, it makes me uncom 
 fortable." 
 
 " I told you so, Joe. You can t even hear ghosts 
 talked about at this time of the night with any degree 
 of comfort, and if you should hear a strange sound now, 
 you would possibly be scared like a child." 
 
 " Bah, Phil ; not so bad as that. But, hark what 
 
 was that ?" 
 
 It was a low moan, and it was repeated a long groan, 
 ending in a broken wail. I have seldom heard a sound 
 more thrilling. Joe looked at me for a moment im 
 agining that I was making the noise to frighten him. But, 
 seeing my undisguised look of astonishment, he sat down 
 to listen for a repetition of the sound. 
 
 It came. A moan of exhausted agony, and apparently 
 under our library window. I sprang to it and threw up 
 the sash and dashed the shutter open. The cause was 
 manifest now. Under the window lay John, the finest 
 dog in the kennel, lifting his keen eye to me, as I looked 
 out, and expressing a mournful joy that he had succeed 
 ed in attracting attention. I sprang out of the window 
 and lifted him in to Joe, who took him in his arms and 
 carried him to the wolf-skin rug before the fire. 
 
 The dog had been ill for several days, but we had not 
 thought him seriously so. It was evident now that he 
 was dying ; and, for the memory of old days in the forest 
 and a hundred gallant chases, we loved the dog as one of 
 
92 THE OLD HOrsSK BY THE RIVER. 
 
 ourselves. He was, among other dogs, like one of a race 
 of kings. I never knew how old he was, but his teeth 
 indicated that he had gnawed a great many bones. He 
 was shivering with cold, and we wrapped him up in a pile 
 of clothing, and poured some brandy down his throat. 
 Perhaps it was as bad for him as it sometimes proves to 
 be for others less sensible than he, for though he acknowl 
 edged with a smile of his fast dulling eye the kindness 
 which he knew was meant, he nevertheless dropped his 
 head feebly on the rug, and slumbered his life away in 
 fitful dreams. Occasionally he languidly opened one eye 
 and smiled at Joe, and at length shivered, and stretched 
 himself out, so as to lay his head at the feet of Willis. 
 
 " John," said Joe, but the dog was still. It was the 
 first time he had refused to obey that voice, and of course 
 he was dead. 
 
 " Phil," said Joe, at length, " the dog was true in 
 death, as he has been in life. I think he would have 
 lived under the window till daylight, if only for the sake 
 of seeing us once more before he died. Let him lie 
 there till morning. We will bury him kindly, near Leo. 
 Hark ! What was that ? This is a night of strange 
 sounds." 
 
 He threw up the window again, and we heard with 
 singular distinctness and clearness, coming up from the 
 village church, four miles off, the sound of the passing 
 bell. 
 
 It had not reached the first pause, and so we listened 
 and counted ; ten, twenty, thirty, and so on up to sev- 
 
GHOSTS IN THE HALL. 93 
 
 enty ; and then, as if it were difficult to number those 
 weary, later years, the old bell sounded heavily three. 
 Seventy three ! There was but one man in the neigh 
 borhood that numbered so many years, and we knew, 
 therefore, that Solomon Pierson had gone to his reward. 
 
 With no slight emotion we closed the window, and 
 began to talk of him and his cotemporaries, who had 
 been the elders of the country since we were boys, and 
 whose histories belong to this record as part of the his 
 tory of our younger years, and of the families we knew 
 and loved. These old men had been our friends and 
 counsellors, and we had been taught to respect them, 
 and to love them, from our earliest recollection. 
 
 Some of the pleasantest and most distinct pictures 
 which we now recall, are of scenes in the old church, that 
 stands yet among the hills at the end of the long village 
 street, surrounded by the graves of three generations. 
 Of these pictures and scenes I shall have occasion to 
 speak in another part of this volume. 
 
 There was old John Maclean, with his stern eyes and 
 gaunt frame, and William Denton, with bent shoulders 
 and trembling gait, but a kindly smile on his lip ; and 
 there were a dozen others whose faces awed us on a 
 Sunday morning, with their calm solemnity. 
 
 Solomon Pierson was the brother of Adam Pierson, 
 the tenant and owner of the Hickory Glen farm ; and as 
 we talked of him we remembered the reverence with 
 which we looked up to the old men who preceded him in 
 the elder s pew in the church, and one by one they re- 
 
94 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 turned to us as vividly as if their ghosts had come to the 
 old library in which they had often been seated while 
 they lived, seeking advice on earthly matters from Judge 
 Willis, while he as eagerly sought from them the words 
 of spiritual advice which their experience fitted them 
 well to give. 
 
 Chiefest in dignity of character among those old men 
 was Simon Gray, and we talked long of him before we 
 slept. And after Joe had sought his room, and the 
 company which always visits him in dreams, I lay awake 
 and remembered him. There came across my half-sleep 
 ing vision a picture of the old church, its square pews and 
 round pulpit, and high sounding-board ; and the old min 
 ister, and the upturned faces of the elders on his right ; 
 and then I saw Simon Gray s calm features, speaking, 
 in their serene quiet, all the holy thoughts that filled his 
 soul ; and then I heard the old man as on a bright sum 
 mer Sabbath morning, well remembered through the 
 long, long years, when, the precentor being absent, he 
 took his place, and in a voice whose very age and feeble 
 ness made it musical, sang the sublime words of David 
 to the sublime notes of Luther. 
 
 It was then that, like a flash of lightning, the truth 
 came into my soul that Simon Gray was dead in the 
 long gone years, 5 and his grave was green in the valley 
 yard a score of summers ago. " Poor old Simon Gray," 
 said the silent thought in my heart, " Rich old Simon 
 Gray," said the heart, responding, for he went to a lordly 
 mansion and countless treasures. 
 
GHOSTS IN THE HALJL. 95 
 
 One passage in the history of Simon Gray I most love 
 to recall. It was on the evening of that same bright 
 Sabbath of which I spoke, that the old man left his home 
 to go down into the hollow and attend a prayer-meeting 
 in the red school-house, which was appointed for " early 
 candle-light." 
 
 You might have seen the evidence of the appointment 
 under his arm ; for the package which he had there con 
 tained neither more nor less than two antique silver 
 candlesticks, a wooden block with a hole in it, and three 
 of his daughter s best dipped candles. The candlesticks 
 and two of the candles were for the desk, where the 
 minister would sit if he came, and the block of wood and 
 the other candle were for his own use, as he should stand 
 up and hold the psalm-book in the one hand, and the 
 candle in the other, and should lead the little assembly 
 in a song of praise. 
 
 He was a noble man, and that was a picture worthy a 
 master hand, as he stood on the brow of the hill, and the 
 sun s red rays flushed his grand features. Tall once, 
 but considerably bowed by age, he seemed to have a 
 right to stand on the brow of a hill and look at the world 
 and the sky. His face was a study. It possessed all the 
 noble features of a long and pure line of ancestry, for 
 Simon Gray was of good Scotch blood, and his genealogy 
 he could trace from the Comyns on the one side, and the 
 Douglasses on the other. There was a look of modesty 
 in his noble features. Irreverent as it may seem, I shall 
 nevertheless not be misunderstood by those who remera- 
 
96 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 her their childish impressions, when I say, that until I 
 was six or seven years of age, I involuntarily associated 
 those features with all my ideas of the Deity ; and I be 
 lieve I had some help from that childish profanity in 
 subsequently getting a faint idea of the good and great 
 God, and of his benevolence and justice. 
 
 He stood on the hill and looked into the valley below. 
 For sixty years of manhood, and for eighty years of life, 
 he had not been away from that valley in heart. He had 
 travelled, visited many parts of this country and the 
 homes of his fathers in old Scotland, but he had returned 
 with never-faltering and always willing steps, to the old 
 house on the Eastern slope of the hill, and each time 
 had come back with grateful love of his home. Forty 
 years ago he had been one of a long procession that went 
 down the hill and into the churchyard at its foot; and 
 never a day since then, had he crossed the hill-top with 
 out pausing as now, and seeing plainer and plainer each 
 year as his eyes grew dimmer, the long sad line, and the 
 grave-mound singled out of all the crowd under which 
 she slept. She oh, she was dear to him, and yet, yet 
 dear to his old heart in the memories of a golden life. 
 He had won her in her fair young girlhood. She had 
 slept on his bosom for twenty years, and it was harder 
 than the idlers around him dreamed, to lay that darling 
 head, yet loaded with brown tresses, on the ground for a 
 pillow, and cover her over with damp sods. He shud 
 dered as she lay there, calmly and profoundly asleep, 
 and he shuddered one instant now, as he stood on the 
 
GHOSTS IN THE HALL. 9*7 
 
 hill- top and looked down at her grave, and thought of the 
 dark night that was coming ; and how she was to lie out 
 there all night, cold and cheerless, under the damp dews 
 and the stars. But the next instant a smile stole over 
 his face, and he lifted his hat from his head, and his long 
 gray hair straggling down his shoulders, gleamed for a 
 little like waves of light, as he bowed his head and prayed 
 aloud. 
 
 That was the scene which comes now to my recollection 
 as freshly as of old. I was walking homeward from the 
 house of a sick neighbor of the old elder, and my feet 
 made no noise, as I came over the hill behind him. His 
 form stood out against the sky as I came up the hill, and 
 when I approached him he was uttering in a clear voice 
 some sublime petitions. Sublime, because they were ut 
 tered where nothing was between them and heaven. I 
 know they were heard and answered. I knew that the 
 sun-light would no more certainly come back on the mor 
 row, than would those answers return into the old man s 
 heart ; and from that hour to this, I have regarded that 
 valley as holy ground, and I have never entered it with 
 out the feeling that I was entering a hallowed atmos 
 phere, and the wild flowers gathered there seem to me 
 redolent to-day of the old man s blessing. 
 
 Simon Gray died not very long after that. He was 
 buried in the churchyard by the side of his wife. The 
 stone which records her name, says she was but thirty-six 
 when she left him, while that which stands at the head 
 of his long grave, tells the curious reader that he was 
 
98 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 eighty-one. But again we are thankful that they measure 
 not years as we do, in the land of their present abiding, 
 and I am confident that they often stand together now 
 on some hill-top of that country, and look with earnest, 
 gentle eyes down into the valleys of this. And of a sum 
 mer morning when the church-bell is tolling across the 
 hollow and up the hill sides near their old home, I 
 sometimes stand on the spot where I saw the old elder 
 standing in that summer evening light, and feel a rushing 
 tenderness come over me, a spell of holy influences, soft 
 ening and soothing and blessing me ; and at such mo 
 ments I cannot doubt that he is looking down on me with 
 his dear old looks of love ! 
 
VII. 
 
 Crnis* 0f 
 
" TTTHERE S the wind, skipper ?" asked the Doctor, 
 
 V lifting his head above the companion-way, and 
 gazing with half open eyes toward the fly which was 
 hanging motionless from the slender topmast. 
 
 The skipper was myself; the hour, two o clock; the 
 night, starry and still. The watch had been a stupid 
 one, and I was half dozing as I lay on deck, wrapped in a 
 large coat, on which the mist of the night had settled in 
 great drops. 
 
 " No wind yet, Doctor ; but this is the third day of 
 calm, and we must have a breeze soon. Turn in again, 
 and I will call you at daybreak." 
 
 The doctor s head vanished, and I was again alone. 
 But now somewhat aroused, I paced the deck awhile, 
 turning over in my mind a thousand fancies about the 
 night, and the ocean, and the stars ; watching the light of 
 Montauk over the starboard quarter, and the various 
 lights in the northern horizon, and waiting anxiously for 
 the wind that should carry us out of sight of them all. 
 
 At length Watch Hill winked once or twice when it 
 
102 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 should not ; and Stonington, which ought to be station 
 ary, vanished and re-appeared, and vanished again. The 
 signs were good. A half hour later, the mist on my 
 forehead felt cold ; and as I lifted my wet finger in the 
 air, I felt the coming breeze. Calling Dick, who lay 
 coiled under the foresail, we got up the canvas, and as 
 the boom swung off, its heavy creaking ceased, and 
 deeper sleep than ever fell on the closed eyelids in the 
 cabin. 
 
 Now came the breeze out of the nor -west. Light at 
 first, but steady, and steadily increasing. She drew 
 slowly through the water for awhile ; but the ripple 
 around her bow increased in music ; and at length she 
 sprang off like a bird that knew her course, and was glad 
 to be away on it. 
 
 There was now some pleasure in that lonesome watch ; 
 in standing at the tiller, and guiding that beautiful craft, 
 with its precious burden, out into the great sea. How 
 she leaped through the water how like a living being 
 she breasted the waves ! Now the foam flew from her 
 weather bow. Now the green curl of the wave was 
 above the lee rail as she rushed along. We were away 
 at last, and the gallant little craft seemed to feel, with 
 us, the desire to lose sight of land and be out in the blue 
 waters of the Atlantic. 
 
 Five hours later, as she dashed through a huge wave, 
 and swung down the side of the next one, I heard a sud 
 den crash below deck, and forthwith the head of the Doc 
 tor again emerged from the forward hatch. Never was 
 
THE CRUISE OF THE PHANTOM. 103 
 
 surprise more clearly depicted on any countenance. One 
 moment he glanced around at the horizon, failing in that 
 view to catch the dim line of Block Island in the north 
 west, and then broke forth his exclamations : " JEheu me 
 miserable oh, Joe Joe Willis oh, Philip, my boy 
 where away is the land, Phil ? Only look, boys come 
 up here, will you now !" 
 
 " How can we get up, Doctor, when you fill the hatch 
 way?" said the voice of Joe underneath; and at the 
 same instant the Doctor, impelled by some force invisible 
 to me, was suddenly elevated to the deck, and into the 
 lee scuppers, where he lay in astonished silence. Before 
 he had time to recover himself, I seized the excellent 
 chance offered me, and letting her fall off the least bit 
 in the world, brought her up again, and, by the move 
 ment, brought the Doctor, puffing and blowing, in a flood 
 of clear green water, aft almost to my side, when he 
 seized the lee shrouds, and broke forth again in lamenta 
 ble howlings. 
 
 Joe was, by this time, standing on the weather rail, 
 holding by the foremast stays, swinging to the swing of 
 the sea, his hair flowing out on the wind, his eyes full 
 of life and fun, and his voice helping the Doctor s la 
 ments. The latter soon found his way forward and be 
 low deck ; and the former came aft to relieve me at the 
 tiller. 
 
 It was a glorious day. The white caps of the waves 
 gleamed around us, and the sea danced with delight as 
 the wind flew over it. I threw off my coat. Peter and 
 
104 THH OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Dick cleaned the deck, and brought up the cushions. 
 The little silver bell in the cabin announced that the 
 ladies were ready to see us, and I sent Dick below to in 
 vite them up. 
 
 A pleasant group we were on the deck. There was 
 
 Mrs. , (our Lucy,) and her friend, Miss , 
 
 in their gay morning dresses; Mr. - , (the excel 
 lent protector of Lucy;) Joe Willis, in his sea toggery; 
 the Doctor, (in dry clothes,) and myself, holding the 
 tiller. Peter and Dick stood near the mainmast ; and 
 my man Bob, with his ally Henry, (blacker than himself,) 
 came aft with coffee, and to express his usual morning 
 anxieties about the health of the ladies. 
 
 Such was the party ; and the Phantom was away for 
 the blue water. 
 
 We were off for a cruise. That expressed about the 
 whole story. No one of us knew exactly where we might 
 be in forty-eight hours, and I cannot say that any of us 
 cared ; for we were pleasure seekers, drifting about the 
 ocean of life, waiting for breezes when it was calm, and 
 longing for gales when the breeze blew. 
 
 " Philip, how does she head ?" 
 
 " East by north half-north, Doctor." 
 
 " That would take us to the channel, wouldn t it ?" 
 
 " Wind and weather permitting, somewhat to the 
 northward of that." 
 
 " Keep her so then." 
 
 " Doctor, when did you turn sailor," asked Mrs. 
 
 with a laugh. 
 
THE CRUISE OF THE PHANTOM. 105 
 
 " Two hours ago madam. Mr. Phillips, yonder, let 
 me into the secret of it, and I am a perfect old salt." 
 
 The ladies looked up for an explanation, and Joe Wil 
 lis gave it, finishing by rising from the deck and relieving 
 me at the tiller, while I took my coffee and biscuit. 
 
 While we were sitting thus, pleasantly talking, Mr. 
 
 very quietly observed to his lady wife, that he 
 
 saw a fish leap clear of the water and exhibit his whole 
 length against the sky, and what seemed to him strange, 
 it looked as if he caught a smaller fish in the air. 
 
 " Where away was he," exclaimed Joe and myself in a 
 breath. 
 
 " I don t know exactly what you mean by where-away, 
 Philip, said our innocent friend. 
 
 " In which direction was the fish ?" 
 
 " Oh, that s what you mean by where-away, is it ? 
 Well, upon my word one learns something everywhere. 
 Joseph, do you know " 
 
 " John, where was that fish ?" interrupted Joe, impa 
 tiently. 
 
 " In the air, I told you, and that s what seemed so 
 singular. I shouldn t have noticed " 
 
 " John, my dear fellow, will you do me the favor to 
 point the forefinger of your right hand in the precise di 
 rection in which you saw that fish ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Philip, with pleasure, my boy. I should 
 say about so." 
 
 " Three points on the weather-bow. We ve run a half 
 mile since he saw it. Dick, run up the weather-shrouds 
 
106 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 and see if you can make a sword-fish anywhere on the 
 starboard bow." 
 
 " Sword-fish !" exclaimed a half dozen voices. 
 
 " They re ugly customers, those sword-fish," added the 
 Doctor, composedly to the ladies. " Run their swords 
 through a ship s side any day and sink her in a twink 
 ling." 
 
 "Philip Joseph You don t intend to fight with 
 sword-fish, do you ?" 
 
 " Quietly, quietly, my child. You know you promised 
 to trust yourself entirely to Joe and me on this cruise ; 
 and as to sword-fish, they re as harmless as minnows." 
 
 " I believe you, Phil," said Lucy, relapsing into her 
 usual calm demeanor, while Joe and myself prepared our 
 tackle. 
 
 A stand on the end of the bowsprit with a semi-circular 
 iron brace or support, was always rigged on the Phantom 
 when at sea, and from this the harpoon is thrust, (not 
 cast.) We use generally about a hundred fathoms of line, 
 and a bushel basket for a drag. We preferred the old 
 harpoon, until we found one with a loose hinged barb that 
 we now use altogether. A rod fifteen feet long, for a 
 handle, completes the equipment. 
 
 The habits of the fish are singular. He usually swims 
 on the surface of the water with his long black fin out, 
 and when he sees a schoal of fish he makes a dash among 
 them, piercing more or less with his sword, with a pre 
 cision and skill incredible to one who has not seen it. I 
 have often heard those claiming to have been eye-witness- 
 
THE CRUISE OF THE PHANTOM. 107 
 
 es, affirm that the sword-fish will chase a small fish until 
 he leaps into the air, and following him, will pierce him 
 in the air, with unerring aim. I have never seen it, but 
 I do not doubt the statement. John thought he saw the 
 same in this instance. 
 
 " Port a little, sir," shouted Dick from the main top. 
 
 a Do you see him ?" 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ; about a quarter of a mile off, right 
 ahead now." 
 
 " How is he heading ?" 
 
 " Right across our bow, and swimming fast too. Keep 
 her so, sir, and you ll see him." 
 
 I took the helm while Joe went forward to the stand 
 across which he had lashed the harpoon handle. The 
 
 Doctor and Mr. with the ladies, leaned over the 
 
 rail, and looked out to see the sport. Joe caught sight 
 of him as he took the stand. 
 
 " Keep her away a little, Phil." 
 
 So it is." 
 
 " Steady so ; he s luffing now. There he turns ! Do 
 you see him ? Now he goes like lightning ! Keep your 
 eye on him, Phil; he ll cross under the stern." 
 
 "All hands to wear ship," I shouted, as his black fin 
 shot by the quarter ; and we came around, the boom fly 
 ing across with a jerk that shook the Phantom from 
 stem to taffrail. You can never approach a sword fish, 
 except in the rear ; and if he is still in the water, you 
 can run him down before he will start. He was now 
 almost to windward of us, but I could lie up nearly to 
 
108 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 him, and spring my luff just enough to bring Joe over 
 him. 
 
 He leaned forward, with his harpoon ready ; and as 
 she sunk on the long sea, he buried the iron in the fel 
 low s back, drawing back the handle, and throwing it on 
 deck to Bob, who stood ready to catch it. You could 
 see but a twinkle of the fish s tail as he went down, and 
 the line flew out. But, long before he had drawn half 
 the line out, he was on the bottom, and he had a heavy 
 pull at the cord before Dick threw the basket over. 
 This he did at length ; and we cruised about it for a 
 while, until it was motionless on the water, and we then 
 hauled it in again. A long and steady pull brought the 
 fish up alongside ; and, fortunately, Joe had struck him 
 so well that he did not need lancing. We rigged a block 
 and tackle, and hoisted him in on deck, where he afforded 
 amusement to the ladies for an hour, and afterward satis 
 fied the hunger of all who chose to cut from him as he 
 lay on the wharf at Newport ; for the next day we were 
 in that harbor. 
 
 The day wore on. We lunched at noon, and dozed 
 away the afternoon, till Bob and Henry announced din 
 ner, which we discussed with appetites unknown on shore. 
 There was a grand plate of soup that Bob extracted from 
 the last terrapin left in the larder. There were sea bass 
 that we had caught the day previous, as we drifted south 
 east of Montauk ; and a blue fish that Dick had hooked 
 as we ran by Block Island. Item, a slice of sword fish, 
 by no means unpalatable. Then there was a cold chick- 
 
THE CRUISE OF THE PHANTOM. 109 
 
 en, and a cold ham, and a cold shoulder of lamb, and a 
 half dozen of the finest woodcock yon ever saw, broiled to 
 perfection. A capital steward is Bob, unequalled on salt 
 water, and on land only equalled by Anthony. But why 
 waste time in describing these small affairs ? 
 
 Only because those small affairs are just what make up 
 our every-day life. We live so quietly, with so little 
 knowledge of the storms and calms that alternate in the 
 busy world ; so far removed from convulsions of moral or 
 political society, that the small incidents of other men s 
 existence are the marks of our passage through life. 
 Not that we are epicures, and care for our bodies more 
 than we should, for none more despise the effeminacies 
 of life than do we ; but in place of measuring time by 
 clocks and dials, we measure it by incidents, and the day 
 is divided into " before and after dinner," as the dinner 
 is divided into "before and after fish." 
 
 And after all, who dare call anything a trifle in this 
 world, or this age of the world ? When thrones are sup 
 ported by straws that are blown away by the breath of 
 the great people when they shout; when empires are 
 founded in a day, and kings dethroned in a night ; who 
 shall call those things trifles, which may have weight in 
 the scale of the destiny even of one human being ? 
 
 That dinner was an epoch. The doctor and Miss 
 
 had cause to remember it. For the doctor was full of 
 
 fun, and Miss uncommonly grave. I fancied the 
 
 roll of the vessel had something to do with it, but this 
 
110 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 she stoutly denied. At length, however, she went on 
 deck, and the doctor accompanied her. 
 
 The rest of the party remained below, talking for an 
 hour or more, and then adjourned into the clear air. It 
 was a night of nights. The sun was gone, and the mon 
 just rising in the east, seemed to have paved with gold 
 the track across the sea, by which her radiant messengers 
 might come to us. The stars were full of delight, and 
 the sky was like a memory of childhood, full of holy 
 places of joy and purity, and indescribable beauty. The 
 sea was alone restless, and now we fancied we could hear 
 the moaning of the surf on the shore ; but that could not 
 be, for it was a hundred miles away. 
 
 The Doctor was seated on the taffrail ; Miss lay 
 
 on the deck, wrapped in a couple of boating-coats that 
 entirely protected her from the dew. 
 
 And here, perhaps, I ought to pause to sketch for you 
 her character who was the pet of our whole party. But 
 you will take the whole sketch in a few sentences. She 
 was young, bright-eyed, full of life and joy, as beautiful 
 as a maiden need be, and as lovely as ever maiden was. 
 A protegee of Lucy, she was much like her in her win 
 ning ways, and when our party was made up the summer 
 previous, she had been its star. We could not go with 
 out her this time, and matronized by Mrs. she was 
 
 safe in the company of a trio of bachelors, none of whom 
 were ever suspected of special devotion to ladies. 
 
 But the Doctor was lost. It was not deniable, and he 
 confessed it frankly by every act. 
 
THE CRUISE OF THE PHANTOM. Ill 
 
 A smile stole over the face of Mrs. as she saw 
 
 them on deck, and I turned to look at the vision of love 
 liness encased in rough coats, with an oil cloth cap on her 
 head, more lovely by the odd costume. 
 
 " Phil," said the Doctor gravely to me, " I want to 
 speak a word with you." 
 
 The Doctor was not apt to be serious, and I was sur 
 prised ; but walked forward with him and listened. 
 
 " Miss is far from well. I don t know whether 
 
 you have observed it, but her eyes look badly, and her 
 face is decidedly bilious." 
 
 " Upon my word, Doctor, I thought she never looked 
 so well in my life ; and her face you don t call that yel 
 low, do you ?" and I glanced at the white, fairy-looking 
 creature, as she lay with her head supported on her 
 elbow looking toward us. 
 
 " All moonlight, Phil nothing else. I assure you 
 s.he ought to be on shore ; and if you ll take my advice 
 you ll bear up for Newport." 
 
 " If you think so really, my dear fellow, I will do it 
 by all means. It is only changing the course. I sup 
 pose no one on board cares where we are to-morrow, 
 though we haven t much Newport toggery among us. 
 But the ladies trunks are there by this time, and Miss 
 s father and mother are there, I believe." 
 
 " Take my advice, Philip. You ll not regret it." 
 
 " So be it, then," said I ; and walking aft I directed 
 Dick to change her course gradually, and as the wind 
 was now steady from the southward, he eased off the 
 
112 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 main-sheet little by little, and it was not till we had to 
 turn around to look at the moon that any one noticed 
 that we were standing northward. Then she jibed, and 
 the boom went over with a crash, and then she slipped 
 along through the water with the wind free ; and so the 
 evening passed into the night. One or two pleasant 
 songs were sung by Joe Willis in his clear, rich tones, 
 and he and Lucy sang a duet which, I confess it, brought 
 tears into my eyes ; for it was a song of long ago, one of 
 the dear old songs that she loved she that heard it that 
 night from her home among the stars, and blessed us as 
 we floated on and sang ! 
 
 Then came sleep sweet sleep on the mother-like 
 breast of the ocean and when the gray dawn came into 
 the east, Point Judith was well off on the larboard bow, 
 and we were running up the bay with a ten-knot breeze 
 blowing. 
 
 Miss , I am really happy to see you looking 
 
 so well this morning," said I, as the ladies came on 
 deck. 
 
 Me why there s surely no reason why I should 
 not look well, is there ?" 
 
 I glanced at the Doctor. He was silent. Miss 
 
 questioned him. He maintained an imperturbable calm, 
 which certainly puzzled me. 
 
 That evening explained it. I was sitting on the piazza 
 
 of the Ocean House, when Mr. approached, and 
 
 begged the favor of a little consultation with me, which 
 of course I cheerfully accorded. The Doctor had offered 
 
THE CRUISE OF THE PHANTOM. . 113 
 
 his fortune and himself, and referred the father to me to 
 advise him as to the extent of the one, and the character 
 of the other. 
 
 My first impulse was to play the Doctor a trick, for the 
 one he had played on me. But the matter was too seri 
 ous, and there was a lady s heart in the case too. So I 
 
 told Mr. frankly, that a nobler fellow did not 
 
 exist, and so ended our summer cruise. We came back 
 to the city by steamer from Providence, and found the 
 Phantom at her moorings. 
 
 The Doctor is married, and will visit us with his bride 
 some pleasant winter day, and will be welcome. 
 
VIII. 
 
 tank. 
 
NO portion of our country is richer in material for 
 legend and poetry than Long Island, and no part of 
 Long Island furnishes so much of this material as Mon- 
 tauk. 
 
 I have a strange reverence for that taper point that 
 cradles the countless warriors of Wyandancee, rocked 
 by the ocean in their long repose. Generation after 
 generation of the mightiest race that ever trod the 
 land we love, went withering to their rest like autumn 
 leaves, and the west winds swept them thitherward. No 
 Montauk sleeps in other ground. The song of maidens 
 over the mighty dead never woke echo for one of that 
 race west of Napeague. The song of the Peconic was 
 for women to sleep by. The thunder of the surge alone 
 could be fitting lullaby for the giant sons of Sewanhaka. 
 
 The Phantom lay to the southward of Fisher s Island. 
 It was still, but cloudy, and a gale was brewing. I was 
 on deck and kept the second watch. The gloom which 
 hung to the southward seemed impenetrable. I fixed my 
 eyes on the mists overhead, and as I watched them they 
 began to assume forms which my brain conjured into all 
 
118 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 manner of phantoms. But my eyes slowly fell to the 
 horizon, and as they wandered along the dark masses, I 
 saw a sudden rift letting through the gleam of a single 
 star. And directly under it I saw, what at first I sup 
 posed to be a deception of my eyes, a dimmer star, on 
 the very surface of the wave ; but as I looked again and 
 again I recognized the faint gleam of Montauk. 
 
 As I mused, the clouds again took shapes, and I fancied 
 the great battle scene between the Pequots and the Mon- 
 tauks, before me. There was the advance, the melee, the 
 whirling, driving, maddening confusion ; the continued 
 strife, until all was mingled in one dense, rolling mass, 
 and suddenly all broke away and fled ; and in a brief 
 space the clouds were gone, and the myriad stars looked 
 calmly down on the long graves of the forgotten. 
 
 That battle scene, hardly preserved in the traditions 
 of a tribe that is almost extinct, would furnish material 
 for a noble epic. The Pequots, flushed with triumphs on 
 the main, determined to conquer the great tribe whose 
 fame had crossed the water ; and launching an enormous 
 fleet, sailed swiftly to the island. But the Montauks were 
 vigilant, and the invaders found them entrenched in a 
 strong fortification, built on an eminence, now known as 
 Fort Hill. The remains of this fortification may still be 
 seen. The larger portion of the tribe were absent on 
 some expedition of importance, and the Pequots outnum 
 bered the islanders, some three to one. 
 
 They poured in on the devoted patriots, over palisade 
 and mound, over trench and wall, thousands on thousands, 
 
MONTAUK. 119 
 
 crushing the sand hills to a smooth plain, with their 
 heavy weight and sweeping advance. Before the first 
 canoe had touched the shore, their exultant yell rang 
 across the point and mingled with the surf roar of the 
 southern sea ; but when twilight fell grayly on the bloody 
 field, they sang death songs over four thousand stout 
 hearts that had ceased to throb. That night the gallant 
 defenders of the soil retreated to a neighboring swamp to 
 await succor, and the invaders, with the dawn, rushed into 
 an empty fortress. 
 
 Deeds of valor that would have honored the days of 
 Bayard, distinguished that day and the succeeding ones. 
 And though no Guillaume de Lorris, or Jean de Mung, 
 lived to blazon the warrior s name in poesy, yet there 
 were, even in a recent age, old men who loved to sit and 
 tell of the great deeds of the Eagle ; how a dozen dead 
 Pequots made a rampart around the royal Sayastock; 
 and how the maidens carried afterward annual offerings to 
 the grave of Ammanaganset, who lay buried with twenty 
 Pequot wolves around him, just as they fell by his own 
 stout arm. 
 
 The next day came the expected succor to the Mon- 
 tauks. They drove the invaders back to their boats, and 
 a worn and wounded few escaped to seaward. More than 
 five hundred canoes remained on shore, the spoil of the 
 conquerors. There is a legend of a communion between 
 the great Wyandancee and Manitou in the dark night 
 that succeeded the first day s conflict. It is said that the 
 chief left the swamp alone, and had an interview with the 
 
120 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 God of his fathers, near the Eastern point, and that the 
 Guardian of the Montauks promised to drive their foes 
 before them, and to make them always victorious. Cer 
 tain it is that we have no record that the tribe was ever 
 conquered on a fair field, and they have left a purer name 
 for faith, and truth, and nobility, and friendship, to later 
 times, than any tribe of America. 
 
 And equally certain is it, that when that scattered fleet 
 collected a hundred canoes of Pequots and bore away to 
 Northward, there came from the West a storm of such 
 terrific violence as had not shaken the island foundations 
 in centuries 5 and four days afterward, one solitary canoe, 
 without paddles, drifted on the shore of Neman s Land 
 (now so-called) ; and five gaunt, famine-stricken Pequots 
 crawled up the bank, and lay waiting death in the serene 
 sunshine. By chance, a fishing party found them there 
 when all but two were dead, and these they carried home. 
 The wail that went up to the sky and floated across the 
 sea when their dismal tidings spread over the main land, 
 it is said, reached the ears of the Montauks as they gath 
 ered in the triumphal feast on the farthermost point, and 
 the brave warriors bowed their heads a moment, before 
 they drank the holy water of the bubbling spring, and did 
 honor to the brave dead. Then broke out a chant of 
 victory, so clear, so joyous, that the wild duck heard it on 
 her nest in Peconic s deepest swamp, and the sea-gull 
 wheeled screaming over the feast of the valiant. They 
 thanked God heartily and humbly, those noble forest and 
 island worshippers. 
 
MONTAUK. 121 
 
 For months, on the shore of the great sea, the Pe- 
 quot warriors lay unburied. Their stalwart arms grew 
 rigid in the sun, their brawny hands grasping their hatch 
 ets still, as if not half content with their rest. No women 
 sang over them the plaintive songs that lulled the Red 
 man to his sleep. The waves and the winds alone moaned 
 around them, but they could not deepen the slumber of 
 the brave. 
 
 For many a year the Montaukett women told their 
 children of this day s work, and the girls, sitting on the 
 rocks, sang songs of the brave, and strewed flowers where 
 their fathers were sleeping. The Indian girls have gone 
 like the moonbeams ! Other voices ring now over the 
 island, and pale-face maidens, with their lovers, wander 
 on the shore, and make vows to be witnessed by the 
 changeless sea. 
 
 Willis and myself went on shore in the course of the 
 day after the night I have spoken of. 
 
 We found a large company of ladies and gentlemen 
 there, who had come down in carriages. Avoiding them 
 we strolled along the water-side, and, seated on a rock, 
 talked over the history which hallowed that spot. Little 
 thought gave the gay group near us to the bones of the 
 mighty dead that mouldered under their feet. How 
 lightly rang the song, the laugh, the clear glad carol of 
 youth, in the serene sunshine ; and yet how solemnly, in 
 what fearful calmness, slept a thousand men under the 
 grass ! The same air once rang to the wail of Indian 
 maidens, who sat by the bodies of the valiant dead. 
 6 
 
122 THK OLD HOUSK BY THE RIVER. 
 
 The same sunshine fell on horrible wounds, and teeth 
 clenched in the last long gasp, and cold foreheads moist 
 with the death-dew. The same holy twilight that mantled 
 us, after awhile, as with an atmosphere of love, shrouded 
 the sleep of the Montauk, as his grasp relaxed on the 
 throat of his foe, his brown cheek was laid quietly on the 
 green sward, and he sank to rest under the stars. 
 
 They have slept well thus far, through centuries. 
 Thrones have crumbled. The thunder of the invader s 
 cannon shook these rocks from their foundations. The 
 earthquakes of revolution have overturned the nations. 
 The meteor-like lives of men have dazzled the world 
 with their radiance, while they reddened it with blood. 
 More than ten generations have been born and returned 
 to the womb of earth which bare them, and the sleep of 
 the Montauk is as deep as when the dark-eyed girls sang 
 sadly over him, and his dust has mingled with the dust 
 of his foe. 
 
 " Listen," said Joe, as he sat on the rock. " Listen to 
 the ripples. Heard you them ever more musically ? Is 
 it strange that here the dead sleep well ?" 
 
 Four hundred years ago ! What right had we to be 
 sitting within sound of those glad voices and talking of 
 the forgotten centuries ? What right had we to summon 
 ghosts of the grim warriors to frighten the maidens of 
 quiet later years ? But they were .there. Their giant 
 forms stalked through the forest, and we gazed on their 
 plumes and saw their dark eyes flash in the gloom of the 
 coming evening. Four hundred years ago, fair child of 
 
MONTAUK. 123 
 
 the white man, on the rock on which you spread your 
 handkerchief and gaily arranged your luxurious meal of 
 cake, and fruit, and coffee, an Indian girl sat, holding in 
 her arms the head of her dying lover. He is buried un 
 der the turf you sit upon ! 
 
 There is a story of that battle which deserves a sepa 
 rate preservation. I know not the authority for its 
 truth, but it is at least beautiful. It sanctifies a place, 
 in my view, when I know that therein a human heart 
 beats with the holiest pulsations of earthly emotion. 
 The Red man s presence life and death invest with a 
 mournful interest the ground he trod. But the Red 
 man s love, that last and dearest relic of Eden left to 
 every child of Adam, that priceless boon of Grod which 
 makes earth sometimes all an Eden, and woman very like 
 to Eve before her fall ; the Red man s love hallows the 
 moon-lit bay where his canoe once floated, and the 
 shadowy forests that witnessed his happy wooing. 
 
 As that fierce fight grew less and less terrible for lack 
 of men, one of the Northern chiefs, a young, bold warrior, 
 might have been seen heading the few survivors. His 
 eagle plume flashed in the thickest of the fight, and when 
 ever his stout arm was raised it fell to crush a foe. 
 
 At length the moment for flight came, and at that in 
 stant he caught sight of a Montauk girl, standing on a 
 rock, on the other side of a narrow inlet, watching with 
 intense interest the progress of the battle. He knew 
 her, for he had loved her, and by the uplifted hand, saw 
 that he was known by her. In that moment of despair, 
 
124 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 who shall attempt to tell the thoughts of the brave 
 lover ? He thought of life, and a tall foe went down be 
 fore his axe like a forest tree. He thought of love, and 
 swung his heavy arm, and one Montauk more was in the 
 blessed hunting grounds. He thought of the dove-eyed 
 girl, and saw her eagerly gazing toward him, and his 
 strong arm flew swiftly around him, and the ground was 
 covered with cloven skulls, and limbs, and lifeless bodies. 
 Then the instant came for flight, and with a yell of fury, 
 he struck down the stoutest of the enemy and sprang into 
 the water. 
 
 She saw it all. The last blow of her lover s giant arm 
 had made the maiden fatherless ! But she waited him 
 on the rock. He nears it. His arm is raised to grasp 
 it. An arrow pierces his wrist. He drops it, and turns 
 convulsively around, clenching his wounded hand ; at 
 that instant a shaft passes through his body, and without 
 a moan he goes down in the blue water. The waves had 
 not closed above him, when they opened to receive her, 
 and she was seen no more. They found them not far 
 separate. His hand was grasped in hers, and her small 
 round arm was wound around him. They buried them 
 together ; for the Indian never failed to respect the sanc 
 tity of love. 
 
IX. 
 
night was cold. The library shutters rattled so 
 JL as to make us nervous, till we managed to fasten 
 them, and then we could listen to the wind with less dis 
 turbance. And a full-toned, sonorous voice he had, too. 
 There s an old tree above the wing which contains the 
 library, to which the wind always seems to be talking, or 
 the tree is replying, one or the other, for they keep up a 
 noise between them, and we that is, Willis and I 
 have so long listened, that we have grown familiar with 
 the language they use. We had listened to it for a half 
 hour or more in perfect silence, when a new voice joined 
 the conversation, and we both started and leaned for 
 ward. It was indescribably sweet, but mournful, as if 
 some delicate plant (I think it was the woodbine on the 
 corner of the house) had suddenly wailed out a complaint 
 to the wind of his rudeness. It rose and fell, and rose 
 again, now in a long note of thrilling sadness, and now in 
 disconnected sobs, and at length it died quite away. We 
 remained motionless and silent for a moment, and then 
 Joe spoke : 
 
128 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE KIVER. 
 
 " Do you remember the last time we heard a sound 
 like that?" 
 
 " Yes, I very well remember it. It was in the cabin. 
 You were sleeping, and it woke you. I was writing by 
 the fire-light, and I turned over and listened to it ; and 
 when it ceased, I was in dream-land. How I slept that 
 night ! and yet there was a tempest abroad. Joe, I wish 
 you would ring the bell that fire is getting low, and 
 Anthony has forgotten us." 
 
 " There is something in that peculiar wail which I do 
 not like. I never heard it yet without some sad affair 
 following it. I m growing superstitious of late. Twice 
 in my life I have heard it as now. The time you speak 
 of, in the cabin, it lacked the bird-like trill which con 
 cluded it. I have noticed the difference. There is 
 something very unearthly in that peculiar sound." 
 
 " I heard you say something of the same sort once be 
 fore. Please explain. I did not know that your life 
 had been marked by any visitations of the supernatural." 
 
 " It has not been, except in dreams ; and in those how 
 often ! I tell you, Phil, God never gave to human intel 
 lect a gift so blessed as the power of dreaming. It is a 
 magic surpassing that of the woman of Endor ; for it not 
 only calls the dead to life again, and clothes them with 
 familiar looks and smiles, but it has power over that 
 most difficult object of resurrection, a dead affection ! 
 and it will bring it from the dead, without the grave 
 clothes, in all its original beauty and ravishing glory. 
 Sometimes it enters the future ; not often though (and 
 
THE WAIL OF THE WIND. 129 
 
 Willis spoke musingly now, as if I were not present). I 
 dare not let my dreams go there too often, lest the magic 
 with the fabled power of the olden time destroy the ma 
 gician ! I dare not weave a spell around the things to 
 come, lest the servants of my magic destroy or madden 
 me!" 
 
 " A story Joe I wait," said I, raising my feet to the 
 soft cushion of the footstool in front of the grate. 
 
 " Well, listen then. I ll tell you one with which you 
 are not familiar, though you know the chief incidents : 
 
 " It is one of those memories that often haunt me as 
 I sit here before the grate when you are gone, conjuring 
 up the past, to keep me company. Ah, Phil, I love to 
 dream ! 
 
 " Did you know Carrie Graydon ? She grew up while 
 you were away. She had an eye like a star, or a blue 
 break in a cloudy sky. Not that her face was cloudy. 
 That it never was, but always sunny. Never was there 
 a fairer or a brighter save one." 
 
 Joe paused for an instant, as he uttered the last sen 
 tence ; and I saw a shade of suppressed grief pass, like a 
 cloud in a swift wind, across his face. I knew that he 
 then stood in the presence of a holy vision. And as the 
 past went before him with stately tread and solemn mien, 
 as the loved past always goes before us in these lonesome 
 later years, I turned away my face, and left him to the 
 communion of that dream. He remembered the story he 
 was to tell no longer ! He remembered only that vision 
 of loveliness, unforgotten and unchanged in the long long 
 
130 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 years since he buried it out of his sight. He heard the 
 wind no longer ! He heard only that low voice, musical 
 now with laughter, and now with songs. 
 
 " Carrie was our village pet ; and you know what that 
 means. We all loved her, with right willing love. She 
 was one of those that we love to love. None so full of 
 life, and none so full of gentleness. Children left their 
 play when she came near ; and I do verily believe there 
 was not an old man in the town that did not dream of 
 her when he did dream of angels in heaven. 
 
 " Well, to my story. I drag on slowly in these recol 
 lections ; but, in truth, they flood on me so that I cannot 
 get along any faster ; for the faster I speak, the faster 
 they flock. The instant I think of Carrie, I think of her 
 father, the stout old man, and her brother, and then of 
 the old minister, Mr. Winter : he was always at Colonel 
 Graydon s in the twilight. You might see them any 
 summer evening in the porch, sitting side by side, talk 
 ing as familiarly as brothers, of the future and of the 
 past as well. They had lived near each other a long 
 life-time. There, too, was Mrs. Simpson, who used to 
 stop in the street as she passed the Colonel s, and speak 
 a word, if but to hear the two old men s voices ; They 
 sounded so heavenly-like, she used to say. And there 
 was Fanny Wilson, Carrie s best friend, almost as fair, 
 and quite as gentle ; and then, Harry Wilson too, dearest 
 of all the world to Carrie Graydon. 
 
 " And he was worthy the love even of Carrie. A no 
 ble fellow he was, with a stout arm and a stout heart, 
 
THE WAIL OF THE WIND. 131 
 
 and ready to die for her at any time, as he did at last. 
 His love was manly, and ennobled himself as well as its 
 object. It was no whining, whimpering love, that thrives 
 in moony nights, and talks of stars, or shivers over grates 
 in the winter, and dreams of summer coming again. It 
 was no ball-room love, that lived in a touch of the gloved 
 finger in a cotillon, or the public embrace of the waltz. 
 No such love as the men and women of this day talk and 
 write of. By all the saints, I would not buy that girl s 
 love that you bowed to in the street the last day we were 
 in the city, if you prized it at a kiss. I press lips now-a- 
 days, as I used to press my father s old aunt s lips, who 
 rewarded me with a fortune for my respectful salutations. 
 The old lady thought there was the air of a gentleman in 
 my kisses ! Faugh ! I used to kiss with heart as well 
 as lips ; but these days are cold, and my heart and lips, 
 too ! Phil, touch that fire. I m shivering. 
 
 " What a brilliant love that was. I remember a hun 
 dred little incidents now that proved its forbearance and 
 its beauty. They never exchanged an unkind word. 
 From childhood till the end, they placed unbounded con 
 fidence each in the other. I believe if Henry had told 
 Carrie it was snowing in a hot August day, she would 
 have put on a cloak to go out, and shivered at that, so 
 firm was her faith in all he said. He never had deceived 
 her, in thought or deed. The hypocritical days were 
 not yet come, though men have been hypocrites from the 
 days of Adam. But hypocrisy is the characteristic of 
 this day, and the whole world is a sort of masked ball. 
 
132 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Grod only knows what skeletons and death s heads are 
 under the cloaks and masks. 
 
 " I was talking about Carrie G-raydon, wasn t I ? I 
 wander parenthetically. Don t be surprised if I discuss 
 the quadrature of the circle before I finish my story, for 
 I m in a roving humor. 
 
 " The Colonel loved Henry too as his own son, know 
 ing that he expected to be so when Carrie should be 
 eighteen. It lacked a year of that yet. 
 
 " It was the afternoon of the seventeenth of August 
 I remember the date because of my frequent recurrence 
 to it and its history Henry and Carrie were away on 
 the hills on horseback. They left at two o clock, and 
 were to return by seven. Carrie had my horse, Zephyr; 
 I often lent him to her. 
 
 " She kissed her hand to me gaily as she flew away, and 
 I returned the salute, little thinking of the close of that 
 day s pleasure. 
 
 " I dined with Colonel Graydon, and Mr. Winter was 
 also at his house till evening, when an approaching storm 
 warned us homeward. The suddenness with which it 
 came up prevented my going farther than Dr. Wilson s, 
 and there I turned in to wait for the return of my horse 
 as well as the end of the storm. It was a fearful tem 
 pest at first, and then followed a flood of rain. The 
 small mountain-streams were swollen to torrents, and the 
 creek became a broad river, shaking the village with its 
 roar and heavy fall over the upper ledge of rocks. The 
 mountains trembled at the noise of the thunder, and the 
 
THE WAIL OF THE WIND. 133 
 
 voice of God shook the earth itself. A tall tree before 
 Dr. Wilson s office swayed to and fro in the wind with a 
 groaning sound, and as the gale increased it bent over, 
 and I stood watching it from the window. Suddenly 
 there came a crash of thunder that shook the foundations 
 of the world, and seemed to rock the old earth to and 
 fro, and the tall tree went down, but silently ; for the 
 noise of its fall was overpowered by that deep sound that 
 went rolling away among the mountains, now lowe-r, now 
 louder, echoing from some cliff, or moaning through a 
 far-off glen, till it died away, and a stillness ensued which 
 was more sublime than the voice that preceded it. Not 
 a sound was in the air; not a whisper of the wind, not 
 a rustling branch, not a drop of rain, to break the solemn 
 silence. Then, like the wail of a mother over her dead 
 boy, that wail of a broken heart, than which no voice of 
 human utterance is more sad, stole out on the hushed 
 air the same sweet sound of the wind you heard just now. 
 Fitfully at first, as if the weeper dared not weep aloud ; 
 then more distinct, until it swelled into a thrilling wail 
 that made one half-believe an angel was mourning for 
 her love ; and then it died away faintly, as if the heart 
 was crushed, and life had departed with the last notes of 
 that unutterably melodious voice. 
 
 " I was still standing at the window when a gleam of 
 sunshine broke through the clouds, and a rainbow rested 
 across the glen. Within a few moments the sun went 
 down, and just then Colonel Graydon came in. He was 
 anxious lest Henry and Carrie had been caught among the 
 
134 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 hills, and the horses would be restive at the lightning. 
 We sat talking till after dark, and then were aroused by 
 a call for aid, to secure the old bridge below the fall, 
 which the swollen stream had nearly carried away. You 
 remember it was about a half mile from the village, and 
 we hastened there with a dozen hands. The bridge was 
 in a bad condition ; so bad that no one dared cross it. 
 It was swaying back and forth, and every instant seemed 
 as if the addition of an ounce weight would send it down. 
 The stream was in wild commotion, leaping along in the 
 moonlight, silvery and laughing, but with terrible fury. 
 The moon shone gloriously on the trees and water. Phil, 
 I hate the moon. She is cold terribly cold and she 
 smiles so mockingly on agony, that I don t trust her 
 smiles on joy. The stars are different. They suit them 
 selves to our moods are sad as we are sad, and gleam 
 joyfully when we rejoice. But the moon is the same 
 calm, cool, smiling moon in woe or gladness. 
 
 " I shrank from the stream with a shudder, beautiful as 
 it was, and did not offer any aid to the men who were 
 making that end fast as well as they could. While they 
 were at work I heard the sound of horses hoofs coming 
 down the opposite hill, and was astonished to see Henry 
 and Carrie emerge from the wood at a rapid trot. They 
 should have come by the other road, but had taken a 
 long route around. We shouted to them, but they did 
 not hear us. They were laughing gaily, as we could see 
 in the moonlight, and Carrie s hand was raised playfully 
 to strike Henry with her whip as they came on the 
 
THE WAIL OF THE WIND. 135 
 
 bridge. They had but crossed half way when Henry 
 saw his danger. Evidently it was a sudden discovery, 
 for he seized Carrie s rein, drew his own close, and 
 shouted, so that we heard him distinctly, " On, on for 
 your life, Carrie," and dashed forward. Side by side 
 the two horses made tremendous leaps, and three more 
 would have saved them. Colonel Gray don rushed for 
 ward, but a strong arm held him back, for Mr. Winter 
 was not weak though old and silver-haired. 
 
 " Zephyr was a tempest, but it was too late. The noble 
 animals strained every limb, themselves doubtless aware 
 of the fearful danger; the bridge swayed downward, back 
 again downward it cracked, it crashed, it thundered 
 over the roar of the stream they were gone ! I saw the 
 white gleam of a hand on the surface of the torrent, 
 among planks and timber, and then the mass rolled 
 downward and separated, and I next saw Zephyr and his 
 rider emerge, the former apparently unharmed, but the 
 latter evidently badly hurt. Harry had deserted his 
 horse, and when he came up, was close to Carrie, so that 
 as she fell from the horse he caught her and threw one 
 arm around her, while he swam with the other. Some 
 loads are easy to bear, and some are lighter than no load 
 at all. I believe that under ordinary circumstances 
 Henry would have butFeted any current better with Car 
 rie in one arm, but he had received a bad blow from a 
 falling timber, and labored much. I could see that his 
 strength failed him, and I struck out more earnestly. I 
 forgot to tell you that I leaped in as the bridge fell. I 
 
136 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 don t know how nor where. I was a strong swimmer, as 
 I am still, and I found myself in the water waiting for 
 them to come up. I neared them rapidly, but not so 
 rapidly as to save them. I never before nor since swam 
 with such a prize before me, but it was vain. I saw them 
 go down, I saw Harry struggle, bravely, boldly ; I saw 
 her in that moment of agony try to relieve him of her 
 load, and I saw him draw her more closely to him, and the 
 water alone was before me and the mocking moonbeams ! 
 I saw a white gleam, as of a hand. It was but a foam- 
 cap. I dove and searched for them, swimming downward 
 with the current. I cannot give you any idea of the in 
 tensity of thought which I then felt. It was the respon 
 sibility of those two lives which oppressed my brain to 
 madness. I knew that I alone was between them and 
 eternity, and I believe if I had not found the object of 
 my search, I should have gone down myself. Their arms 
 were locked around each other. I succeeded in reaching 
 a jutting point of land where Colonel Gray don and the 
 rest seized me and my precious burden, and I remember 
 nothing farther until returning sensation showed me a 
 group standing sadly around the two forms which I had 
 rescued. God had not given me to rescue both of them. 
 The spirit of Harry Wilson had gone from the torrent to 
 the rest of the blessed. I staggered toward the side of 
 Carrie Graydon. She was beautiful beyond all words, 
 and as J fell at her side, a tremulous motion of her eye 
 lid indicated returning sensation. The usual active re 
 medies were used and she revived, but only to look at 
 
THE WAIL OF THE WIND. 137 
 
 Henry and throw herself on his body and relapse into un 
 consciousness. 
 
 " And the moon smiled on that scene too, and the river 
 laughed wildly at its work, and I laid my hand on the 
 breast of Henry Wilson and knew that his sleep was 
 very deep, even death. And we forbore for awhile to re 
 move the clasp of Carrie s arms, or attempt to restore 
 her, so overpowered were we all by the scene ; and one by 
 one in the presence of the noble dead, and at that holiest 
 altar whereat man may kneel on earth and worship God 
 in heaven, they knelt, Colonel Graydon by my side, and 
 Dr. Wilson on the other side of his noble son, and Mr. 
 Winter, the good old minister, bowed his head and mur 
 mured with a choking sob : It is the Lord, and wept 
 aloud. Phil ! I never wept more bitter tears, never, 
 never." 
 
 " What became of Miss Graydon ?" 
 
 " She never forgave me for saving her. I don t mean 
 by that that she was not grateful as the people of the 
 world ordinarily are, but I have heard that she thought 
 her life not worth the saving. The colonel left this coun 
 try for the west shortly after that, and his daughter I am 
 told, is the almoner of a new settlement among the prai 
 ries. She has never married." 
 
X. 
 
A FEW rods from the mansion, on the bank of the 
 river, where we used to play in boyish days, is a 
 singular rock, one side of which is hollowed out, as if by 
 the hand of man. The cavity is so shaped as to form a 
 sofa-like seat for two persons, with a back higher than 
 their heads, and so much elevated as to be above the 
 reach of the tide, although sometimes the water flows up 
 to the base of the rock. 
 
 I asked Willis if he had ever formed an idea of the 
 origin of this peculiar seat, or if indeed he supposed it to 
 be the work of man. He replied that he had no doubt 
 it was the work of one of the tribes of Indians who for 
 merly inhabited the country, if their life could dignify 
 them by the title of inhabitants. He supposed he had 
 found other evidence that they had a royal residence near 
 this place ; and putting together what material he had 
 been able to collect, he had formed a history of the decay 
 of the tribe which was not a little interesting. 
 
 I smiled as he made this remark, and he, observing 
 me, remarked that he might as well acknowledge the 
 
142 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 story at once to be fictitious from beginning to end, as 
 I was so accustomed to the manufacture of similar 
 ones, that he had no hesitation in confessing it to me. 
 I thereupon indignantly repudiated the idea that I had 
 ever manufactured history, whereupon he told me I 
 need not be so anxious to disown it ; for, had I done so, 
 it would have placed me in excellent company, inasmuch 
 as it has of late become the fashion to manufacture his 
 torical facts, wherever truth is not sufficiently interesting. 
 As I was about to add a rejoinder with some acerbity, 
 Willis interrupted me by passing the cigars ; and then 
 sinking back into his easy-chair, and lazily watching the 
 smoke as it curled in the still air, spoke in a half musing 
 way; while I, stretched at full length on the couch, 
 listened as I would to a dream, for both of us were in a 
 dreamy humor. 
 
 " I will not say that they are gone, for that is too old 
 a saying ; nor will I say they have passed away, for they 
 have not. They either never were other than ghostly 
 visitors flitting about in these solemn forests, or else they 
 were a lordly race, and died man by man, heart by 
 heart, on the ground they loved, before the cabin doors 
 they guarded, and are now part and parcel of the dust 
 under our very feet ! I sometimes half-believe that they 
 were ghosts, for if they were not, where are their bodies ? 
 Their burial grounds are gone too, and no, their 
 buried sleep all over the broad land. Last summer, An 
 thony brought me a skull and the bone of a stalwart arm. 
 The men had found it in the field over on the hill, and I 
 
INDIAN RELICS. 148 
 
 went there, and found arrow-heads and a stone-hatchet, 
 and another skull. They are both in the lower drawer 
 of that case yonder. I lay here on the sofa all the even 
 ing, with one of those skulls in my hand, and sometimes 
 I exchanged it for that other bone. What stout blows it 
 had struck under the guidance of the brain within that 
 now senseless box ! I shuddered as I lay here, and 
 thought of the bloody savages, and I turned over un 
 easily, but grew calmer as I fancied that same arm 
 wound around the neck of some dark-eyed Indian girl. 
 I like better to think of nations as made up of individual 
 affections, than to think of their wars ; and yet they live 
 longer by the history of their wars, than by any other 
 stories. The love of Dido would never have immortal 
 ized Carthage, had not Virgil chronicled it in poetry. 
 While the African city, had there been no such pens as 
 those of the Roman historians, would have lived forever 
 in legends of Hannibal and Scipio. 
 
 "But never was nation so effectually blotted out of ex 
 istence, as the brave race that owned this soil. There 
 was old Chaldea, that lives yet in the memory of starry 
 vigils. There was Egypt, whose name is blazoned on glo 
 rious ruins, around which, like moonlight, linger the rays 
 of a sublime mythology. There was Greece, whose crum 
 bling Parthenon whitens her Acropolis, and whose pure 
 philosophy gleamed through the blackness of the dark 
 ages. There was old Judea, whose children are scattered 
 to the winds, leaving the memory of a temple, which the 
 God of the Temple suffered to be swept away from the 
 
144 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 earth, because they had defiled it, and a creed which they 
 rejected to become the light of the nations. But here was 
 a race, no less valiant in war, or loving in peace ; a family 
 of giant .men and beautiful women, of pure hearts and 
 strong hands, who have left no foot-print on the earth, 
 no names on the rocks, no ruins, no creed, no memory, 
 unless, as I like to fancy, their creed be written on the 
 face of nature in flowers and fruits, and murmured to us 
 by the soft flow of the river, the songs of birds, and the 
 sighing wind. 
 
 " I held that skull in my hand, and then the other ; and 
 at length I came to the conclusion that the one was a 
 man s, and the other a woman s, and then I believe I fell 
 asleep, and dreamed out a story of them ; for otherwise I 
 cannot account for the presence of it in my brain after 
 ward, as an indistinct memory of something I had heard. 
 
 " They lived just here. Precisely where the old house 
 stands, their village stood ; and on the mound, out yon 
 der by the grove of chesnuts, stood their fort. 
 
 " This was the royal residence ; and the chief was an 
 old man, whose years had been years of battling. Swift 
 runners could not, in maay days, pass over the lands he 
 had conquered, or through the tribes he had subjugated. 
 
 " He was dying. The oak over his cabin was a sapling 
 when he was made chief; and it was now a stout far- 
 spreading tree. But the oak would live a hundred years 
 longer, and be young then, while the chieftain would be 
 d us t forgotten dust. He knew it; he felt it. He 
 gathered the warriors of his tribe around him, and proph- 
 
 
INDIAN RELICS. 145 
 
 esied to them the coming destruction : l Ye shall fly as 
 the snow-flakes before the wind; and, like them, ye shall 
 melt away. I will await your coming in the council of 
 the brave dead. But choose a chief to fill my place, be 
 fore I go hence. 
 
 " So they chose a young man, grandson to the dying 
 warrior, who had already led them to victory in more 
 than one hard-fought battle. And the old man laid his 
 hands on him, and bade him be brave in the days that he 
 foresaw were coming with the anger of the Great Spirit , 
 and so died. They buried him with the solemn rites due 
 to his kingly race ; and the years passed on, unmarked 
 save in the growing trunks of the old oak trees. 
 
 " Throw away that cigar, Phil, and light a pipe. I 
 always smoke one when I talk of the Indians." 
 
 So saying, Joe took from a drawer a highly-ornament 
 ed and elaborately-carved pipe of stone, and filling it 
 with a broken cigar, puffed leisurely, and continued : 
 
 " The new chief was a brave fellow. I like to speak 
 of them as we speak of men now-a-days. And, of course, 
 he loved a woman. All brave men love ; for he only is 
 brave who has affections to fight for, whether in the daily 
 battle of life, or in physical contests. She was the fair 
 est maiden in all the north country, and well might a 
 brave man love her. Her footstep was firm, but light. 
 Her hand was small ; and her arm delicately rounded, 
 but strong. She was not large, for no Indian woman 
 was ever large ; but she looked at once loveable and dan 
 gerous. She could use her lips as some women I know 
 
 7 
 
146 "S/ THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 of now-a-days, to kiss most deliciously, and to rate most 
 soundly. Her hand would clasp a man s right gently 
 and thrillingly ; but if he looked in her eye, he saw a 
 devil there, and knew that that hand could use a knife as 
 well. Women are " 
 
 " Women, Joe !" said I, interrupting him. 
 
 " Exactly. She was a noble creature ; and you would 
 have loved her had you met her;<with her gorgeous robe 
 of the plumage of birds hanging over "oti e shoulder, while 
 the other sunned itself. And so the Chief loved her ; 
 and they would have had a lodge together, had not news 
 come suddenly, that the Eastern nations were overrun 
 ning the country ; and they made ready for battle. It 
 was but little labor for the warriors of that day to pre 
 pare for the field. An additional coat of paint on their 
 hideous faces, a few hard rubs of their stone hatchets and 
 knives on a convenient rock, a little tightening of the 
 belt, and perhaps a few new arrows, and all was ready. 
 
 " Night came down quietly, as it comes down now; and 
 on the shore, by the old rock seat, were standing the 
 Chief and the Wild Kose of the wood. She did not be 
 seech him, as our mawkish maidens beseech their lovers, 
 to remain at home, and let their brethren fight and die ! 
 She did not twine her arms around his neck, and weep on 
 his bosom, and ask him if the hatchet of the Pequot were 
 dangerous, and if the Wolves of the East were fierce in 
 battle. She did not even beg him to stand behind the 
 trees, and not expose himself to the arrows of the foe, as 
 mothers, and sisters, and maidens in these improved 
 
INDIAN RELICS. 147 
 
 days, beg of their warrior boys. Not she. With loving 
 arm around him, she led him to the rock, and, seated by 
 him there, watched the stars, and begged to go with him 
 to the field, until she prevailed and he consented. 
 
 " They went, and they returned. They went swiftly 
 with a thousand men ; they returned step by step, inch 
 by inch, beaten back by an overwhelming force, leaving 
 their warriors bodies strewed along the way. Now, the 
 Rose proved that she had a thorn. Hovering around the 
 Chief, she thrice warned him of danger, and saved him ; 
 and she was by his side unharmed, when they at length 
 entered the fort with but fifty of the tribe to defend that 
 last entrenchment. The enemy had swept over the coun 
 try ; had laid waste the land ; had burned the villages ; 
 had carried away the women and children ; had murdered 
 the men at the stake by every torture which savage 
 cruelty could invent; until at length the invaders by 
 thousands, having completed their work, surrounded this 
 gallant fifty, and devoted all their energies to their de 
 struction. Devising, at length, the atrocious plan of 
 starving them from their retreat, or condemning them to 
 a lingering death with hunger, they sat down around 
 the palisade. Within, all was calm despair. No man 
 thought of life ; but all remembered the words of the old 
 chieftain, and solemnly prepared themselves to join him 
 in council up yonder. 
 
 At length the warrior girl proposed a desperate sally 
 and a noble death. Listening to her, as the Indians al 
 ways listened to the maidens of their royal line, as one 
 
148 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 inspired of God, the hardy band prepared to make a final 
 effort to vindicate their national honor, and to die on the 
 soil they loved. 
 
 One by one kneeling at the holy girl s feet, they vowed 
 to die that day ; and then with a yell, that I sometimes 
 hear of a windy night in the woods yet, they rushed out 
 on the surprised foe. They hewed down unresisting men 
 by hundreds, and fought their way to the very outer verge 
 of the line of the enemy, when the opposing force thick 
 ened before them, and they stood still and fought and 
 fell. The chief was in advance of all, save that match 
 less girl, who struck blow for blow with him, and before 
 whose demoniacal eye the enemy shrank as from a mes 
 senger of heaven. All but ten of their companions were 
 slain, and they fought still, untouched. Arrows flew 
 harmlessly by them. Hatchets were warded off by un 
 seen hands. The dead lay piled about them, and still no 
 blood issued from either of those brave bodies. 
 
 Five of their comrades fell ; another and another and 
 they fought alone. For a moment the opposing force 
 shrank back, and they stood idly regarding the eyes of 
 their enemies. Turning to him, the Rose smiled and the 
 woman triumphed for a moment over the fiend. She 
 gently laid her bloody arm around his neck and lifted 
 herself to his breast and clung to him but only for an 
 instant and murmuring of the blessed land, and the 
 great council fires, and the love of maidens there, fell on 
 the ground. He fell with her. A hundred arrows had 
 pierced them both, and the old chief welcomed his brave 
 
INDIAN RELICS. 149 
 
 grandson and his noble wife at the door of his lodge in 
 the distant hunting grounds." 
 
 "A very good story, Willis not bad, for you to have 
 manufactured out of one truth. I believe the Pequot in 
 vasion is the only fact in it, is it not ?" 
 
 " I can t vouch for that," replied Willis. 
 
XL 
 
are several grand trout streams, about twenty 
 -*- miles from us, among the hills, and fortunately they 
 are so inaccessible and so little known, that hardly any 
 one disturbs our monopoly of the angling. We drive out 
 to a friend s place, which is near the principal stream, 
 and taking him with us, we three form a pleasant party 
 for a day s sport. 
 
 Jacob Small is an enormous man. Two hundred and 
 fifty is a moderate estimate of his weight. He lives in a 
 farm-house on the edge of the hill country, where the 
 stream breaks out into the plains and sweeps away in 
 lordly style to the bosom of the great river. 
 
 His farm-house is large, and filled with the luxuries of 
 the country, which his acres have furnished ; and, with a 
 moderate income to sustain his experimental farming, he 
 manages to be a country gentleman in every acceptation 
 of the term. A good, warm heart, has Jacob Small, and 
 a liberal hand to the poor around him. The mountaineers 
 in his neighborhood would starve in the winter snows, if 
 his farm were not at the foot of the pass, and his door 
 always open to the needy. 
 
154 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 It was a cool, soft morning, in the middle of spring. 
 The stars were bright and clear, so that you expected to 
 feel frost in the atmosphere, and were surprised when you 
 stepped out into the air to find it as soft and balmy as a 
 June mid-day. Such an air promised a good day, and, 
 for the water that we proposed to whip, it was preferable 
 to have clear sunshine rather than clouds or rain. 
 
 The horses stood at the door, before the box wagon, 
 which has no springs, and rattles musically over moun 
 tain roads. A bag of oats and a bundle of hay lay in the 
 wagon, and our rods, which had been carefully examined 
 the evening previous, were standing just within the great 
 hall door, so that we took them as we came out. 
 
 " Philip," said Joseph, " take the reins if you please, 
 while I light a cigar. I must have slept too soundly ; 
 my eyes are sadly unwilling to open." 
 
 " Look up at that sky, Joe, and your eyes will open." 
 
 In the east, where the dawn was to come, a star, 
 bright as an angel s eye, was gleaming from the midst 
 of rays of light streaming up over the hills. The scene 
 was enough to rouse one who had no love for the beauti 
 ful ; and, to as keen an observer as my friend, and as fine 
 appreciation as he possesses, such a morning, and such a 
 coming day, were invigorating beyond all physical appli 
 ances. 
 
 So I took the reins, and the grays sprang off from the 
 hard gravel before the door, and went down the avenue 
 as if they were trout lovers themselves, and knew that 
 Jacob Small was expecting them. 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 155 
 
 Before six o clock, we drove up to Jacob s great gate, 
 which was opened for us by a passing laborer, and, rat 
 tling around the corner of the house, we woke him with 
 a shout under his window. 
 
 "Why Jacob Jacob Small, man where are you 
 this fine morning and didn t you know we were coming 
 out ? I sent you word by Thompson, a week ago." 
 
 " Deuce take Thompson !" muttered a voice in the 
 room, which we could hear through the open window, 
 close to which we sat in the wagon. " I say, Philip, did 
 you send me any word by Thompson, last week ?" 
 
 " Of course, I did, Jacob." 
 
 " Of course you did. Thompson never gets drunk, ex 
 cept when he has some message for me. He stopped at 
 the cross-roads on his way up, drank all the afternoon 
 with some of those scoundrels there, started for here in 
 the evening, drove his team off the long bridge, and lost 
 a barrel of molasses, besides nearly killing a horse." 
 
 " And what became of Thompson ?" 
 
 " Deuce take Thompson just like him lie broke his 
 nec k no, his back no, his ribs, or his legs, or some 
 thing of the sort. The doctor knows what it is : I 
 don t." 
 
 " The doctor ! what doctor ?" 
 
 " Doctor Wilson, of course. I sent an express off after 
 him, and have had him here every other day. But what 
 word did you send me by Thompson? Deuce take 
 Thompson, I say." 
 
 " Never mind the word, Jacob ; but if you are dressed, 
 
156 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 come along to the brook. We want some trout for din 
 ner to-morrow; and we are off for the day." 
 
 " All right, Joseph ; wait a minute, and I m with you. 
 But let me send Thompson his gruel." 
 
 " Where is he, Jacob ?" 
 
 " Up stairs, to be sure." 
 
 Jacob attended to the sick man about whom he was so 
 indignant, and mingled his kindness with scolding, in 
 very fair proportions, as we could hear, while we sat in 
 the wagon. 
 
 At length he came out, puffing and groaning with his 
 haste ; one hand being occupied in a successful endeavor 
 to penetrate the lining of an old sporting coat instead of 
 the sleeve, while the whole man seemed intent on holding 
 fast under his left arm a case containing his rod and gun. 
 A little negro boy followed him, chuckling and lugging a 
 huge basket, which Jacob lifted into the wagon. He 
 then tumbled in, and deposited himself between Joe and 
 myself, thus forcing each of us into about half of his nat 
 ural size, and exclaimed, "Drive on Joe, my boy; all 
 ready." 
 
 Joe looked comically at him, and handed over the 
 lines ; Jacob took them without a word, and drove off. 
 Possibly three minutes might have passed in silence, 
 when I saw that he was taking a road which led directly 
 away from our intended fishing-ground. 
 
 " I say, Jacob, if you have no objections, where are 
 we going, and why couldn t you give us some break 
 fast?" 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 157 
 
 " Breakfast ? Plenty in the basket there, my dear boy, 
 help yourself. Fine cold chicken, ham, bread and a bot 
 tle of chocolate. Three of the fattest duck you ever saw, 
 the small sort, and a brace of quail ; some hot Johnny- 
 cake, and sundries beside. But observe. The white mill 
 brook hasn t been touched this spring above the bridge. 
 This morning three fellows from the river came over 
 and have just gone by. I m suspicious they mean to 
 whip the brook up from the bridge, with the wind. Now, 
 if we drive fast we can reach the wolf-hole by seven o clock, 
 and come down. There 11 be no wind up there, and we 
 can whip two rods to their one. There is fan to be had, 
 and we ll just try it. What say you ?" 
 
 Joe and I replied by attacking the breakfast, while 
 the horses flew as if they knew the hurry Jacob was in. 
 Over the hill and through the wood and down along the 
 hickory swale, and then we dashed into the narrow road 
 that led along the side of the mountain, and after about 
 fifteen minutes of slower travelling, Jacob pulled up in a 
 grove of oak trees, under the lea of a knoll, which pro 
 tected the horses perfectly from the March wind. Here 
 we made them as comfortable as might be, and left Nora 
 to guard them while we prepared our tackle and ap 
 proached the water. 
 
 About two hundred yards below the grove where we 
 left our horses, the brook entered suddenly a gorge or 
 ravine, and plunged down a series of small and abrupt 
 falls, until it reached a comparatively level country, and 
 thence flowed in a deep stream with occasional rapids 
 
158 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 and bends, and some short descents, out toward the white 
 mill, six miles below. Singularly enough, the trout in the 
 upper part of the brook were totally different from those 
 below the ravine ; those above seldom growing to half the 
 size of many in the open country. They were apparently 
 of a different breed, although on examination proving to 
 be the same in all respects, except the shape of the bod}^. 
 We commenced our descent of the ravine with some cau 
 tion, Jacob leading and I bringing up the rear. Our 
 progress was safe until we reached the last step from 
 which the brook dashed, and here I called out to Jacob 
 to stand still, while I threw over his head and tried the 
 basin below. A statue could not be more motionless 
 than he was until I made a second cast, when he saw a 
 good two pounds of fish, with gold and crimson spots on 
 his back, rise at my white fly, and hook himself as desper 
 ately as if he meant it. Then, in his delight, Jacob ex 
 claimed aloud, and on the instant of speaking he vanish 
 ed out of sight. Never was feat of magic more rapid 
 and astounding. The rock on which he had been standing 
 was worn, and the winter ice had cracked it so that the 
 outer edge of it fell with Jacob into the basin in which 
 my trout was struggling. Puflmg and blowing he came 
 up to the surface, only to meet Joe s provokingly cool 
 countenance and voice. 
 
 " Why, Jacob Jacob Small, I say, don t be in such a 
 hurry after the trout, man ; let s all have a fair chance." 
 
 He made the best of his way to the bank, on which he 
 sat down, and the only consolation he appeared to find 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 159 
 
 was in the fact, that while I had been laughing till my 
 sides ached, the trout had unhooked himself, and was 
 away down the stream to tell his neighbors that we were 
 coming. 
 
 The first large fish hooked was about fifty rods below 
 Jacob s bathing place. On the bank stood an oak tree, 
 and in the middle of the stream was a large rock, around 
 which the water gurgled and rusljed swiftly. In the 
 wake of the rock, or below it, was still deep water, and as 
 Jacob s hook fell in just above it and passed into the still 
 water below, a fine fish, weighing at least three pounds, 
 took the bait. For Jacob disdained flies until May, and 
 I more than half agree with him. 
 
 The tip of his rod was almost as slender as a knitting 
 needle. It was one of his own make, and a graceful rod 
 it was in his hands. The small stick was bent nearly 
 double at times, and swayed to and fro, as the fish tried 
 now one bank of the brook, now the other. We were 
 none of us visible. Jacob s head and shoulders might 
 perhaps have been seen at one moment, but the trout was 
 contending with an invisible foe. 
 
 " Keep quiet, boys. There s another one in the eddy 
 there, and I ll have him after I get through with this 
 one. I say, Philip, just cast your fly across the ripple 
 on the other side of the rock ; but lie low, while you are 
 about it." 
 
 I obeyed, and, at the third cast, pricked a good-sized 
 fish, but did not hook him. Once more, and he rose to 
 it finely this time, but dashed down the stream, under 
 
162 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 the hook through one of these, so as to leave him free to 
 move, and taking in all my line but a fathom or so, held 
 my rod carefully over the water, so that the worm should 
 occasionally touch it, and disturb the glassy smoothness 
 of the pool. This bait took. The first touch of the 
 worm to the surface was answered by a rush of two large 
 fish ; of course one only succeeding in hooking himself. 
 The reel flew around swiftly at first, but he took not 
 more than ten fathoms of line, and buried himself under 
 the opposite bank of the basin. I had not felt him yet to 
 judge of his weight and strength, and the capability of my 
 rod to land him. I had but a slight lance-wood and 
 bone tip; and though it would bend double without 
 breaking last year, I feared that it might have become 
 dry in the winter. 
 
 Gently drawing on him as he lay in his hole, I had op 
 portunity to weigh him ; and thinking that he could not 
 go over three pounds, I determined to try a dead lift on 
 him, and accordingly teased him till he started out, and 
 I reeled in as he came across toward me. 
 
 But he was too stout a swimmer for my rod. The first 
 lift I made, bent the tip to a semicircle, and I saw that 
 the curve was slightly broken in one point, which I feared 
 would prove weak, and I let him go. 
 
 I had not yet exposed myself, and did not wish to do 
 so. I took a position near the outlet of the pool, behind 
 the trunk of a fallen tree, and endeavored to drown him, 
 but he kept a lively play around the upper part of the 
 basin for ten minutes, and then made a sudden dash di- 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 
 
 163 
 
 rectly toward me. As he came into shoal water near me, 
 I confess that I was guilty of unfairness : I struck at him 
 with the branch of a tree that lay near, and effectually 
 stopped him. 
 
 The one that had attempted to seize my hook, and 
 failed, had now a claim on my attention. I prepared 
 another fly precisely as the former one was baited, and 
 hooked another fish at the second or third cast. This 
 was done under the waterfall, and he seemed to be aware 
 of the fate of his predecessor, for with praiseworthy 
 acuteness, he made a straight course down stream. I fol 
 lowed with what haste I could. But he was fast taking 
 out my line, and I gave him fifty fathoms before I had 
 run as many myself. 
 
 The bank of the stream was impracticable for me so 
 long as I held my rod, and I took to the water. Check 
 ing my fish as well as I could, I followed him down 
 more than a quarter of a mile, when I succeeded in stop 
 ping him, and advanced toward him. He had gone un 
 der the bank on the side of a rapid, and I approached 
 with care, placed my hand under him, and as he settled 
 into my grasp, I introduced a thumb and finger into his 
 gills, and lifted him into my basket. 
 
 At this moment I heard Joe s voice within a few rods 
 of me. 
 
 " Why, Jacob, man what are you about ? The sec 
 ond time to-day ! Is that the way you do your trouting ? 
 Upon my word, Jacob, I ll have you indicted for robbing 
 the brooks, if you go into it in that sort of way." 
 
164 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Hastening toward them, I saw Jacob floundering in the 
 middle of the brook, and Joe standing on the bank and 
 preaching to him. Small had hooked a trout, and zeal 
 ously followed him down the stream, but stepping incau 
 tiously on a rock, which was as smooth as ice, he had 
 plunged feet foremost down a rapid, in which he was lying 
 when I came up. Nothing discouraged, however, he 
 gathered up himself, and his rod which had never left 
 his hand, and coolly and carefully landed a very respect 
 able fish, which, to judge from the quietness with which 
 he allowed himself to be taken, had been astonished into 
 torpor by the unusual invasion of his territories. 
 
 Jacob now sought a sunny place in which to dry him 
 self, and found it at an angle of the brook, where it 
 swept around a grassy point on the one side, and under 
 a dark rock on the other. Willis stood by him, profess 
 ing to watch lest he dissolved but in fact to talk about 
 certain farm matters, wherein Joe wanted the opinion of 
 a man of Jacob s experience while I sat on a rock, in 
 the centre of the stream, and threw my fly under the 
 high bank opposite to them. 
 
 But here I took no fish, and my exertions subsided 
 into a lazy casting of my fly, until at length I gave over 
 even that, and enjoyed the scene while I listened to the 
 conversation between Willis and Small. 
 
 It was very still and calm in the glen, and the sound 
 of the wind in the tree-tops was like distant music. 
 The sunshine stole down through the hemlock and pine 
 branches, and danced on the ripples as lightly as if glad 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 165 
 
 to find a place to dance after long travel through the blue. 
 The air was life-giving and rich. The sky seemed rest 
 ing on the tree tops that fringed the mountain ridges ; 
 and one could not look up without that longing to be 
 away in the cool rich air, floating, not flying, which a 
 warm spring day almost invariably inspires. 
 
 Suddenly, however, Joe interrupted himself in the 
 middle of a sentence, ran toward the stream, and made a 
 swift but graceful cast of his line across a fallen tree that 
 obstructed the flow of the rapid ; and by the sharp whirr 
 of his reel, I knew that he had hooked a large fish. For 
 ten minutes he battled with him, and at length con 
 quered. He was a noble fellow, and required the land 
 ing-hook to bring him out. 
 
 We had now as many fish as we cared for ; and we 
 returned to the basin, to finish our forenoon s sport 
 there. 
 
 In this large basin the trout abound ; and we never 
 failed to hook as many as we had lines in it. But after 
 once hooking a fish, it becomes necessary to expose your 
 self, and usually to take to the water before you can get 
 your fish out. The result, of course, is, that you are not 
 apt to hook a second one immediately. 
 
 But we took our places separately, and each man cast 
 in his own part of the basin. In a moment we had each 
 hooked a fish ; and in the next moment, the three had 
 gone to the centre of the basin, swam around each other, 
 twisted up our lines, and made as great a scene of confu 
 sion as could be desired. There was but one resource : 
 
166 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 we wound the lines still more firmly around each other, 
 and then worked all together. In five minutes I parted 
 my line, and Jacob s followed. Joe had the three fish 
 on his rod ; and as the three lines were wet, it was hardly 
 probable they would unwind. It required careful man 
 agement, however, to kill the three fish ; and Joe went to 
 work deliberately. 
 
 For ten minutes, or more, he teazed them, and let 
 them teaze each other. After pulling different ways, 
 tearing one another s mouths, and various futile attempts 
 at escape, they grew sluggish, and allowed themselves to 
 be dragged around. 
 
 He now led them slowly down toward the rapid outlet 
 of the basin, which spread out into a broad stream, run 
 ning over gravel and stone. A vigorous and watchful 
 hand led all three into a shallow side stream, where they 
 suddenly found themselves with their backs out of water, 
 and our landing hooks readily secured them. 
 
 It was now past noon, and we had taken a large lot of 
 fine fish. We accordingly returned to the wagon, and 
 drove down to Jacob s for luncheon, of which an import 
 ant part was one of the last three trout we had taken. 
 
 The afternoon was windy, but not cold. We had made 
 an engagement to attend a wedding, which was to take 
 place that evening ; and we had as much as we could well 
 do, therefore, to reach home in time for dinner, and dress 
 and go over to the village. But the horses were as fresh 
 as at daylight, and we rattled along the road at a good 
 pace, reaching the old house as Anthony was ordering up 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 167 
 
 dinner. For he had a house full of company, and dinner 
 never waits if there is any one to eat it. Lucy, with her 
 husband and some friends, had come out from the city ; 
 and we invited them to accompany us to the wedding, to 
 which they readily assented. 
 
 We invited them, for Lucy was welcome everywhere 
 of course, and as to the others, in our country, such in 
 vitations are not only allowable, but expected. An in 
 vitation includes a family and all the friends that happen 
 to be in the house, and we drove over to the village 
 church with a brilliant party, full of gaiety and assured 
 of a welcome. 
 
 The church was sparkling with the beauty and youth 
 of the whole country around, for the wedding of Mary 
 Grant was an event looked for by all who had lived in 
 our neighborhood with interest and eagerness. So great 
 a crowd claimed a right to be present at the ceremony, 
 that, contrary to the usual custom, the church had been 
 selected for its consummation. 
 
 Richard Grant, the village schoolmaster, was an old 
 man when I was a boy. He was an older man now by 
 many very sorrowful years. When I left his care and 
 was sent with Joe Willis to college, I believe that the 
 old man could say that he had never lost by death one 
 dear friend. Since that time his wife has lain down in 
 the church-yard, and his son and daughter have found 
 sleep by her side. Three grand-children, the youngest 
 like his daughter Mary in her youth, with the same 
 brown hair and clear complexion, and hazel eyes, were 
 
166 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 we wound the lines still more firmly around each other, 
 and then worked all together. In five minutes I parted 
 my line, and Jacob s followed. Joe had the three fish 
 on his rod ; and as the three lines were wet, it was hardly 
 probable they would unwind. It required careful man 
 agement, however, to kill the three fish ; and Joe went to 
 work deliberately. 
 
 For ten minutes, or more, he teazed them, and let 
 them teaze each other. After pulling different ways, 
 tearing one another s mouths, and various futile attempts 
 at escape, they grew sluggish, and allowed themselves to 
 be dragged around. 
 
 He now led them slowly down toward the rapid outlet 
 of the basin, which spread out into a broad stream, run 
 ning over gravel and stone. A vigorous and watchful 
 hand led all three into a shallow side stream, where they 
 suddenly found themselves with their backs out of water, 
 and our landing hooks readily secured them. 
 
 It was now past noon, and we had taken a large lot of 
 fine fish. We accordingly returned to the wagon, and 
 drove down to Jacob s for luncheon, of which an import 
 ant part was one of the last three trout we had taken. 
 
 The afternoon was windy, but not cold. We had made 
 an engagement to attend a wedding, which was to take 
 place that evening ; and we had as much as we could well 
 do, therefore, to reach home in time for dinner, and dress 
 and go over to the village. But the horses were as fresh 
 as at daylight, and we rattled along the road at a good 
 pace, reaching the old house as Anthony was ordering up 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 167 
 
 dinner. For he had a house full of company, and dinner 
 never waits if there is any one to eat it. Lucy, with her 
 husband and some friends, had come out from the city ; 
 and we invited them to accompany us to the wedding, to 
 which they readily assented. 
 
 We invited them, for Lucy was welcome everywhere 
 of course, and as to the others, in our country, such in 
 vitations are not only allowable, but expected. An in 
 vitation includes a family and all the friends that happen 
 to be in the house, and we drove over to the village 
 church with a brilliant party, full of gaiety and assured 
 of a welcome. 
 
 The church was sparkling with the beauty and youth 
 of the whole country around, for the wedding of Mary 
 Grant was an event looked for by all who had lived in 
 our neighborhood with interest and eagerness. So great 
 a crowd claimed a right to be present at the ceremony, 
 that, contrary to the usual custom, the church had been 
 selected for its consummation. 
 
 Richard Grant, the village schoolmaster, was an old 
 man when I was a boy. He was an older man now by 
 many very sorrowful years. When I left his care and 
 was sent with Joe Willis to college, I believe that the 
 old man could say that he had never lost by death one 
 dear friend. Since that time his wife has lain down in 
 the church-yard, and his son and daughter have found 
 sleep by her side. Three grand-children, the youngest 
 like his daughter Mary in her youth, with the same 
 brown hair and clear complexion, and hazel eyes, were 
 
168 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 left to the old man s care. And to aid him in their edu 
 cation, a small fortune opportunely came to them through 
 a distant relative of their father. They grew up into the 
 likeness of their mother, kind, faithful, and loving, and 
 the two sons were placed in excellent positions to pre 
 pare themselves for business men in the city. Mary, the 
 grand-daughter, never dreamed of leaving the old man, 
 and as he grew more feeble and wayward she clung to 
 him the more fondly. It was doubtless this one absorb 
 ing employment which prevented her from listening to 
 the village lovers who wooed her, and she had reached 
 twenty, and was heart-whole, when an accident occurred 
 which produced a change in her life. 
 
 Old Mr. Grant, while coming home from the school 
 one summer afternoon, was passing across the bridge 
 which is in the middle of the village, when a plank which 
 had grown weak and rotten, broke, and threw him down. 
 The accident might not have been serious, had he not 
 fallen so near the edge of the bridge, that in attempting 
 to rise, he made a misstep, and plunged into the creek 
 some twenty feet below. Fifty persons saw the occur 
 rence, and hastened to his rescue. But as usual, of the 
 fifty, forty-nine were willing to shout and direct, while 
 only one was prompt to act, and this one was a stranger, 
 who was crossing the bridge on horseback at the moment 
 of the occurrence. He was a young man, of decidedly 
 prepossessing appearance, and withal was remarkably 
 well dressed. So at least said those who saw him before 
 the accident ; after it, his dress was hardly in a condition 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 169 
 
 to be praised. He swung himself from the bridge, and 
 while the other forty-nine were running for ropes, and 
 planks, and poles, and the old man in the meantime was 
 drowning, he dropped into a deep hole in the water, came 
 up instantly, swam toward the place where he had last 
 seen Mr. Grant, seized him by the collar and held his 
 head up with his right hand, while he swam stoutly with 
 the left, and reached the shore. There, of course, the 
 original number of volunteers was quadrupled, and at 
 least two hundred people were anxiously waiting to carry 
 Mr. Grant home to Mary, who was terribly frightened at 
 the wet and bleeding apparition which she met at the 
 door. 
 
 In the meantime the stranger had found his horse, and 
 gone unattended to the tavern, where he was soon cared 
 for externally and internally. He presented a curious 
 appearance, however, in the landlord s clothes, which 
 were a world too wide and a foot too short for him. 
 He did well, under such circumstances, to decline Mary 
 Grant s invitation to change his quarters for the night. 
 
 The next day Mr. Grant was evidently feverish, and 
 the stranger was still invisible, his clothes being past all 
 use, and he waiting for the village tailor to fit him out. 
 And a curious fit he made of it. But such as it was, he 
 called at Mr. Grant s in the afternoon of the second day, 
 just in time to meet a committee of the school trustees, 
 who had called to consult the old gentleman on the 
 management of affairs during his illness. 
 
 The stranger, who had sent in his card with the simple 
 8 
 
170 THE OLD HOUSE BY THK RIVER. 
 
 name " Mr. Lyon," was in the little sitting-room when 
 Mary Grant returned from her grandfather s room with 
 the committee. He received her warm thanks with 
 becoming modesty, but with all the air of a man of ex 
 treme polish. 
 
 A single glance at the face of Mary Grant had im 
 pressed him ; and with a ready ear, catching the conver 
 sation of the committee at the same time that he was 
 talking to Miss Grant, he formed a plan that had not 
 entered his brain till that moment, but which involved 
 the decision of his whole future. 
 
 A few words, well chosen, sufficed to give to the trus 
 tees a hint that he was looking after literary employment. 
 They caught at the idea asked him a plain question in 
 frank, country style, and received what they thought was 
 as frank and plain an answer. A week afterward he fur 
 nished them with satisfactory testimonials of character 
 and ability, from the president of a well-known college, 
 and was installed on the throne of the academy. 
 
 All these things passed under our notice, but neither 
 Willis nor myself had any personal interest in the mat 
 ter, further than to feel anxious after the health of our 
 old friend. We met the new teacher, and endeavored 
 to make his acquaintance, but he rather avoided us, and 
 pleaded his engagements as an excuse for declining an 
 invitation to the old house. 
 
 I liked him nevertheless, and said so to Mr. Grant, 
 whereat I saw Mary s eyes sparkle, and I guessed the 
 storv instantlv. 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 171 
 
 Three months passed before the old man could go out 
 of the house, and then he walked feebly down to the 
 school-house, where he was greeted with a shout of joy by 
 the whole school, and a half-holiday forthwith demanded 
 and granted. And now the winter was approaching, and 
 the old man proposed to Mr. Lyon to take the entire 
 charge of the school, and allow him to retire from it. 
 To this the new teacher assented, and agreed to return 
 at the end of the autumn vacation. 
 
 We were in the city during the fall, and every evening 
 
 had its engagements. At dinner with , we met a 
 
 large company of friends ; and after dinner, found his 
 rooms filled with a brilliant assembly. Conspicuous 
 among them, I was astonished to see the new teacher, 
 not in the plain clothes and demure countenance which 
 he wore in the country, but evidently at home in the 
 
 crowded rooms, and the friend of half the guests. 
 
 presented him. I recognised him coldly, not half pleased 
 with the trick which he had played on the villagers, and 
 doubting much his honesty. But he was too frank and 
 hearty in his expressions of regret at our having discov 
 ered his secret, for us to resist long the influence of his 
 good humor, and long before we separated, he had re 
 moved all doubts as to his honor, by confessing his en 
 gagement to Mary Grant, and assuring us that she had 
 always known the whole truth. * It was a queer fancy of 
 his to kill three months in a stupid village ; but, as he 
 said, no one ever had such an opportunity for wooing as 
 he found, and no three months of his life had been so 
 
172 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 quiet or so happy. We kept his secret until the spring, 
 and it was only when the wedding preparations began to 
 be made on a large scale, that it was noised abroad that 
 Mary Grant had married a rich man, and not a poor 
 teacher. 
 
 Certainly no one envied her, or would have had it oth 
 erwise. She was so well beloved by the young, and her 
 mother had been so well beloved by their mothers, and 
 her grandfather was so reverentially regarded by the 
 elders and the children, that the whole village rejoiced in 
 Mary Grant s prospects of happiness, and crowded the 
 church to see her given away. 
 
 There were no tears shed. It was the first and last 
 wedding I have seen so marked. The young pastor 
 made the ceremony very brief; and the deep silence 
 which reigned in the church was unbroken, except by her 
 voice, when she spoke the brief sentence that ended her 
 maidenhood. As the clergyman pronounced the solemn 
 declaration of union, Lyon folded her in his arms, and 
 pressed his lips to her forehead, in the presence of the 
 congregation, and then yielded her to the embrace of his 
 queenly sister, who welcomed her to a warm heart. 
 
 What a gay evening it was in the schoolmaster s old 
 house ! There was plenty of room ; for Richard Gray s 
 house was large, and the kitchen was immense. The 
 dancing commenced in the old kitchen at eight o clock, 
 and was kept up till long after midnight. Gay airy co 
 tillons, and sober contre-dances followed each other in 
 rapid and constant succession. 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 173 
 
 The good clergyman looked in on them for a moment 
 reproachfully but even he had not the heart to find fault 
 at Mary Grant s wedding; and to say truth, his re 
 proaching look was only assumed for the occasion ; and I 
 don t think that he objected, in his heart, to the graceful 
 quadrille that served so well the purpose of the young 
 and gay, who, for the time, sought only amusement and 
 merriment. 
 
 In the large rooms on each side the entrance of the 
 house, were gathered the more sedate portion of the com 
 pany ; and Mary and her husband stood at the upper end 
 of the north room all the early part of the evening, ex 
 cept only when they opened the cotillons with Joe Willis 
 and Lucy vis-d-vis. 
 
 The old man was everywhere. Now looking proudly 
 at Mary and her husband, and now directing the dancers, 
 and now superintending the loaded tables in the south 
 rooms. 
 
 To him, old times came back with all the freshness of 
 youth. He had not thought to remember those days 
 again so happily, or to see them again so vividly before 
 him. But this was precisely the scene which he had en 
 joyed in the same rooms twice before : once when he had 
 married the daughter of the old man that built the cot 
 tage sixty years ago, and again when a stranger had won 
 his daughter Mary, and he had given her to him for bet 
 ter or worse. I saw the old man pause at times from 
 his busy employment ; and from the vacant look of his 
 eyes, I knew that he was gazing through the gloom of 
 
174 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 years into a far distant time. For, when men look thus, 
 they look not with their natural eyes, but with the spirit s 
 earnest out-looking gaze. 
 
 Once when he stood thus wrapt in a vision of other 
 days, I called Lucy s attention to him. His long white 
 hair was waving over his shoulders ; his hand rested on 
 the end of the mantel over the hearth; his head was 
 thrown somewhat back, aed his attitude seemed to be 
 one of intense listening. The group of laughing girls 
 that surrounded him were unheard. There was a voice 
 in his ear full of ravishing melody a voice coming out 
 of the past, and reaching the old man s soul. It was but 
 an instant that he stood thus, and then he relapsed into 
 his ordinary cheerful mood, and resumed the care of his 
 guests. 
 
 We left at an early hour, and drove homeward with 
 our party. I fancied perhaps it was all fancy, but gay 
 scenes among the young are apt to affect him thus I 
 say I fancied that Joe Willis was sad and silent all 
 the way homeward. But it might have been that he 
 was engrossed with the horses, for the night was cool, and 
 the bays had not been out during the day, and Stephen 
 was not altogether trustworthy as a coachman. The 
 next day, as might be imagined, we were somewhat weary, 
 and our friends, except Lucy and John, left us. In the 
 evening we formed a quiet party in the library. 
 
 " Joseph, my dear Joseph," said Lucy, " I wish you 
 would be a little more careful. You have thrown over 
 my basket, wound my ball of silk around your boot, and 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 1*15 
 
 brushed my pattern from the table. Phil, help me, 
 please. I am positively ashamed of Joseph s rudeness, 
 and John is asleep, of course. Do help me." 
 
 " Philip," said Joe, standing meanwhile motionless in 
 the centre of the library, as I knelt at his feet, and pro 
 ceeded to disentangle the hopeless mass of embroidery 
 silk in which he had enveloped his foot, " Philip, I was 
 thinking " 
 
 " Well, Joseph, I wish you would think to more 
 purpose. Only see what a tangle you have made of my 
 silk." 
 
 " Philip, I was thinking that " 
 
 " Joe lift your heel a little ; this silk is wound under 
 it." 
 
 " Philip, I was thinking that this night is the anniver 
 sary of " 
 
 " Now your toe, Joe. Upon my word I never saw 
 such a snarl." 
 
 " Philip, I was thinking " 
 
 " Lucy, let me have your scissors, if you please ; its 
 quite out of the question to get it off in any other way." 
 
 " No, no ; don t cut it ; let me help you. Here, Joe, 
 just hold your foot up on this chair." 
 
 " Confound the work, Lucy. What are you spoiling 
 your eyes for, at this time of night, with your embroider 
 ing ? I ll go to the store and get you a ton of silk, and a 
 cocoonery of silk-worms to-morrow," said Joe, stamping 
 his foot, and demolishing the silk (for all practical and 
 connected purposes), whereat Lucy sank back in her chair 
 
176 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 with the most comical little sigh of terror, and John, 
 starting from the sofa, and rubbing his eyes, exclaimed, 
 " Ah eh what s that ? Phil, Joe, is any one hurt ?" 
 
 " No, John go to sleep again, old fellow. Philip, I 
 was thinking " 
 
 " Joe for mercy s sake wait a little. Don t you see 
 what a commotion you have literally kicked up in Lucy s 
 work-basket, and how you have spoiled the face of the dog 
 in the embroidery. Think more calmly, my dear boy, 
 and not as you walk, or shoot, or ride that s no way to 
 think." 
 
 Thereupon we proceeded to place things in order, and 
 having at length satisfied Lucy, and stowed her excellent 
 husband away on the sofa again, and drawn our large 
 chairs up to the fire, I waited for Joe s thought. 
 
 " Ten years ago to-night I was in Paris, and made an 
 acquaintance that I was thinking of as I walked up and 
 down the floor and into Lucy s basket. And a good fel 
 low he was too, though rather ancient, but he travelled 
 with me for two months after that, and I have never seen 
 him or heard of him since. But I have thought of him 
 a thousand times. I would like to know what has be 
 come of him. We met oddly. He came to my rooms, 
 sent his card up, and on entering, frankly told me his 
 errand. He was an invalid, out of health, travelling alone. 
 Tie had overdrawn his letters of credit, and wanted funds, 
 vvhile waiting for new letters. He said he was rich that 
 
 he knew C , and S , and H , and a 
 
 dozen other good names, and I was so taken with him 
 
TROUT-FISHING. 
 
 177 
 
 that I lent him a thousand dollars the next day. He 
 paid me the following week, travelled with me two 
 months, told me a hundred quaint stories, lost me among 
 the Alps, and for aught I know, lost himself there too. 
 He gave me a story for a memento, which he related in 
 the carriage as we posted across the south of France, and 
 afterward wrote out, when I begged him to do so. Poor 
 fellow, I fancy he did not live long. I ll read you the 
 story to-night, and Philip you shall print it, if you will. 
 Do me the favor to ring you are nearest the bell." 
 
 Enter Anthony. He should have been described be 
 fore. He was the favorite family servant of Judge Wil 
 lis, but was always attached especially to Joe. He was 
 taken from a hovel by Mr. Willis, the father of my friend, 
 when a boy of ten years, and his instructions were never 
 to lose sight of his young master, then not more than 
 three or four. He was to devote himself to that boy, 
 and as a reward he was never to want for anything. The 
 duty and the reward have been strictly regarded and ful 
 filled. Anthony was educated well, and I believe Joe 
 was never out of his sight from that time till he went to 
 college, and when he became a Senior was again joined 
 by him. When Mr. Willis died he accompanied Joe to 
 the judge s, but always remained the attendant of his 
 young master, and was with him in all his travels. He 
 is now major domo, steward of the farm, agent between 
 Willis and the tenants, and confidential servant, all com. 
 bined. He is black as ebony, straight as an arrow, tall, 
 well formed, with unusually straight features, writes a 
 8* 
 
1*78 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 good hand, reads considerably, and is in all respects a 
 remarkable specimen for his color. He has always found 
 his master s purse open to his drafts, and I believe has 
 not a wish within the control of money, which remains 
 ungratified. After the removal of the dinner he is the 
 only servant admitted, and always answers the bell, un 
 less it is otherwise indicated by the use of a small table- 
 bell, whose sharp ring through the whole house summons 
 the housekeeper, or one of her aids. To return, there 
 fore, to Anthony, whom we left standing. 
 
 " I wish a package of papers from the large drawer 
 of the book-case, yonder. You ought to remember where 
 they are, for you put them up. The package was marked 
 Marseilles, 18 , December. Find them, Anthony." 
 
 In five minutes the package was in Willis s hand and 
 he selected the paper he desired, arranged his chair, lit 
 his cigar with Lucy s approbation, and read aloud. 
 
 MARY LE E. 
 
 " SWEET Mary Lee ! The music of your laughter rings 
 from out the lonesome years as the carol of a bird pour 
 ing a melodious note through a ruined temple. I call 
 them lonesome years, for they have been suchi, and since 
 the bright spring morning when I last saw my gentle 
 sister in the fleshly covering that so adorned her, since 
 that day when I forgot to weep, for dear thoughts of 
 all her goodness and gentleness, I have been lonely, very 
 
MARY LEE. 
 
 179 
 
 lonely, and am dying now, alone ! My life has been a 
 useless and a vain life, and the years are like a ruin. 
 Every moss-grown stone is an old ambition, every but 
 tress a vain struggle ; every window a hope through 
 which I peered longingly out at the far blue sky ! 
 
 " Sweet Mary Lee ! The blue is very far away to-day, 
 arid very deep, and serener, purer, holier, than ever before. 
 And I have fancied as I have been gazing into it, that 
 mayhap I can long, and long, and long so earnestly, that 
 I may burst the bonds at length, and soar away into the 
 glory that I used to fancy lay beyond the azure, and to 
 the embrace which I know awaits me there ! I have fan 
 cied too, this afternoon, that this Italian atmosphere 
 seemed either more penetrable by mortal powers, or else 
 that I am in a more spiritual humor than usual, for I 
 feel as if I could float away on it without much difficulty. 
 
 It might not be well to try, and yet ah, that must 
 
 after all be the reason the air is full of angels, and they 
 crowd around, and are trying to persuade me away, and 
 I am so anxious to be gone that I can t sit longer in my 
 ohair. Now they separate, and now a star -beam falls 
 from out the twilight sky, and no it is not a star 
 either it s a form of beauty ; am I dreaming ? It is 
 Mary Mary Lee ; only she is more beautiful than my 
 memory of her ; and yet it is she, and that must be the 
 beauty I have somewhere read of as given to the blessed 
 dead. She is coming down, down the long line of angels, 
 fairer, much fairer than any of them all and she is com 
 ing here, and her dear arms are once again around me, 
 
180 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 and her lips are on mine, and she kisses me, and looks 
 into my eyes with those most heavenly eyes of hers, and, 
 Mary, are you on earth ? or is this heaven ? 
 
 " Ah, me ! She is gone, and only a mournful gleam of 
 star-light falls on my watching eyes from the heaven she 
 has gone to. I must have been dreaming. What was I 
 to have written ? It is an hour since I took this seat by 
 my table. I remember a story I was about to tell; 
 well, I will once more tell the story of Mary Lee. 
 
 " I am old, but not so old that my heart-strings have 
 forgotten to thrill at the touch of memory. Nay, my 
 very memory is like a wind-breath, and as it weeps over 
 those strings, the sounds are to me as sounds of indescri 
 bable melody, but of untold mournfulness. The Eolian 
 of the heart is a harp of fine, of delicate*, of very sensitive 
 strings, and its music is in my heart as the songs of spirits 
 over lost loves. 
 
 " Mary Lee was the most beautiful child I remember 
 to have seen. She was not large, neither was she small. 
 Her form was one of extraordinary perfectness, and at 
 seventeen I think her beauty of feature and of body 
 without a rival. Her eye was of a dark blue, almost 
 black ; the lashes long and jetty. Her hair very dark) 
 and parted plainly on a finer forehead than Canova ever 
 sculptured ; her lips chiselled with perfect regularity, 
 and yet if there were any fault in her face, it was in a lit 
 tle too much fulness of those same lips. They were not 
 precisely in harmony with the rest of her face but you 
 would only notice this on close examination, and perhaps 
 
MARY LEE. 181 
 
 not then. I had a fancy of watching her lips, as well for 
 the words of love they so gracefully formed, as for the 
 kisses I, and I alone, (in those years,) had from them 
 for Mary Lee was the adopted daughter of my father, and 
 so my sister. She was the child of my father s old friend. 
 They had been boys and young men, and grew to be old 
 men together. When Mr. Lee died, he left Mary, then 
 but ten years old, to my mother s gentle care. 
 
 " It was my father s wish, I have always supposed, that 
 we should marry each other, but somehow it happened 
 that our love was never based on any such hopes. It was 
 the perfect confidence of children, growing with our age, 
 that bound us together. 
 
 " I may not pause to tell the history of our childhood. 
 Enough that it was as childhood in the beautiful country 
 must always be, exceedingly beautiful. The earth was one 
 wide source of joy to us, and every flower that bloomed 
 brought a bloom of joy to the glad eyes of my sweet sis 
 ter. The mountain streams taught her their melody; 
 and she would sit in the glen by the fall, and sing wild 
 songs, or trill melodies which sprang from her heart ; and 
 the dash of the water, the sound of the wind in the trees, 
 and her voice, together, made up an anthem of marvel 
 lous richness, that the birds were not ashamed to sit and 
 listen to. Sometimes we wandered away up the moun 
 tain-side on foot, and she would find a rocky peak, and 
 sitting in the sunshine, twine an oak-leaf crown, and with 
 that on her brow, call herself a queen, and all the earth 
 her dominion. And I, who was the sole representative 
 
182 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 of all the earth, would bow meekly at her feet, and she 
 be very gracious, and so would bid me ask what boon I 
 would, even to half her throne ; and I, presuming sub 
 ject, would beg exactly that much; and she, most gra 
 ciously and gracefully, would move a little to the side, 
 and I would take the seat, and so my arm would boldly 
 pass around her, and her head would fall on my shoul 
 der, and who in all the world, monarch or subject, 
 could be so happy as we, forgetting, as we did, that 
 there was, in all the world, any boy other than myself, or 
 any maiden other than my sister, Mary Lee. And yet I 
 did not love her as boys love maidens whose names are 
 not their own. She was my sister in every respect. Be 
 this understood. She is gone now passed like a star 
 into the sky when the morning dawns. And many long 
 years have been buried up in the rubbish of an aimless 
 life since I last held her in my arms, and I am an old 
 man, and weary. My life has been wasted and blasted 
 by seeking after other phantoms ; but now, with the cool 
 blood of sixty odd years, freezing in a chilly atmosphere, 
 (I have lived a cold life since then, Mary dear,) I say 
 calmly, that I loved her but as a sister no more. 
 
 " Her childhood passed into youth and the full bloom 
 of maiden loveliness. 
 
 " One Christmas morning we were in gay spirits at the 
 homestead, and a sleigh-ride was proposed and planned. 
 That afternoon we were away over the hills and through 
 the valleys, and at evening came home by the merry 
 moonlight 
 
MARY LEE. 183 
 
 "Pardon an old man s memories which will intrude 
 themselves in the shape of particulars that may be unim 
 portant to others, but to him are full of deep interest. 
 
 " There was a party at the homestead in the evening. 
 I had reached my majority a few days previously, and 
 Mary was nineteen. Mary and I returned late from our 
 ride, but early enough for the gathering. The broad 
 hall was brilliantly lighted, and all the rooms were 
 open and filled with the young, glad-eyed, and happy of 
 the country side. We had a joyous time. The dance 
 was kept up in the old dining-room, and every game of 
 merriment in the other parts of the house, while Mary 
 moved like a spirit of light and life through the crowds 
 of revellers, and lent new joy to joy, new merriment to 
 laughter. 
 
 " There was a graver assemblage in the drawing-room 
 in the north wing of the house. There the elder persons 
 were gathered, discussing old histories and family remi 
 niscences. In the kitchen, around a blazing hearth, the 
 servants of all the families in the country around were 
 assembled ; and an occasional hearty laugh indicated that 
 the maids were not behind their mistresses, and were 
 attracting the full attentions of their masters men. And 
 once, as the door opened from the broad hall, I saw 
 Mary in there, as everywhere else, shedding joy and glad 
 ness. 
 
 " At a late hour, when the merriment was at its height, 
 a stranger was announced. A gentleman, booted and 
 spurred, entered with letters from the city for my father. 
 
184 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 His business was important, and my father presented 
 him to me for my attention, while he retired to examine 
 the letters. 
 
 " Capt. Mclvor was a young man, not far from my own 
 age, but more slightly formed, with a remarkably fine 
 face. His forehead was expressive of careful thought, 
 and his lips indicated a life of habitual danger and firm 
 ness. As I afterwards knew, he was an officer in the 
 British army, who, young as he was, had seen much ser 
 vice of hazard. But I did not like his face. There was 
 about his lip a something which I did not fancy. But I 
 took him to a dressing-room, insisted on his wearing cer 
 tain of my own clothes, which in the loose fashions of the 
 period, fitted almost any one, and returning with him to 
 the rooms, presented him to Mary. In the next hour he 
 danced a contre-dance with her; and I was somewhat 
 sorry to see how earnest attention she gave to him. 
 
 " Again I linger on too small matters. 
 
 " Mary loved him. I strove against it as a brother 
 would strive for a sister s happiness. But she was a 
 woman ; and once loving, she was woman-like. I did not 
 like his principles nor his practice, for that matter. 
 But Mary loved him, and her love covered his many sins. 
 I learned to like him for her sake ; and during the four 
 weeks he was persuaded to remain with us, we made the 
 country gay with rides and parties of all sorts, and I ac 
 companied him to the city to attend to the completion of 
 my father s business on which he had come. 
 
 " This business was the settlement of an estate in Eng- 
 
MARY LEE. 185 
 
 land, which had fallen to my mother by the death of an 
 old uncle, and Captain Mclvor having been sent over 
 with despatches, had been made the bearer of these let 
 ters. It soon appeared necessary for some one of us to 
 cross the ocean. In my minority I had travelled much, 
 twice crossing the Atlantic, and it was decided that I 
 should make the third trip in the spring. But not alone. 
 Mclvor and Mary accompanied me. 
 
 " It was lonely in the homestead when its light was 
 gone. Old Robert, my father s servant, often afterwards 
 told me of the long hours in which the good old man 
 would pace up and down the hall, while my mother 
 sat silently by the grate and worked ; and how he would 
 come in and stir the fire, and speak, if only to break the 
 silence which he thought was breaking the hearts of his 
 master and mistress. And then my mother would look 
 up with mournful earnestness in my father s face, and 
 burst into tears, and my father would soothe her with 
 loving words, and talk to her of the old days of their 
 love, and tell her they were not forgotten. Noble hearts 
 that had kept close together all through life, pressed each 
 to the other. Men said my father was cold, and that he 
 was stern and haughty. Perhaps he was so on the world s 
 side, but where his proud heart touched her heart, and 
 Mary s, and mine, it was warm ; how warm ! It has 
 grown cold with death since then ! 
 
 " I crossed the sea with Mary. Her husband was kind 
 and gentle, and I had almost forgotten my early sus 
 picions when the ship reached England. He carried her 
 
186 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 to a princely home, where I left her while I arranged 
 my business. This occupied the two months next fol 
 lowing ; and when I next saw her I fancied an expression 
 of care was on her face. The moment we were alone 
 she gave me her usual frank statement of all her troubles. 
 She feared that Mclvor was a man of bad habits, and 
 she had reason to believe he had had a disagreement 
 with his father. 
 
 " The truth ere long came out. He had long been a 
 gambler, and vices of deeper die stained his fair name. 
 His father, a gentleman of unbending determination, re 
 fused him supplies of money, and obtained at length an 
 order sending him on foreign service. In vain did 
 Mary beg on her knees of his father a remission of his 
 sentence. He was firm, and yet lifted her in his arms, 
 assuring her that it was all out of love for her, and for his 
 son, that he had thus decided. His own plans, however, 
 were overturned by an unexpected change in the desti 
 nation of his son, who was ordered to America. 
 
 " Mary s position was now not a little embarrassing. 
 War was declared, and her husband was an officer in the 
 army which was invading her country. Mclvor s treat 
 ment of her had grown cold and unkind, and she was 
 miserable. She had never known unhappiness before, 
 and her mind again and again went back with involun 
 tary bitterness to the Christmas night a few months 
 before. 
 
 " I must hurry on with my history. Her husband sailed 
 to Canada, while she accompanied me to New York. It 
 
MARY LEE. 
 
 187 
 
 matters nothing now how we managed our departure 
 from England. Enough that the old homestead was 
 glad again when we came home, and that fond arms 
 encircled us. 
 
 " The war continued, and Mary heard frequently of her 
 husband, whom she loved with a devotion I have never 
 known surpassed. It now became manifest that a fatal 
 disease had seized on her ; and at last, worn out with 
 the progress of her malady, as well as with her anxiety, 
 she insisted on going to him. She would hear of no re 
 fusal, and the physician at length confessed his belief 
 that it would not harm her. So I accompanied her to 
 Canada, where Mclvor then was. 
 
 " They met with tears of joy on her part, and impatient 
 anger on his. There were reasons why the presence of a 
 wife was to him eminently unpleasant just then. 
 
 " With an idolatry of love, of which none but she was 
 ever capable, she yielded to his wishes and left him. 
 But at the very instant of entering our carriage we heard 
 that he was ordered out on service, and she begged me 
 to stay till we heard the result of that expedition. 
 
 " I never knew its object. He, with a small party, 
 entered the forest. Day after day passed, and Mary s 
 suspense grew intolerable. She resolved to follow him ; 
 and, unknown to me, provided herself with the necessary 
 conveniences, hired a party of men, and then asked me 
 to accompany her. I could neither prevent her going, 
 nor refuse my services. 
 
 " Mclvor, with his company, were on their return from 
 
188 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 the service which had been completed when they were 
 attacked by an overwhelming force of savages. 
 
 " They were but four to twenty; and, with their backs 
 against a rock, fought bravely with these fearful odds. 
 Strangely, the savages had either no rifles, or no ammuni 
 tion, and it was a hand-to-hand battle, after the English 
 had fired their pistols. 
 
 " Stout blows were those their heavy-hilted horseman s 
 swords showered on the swarthy limbs of the Red men, 
 and they went down by fours till only eight remained. 
 But British blood ebbed drop by drop from channels 
 that gave life to those stout arms. Anon one of the 
 brave men fell, struck by a hatchet thrown from outside 
 the ring o*f the savages, but supporting himself on one 
 arm, as he lay unheeded on the ground, loaded his pis 
 tols, and with unerring aim shot down two more of the 
 cowardly foe. Astonished and dismayed, the surviving 
 six fled, and the English remained on the field victors. But 
 at a fearful cost, for Mclvor s strength was failing him fast. 
 
 " The others assisted his feeble steps to the brow of a 
 hill, and left him there while they hastened to seek aid. 
 A fair and placid river flowed along the base of the hill, 
 and murmured pleasantly to the forest on its banks. A 
 summer twilight came on, and with it came a storm of 
 terrific violence. The dying soldier heard the roar, of 
 the thunder, and it entered strangely into his delirious 
 dreams. He murmured as if the battle were around him 
 yet, and sometimes mingled names of endearment with 
 the faint shouts of the fray. 
 
MARY LEE. 189 
 
 " We who were seeking him came into the valley and 
 encamped during the storm, and at length resolved to 
 pass the night there. Making ourselves as comfortable 
 as we could, we placed our guard, and I slept. Not so 
 Mary ; she lay awake, and her quick ear caught, at a dis 
 tance, the sound of voices, before M lvor s surviving 
 friends had reached our camp. She sprang up, heard the 
 first words of their story, caught the direction in which 
 he lay, and flew from us like a spirit, out into the forest. 
 We followed with what speed we might, vainly calling on 
 her to wait for us. 
 
 " He was dying in the midst of the tempest. His life 
 had been a long storm of passion, as I afterward knew, 
 and his death was worthy of his life. A thousand scenes 
 passed in confusion before his wandering vision. Eng 
 land, Spain, Portugal, Ireland, all alike furnished mate 
 rial to make up the strange company of ghostly visitants 
 that watched his rocky pillow, as he lay dying in the 
 forest. The thunder and the wind made strange sounds 
 in his ears, and he spoke feebly, as if the life-blood were 
 almost exhausted, and his broken words yet indicated 
 those sudden changes of delirious imagination from 
 woman s arms to battle-fields. His arm lay across his 
 breast ; but he lifted it in the air, and then laid it across 
 his forehead, now bared to the wind and rain. Then there 
 was no motion of his body except a faint clutching of his 
 fingers, and a tremulous movement of his lips, which 
 gave utterance to broken murmurs. 
 
 " The storm passed on, and in his dreams the roar of 
 
190 THE OLD HOUSE BT THE RIVER. 
 
 battle died far away, and he fancied triumphantly too, for 
 he smiled, and then he thought he was at home, innierrie 
 England, and listening to the sweetest music in the 
 world, and he said " Mary ! " in a low, broken tone, and 
 then a shudder in his frame rattled his sword in the 
 scabbard, and he was dead. 
 
 " The waiting stars broke with their glorious beauty 
 through the clouds, and their radiant beams fell on the 
 ripples of the river like the laughter of angels. And the 
 angels were glad. For on the summit of the hill that 
 overlooked the forest and the river, with arms wound in 
 the attitude of passionate devotion around the neck of the 
 fallen soldier, lay a child of earth that might have won 
 the love of one of the sons of Grod, so ravishingly beauti 
 ful was she. But the long lashes drooped on the cheeks, 
 and the closed lids shut in the starry eyes, and no breath 
 came through the just-parted lips, and she was dead, and 
 the angels were glad, for she had come back to them who 
 had been so long a wanderer from her native heaven. 
 
 " They slept well ! There was none of the formality of 
 death there ! There was no folding of the hands, or 
 crossing of the arms, or straightening of the limbs, for 
 the deep and chilling sleep. There was no bidding fare 
 well in hackneyed phrases, made up of words of this 
 earth s coldness, which at the best are frigid. There 
 was no sigh, no kiss, no convulsive grasping of the 
 fingers. But when she reached the brow of the hill, 
 and saw him, and saw that he was dead, she meekly 
 wound her arms around him, and laying her cheek by 
 
MART LEE. 191 
 
 his, smiled, and murmured to herself, " Thank God, it is 
 all over, and I may go," and went. The clay smiled yet, 
 though she was gone, and around her lips yet lingered 
 the kisses of the angels. 
 
 " Whether he and she met again, I know not ; I think 
 not. He was a fiend, if ever man was one, and she an 
 angel ; and I never heard that there was any island in 
 that great gulf we read of, on which those two might 
 meet : although, indeed, it seems from the Scripture 
 story, that they may speak from shore to shore, and I 
 have fancied that he might stand at times on that shore, 
 and call, in piteous accents of anguish, to her, on this. 
 But the songs of the angels prevent her hearing. 
 
 " In the winter nights I imagine the wind s sounds bring 
 similar wails to our ears, and that I often hear the agon 
 ized sobbing of the damned, when the blessed do not re 
 ply to their calls." 
 
XII. 
 
 |or*st f ilt 
 
WE had been in our cabin, perhaps, four weeks of an 
 autumn not long ago, when an early snow-storm 
 left a thin covering of white over everything. Coming 
 out of the cabin door in the morning, I observed a track 
 on the snow, which I would have preferred to see else 
 where, for I disliked extremely the proximity of wolves. 
 There was no mistake about this. He was a large one, 
 too, if the footprint could be believed a fair indication ; 
 and Black declared that he was one whom he knew well 
 of old, by the peculiar pressure of one of his fore-feet. 
 Black had sent a bullet after him once, with no effect 
 except to draw blood ; but he had always observed this 
 peculiarity in his footprint after that. He had been 
 missing now for two years, and his visit was unexpected 
 and not welcome. 
 
 "We started out after breakfast to look for him. The 
 track was rapid, as if he had been on the run, pausing a 
 moment at the door of our cabin, and then flying on 
 again. I followed him steadily into the forest, until I 
 found a place where he had doubled on his track, and, 
 
196 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 coming back a hundred yards, he had taken to a hollow 
 in which we had killed a buck a week previous, and left 
 his fore-quarters. Here the wolf had eaten his fill, and 
 taking the ravine down to the river, had gone up two 
 miles, and there crossed a shoal to the island. Whether 
 he was still on the island was problematical; but after 
 watching on shore, while the dogs scoured it, we con 
 cluded he was not there, but had crossed a narrow and 
 deep channel to the opposite shore. 
 
 This had occupied the whole day, and it was evening 
 when we turned homeward. The moon was near the 
 full, and everything gleamed in the light, as if a fairy 
 hand had illumined it with special lustre. Joe was in 
 remarkably fine spirits. It was not uncommon for him 
 to be somewhat sad on such a night as this. For in such 
 moony nights, the old familiar faces haunt us, and the 
 old familiar voices fill the air around us, and the hearts 
 which have ceased to beat long ago, seem to be beating 
 close against ours. A marvellous power has a moonlight 
 night in the early winter ; a power to call up the past, 
 and rebuild fallen temples, rekindle altar -fires that have 
 gone out, and gather again worshippers and deities that 
 have been long with their kindred dust, mouldering 
 away. 
 
 But now the past was dead, and nothing disturbed its 
 grave. So he was singing a brave old song, and I was 
 trying once in a while to get up a chorus. On the side 
 of the river the rocks were black, and the sun had quite 
 melted the snow from them. There was one spot where 
 
FOREST LIFE. 
 
 197 
 
 a tall tree overhung the stream ; but its branches cast 
 their shadow on the water, and not on the shore. We 
 passed close to it, and as John approached it, he paused 
 and snarled angrily. The sound was sufficiently startling. 
 It always meant something when he thus gave indications 
 of anger. He was a dog who distinguished between dif 
 ferent animals with marvellous keenness, and never 
 snarled at any but cross and dangerous game. " That 
 wolf is somewhere about," said Joe. I stooped down to 
 John to get the direction of his eye. It was fixed on the 
 river. At about a hundred yards from us was a small, 
 rocky island, containing not more than sixty square feet 
 of surface above the water. There was no snow left on 
 it, but the rocks were of a lighter color than those on 
 shore, and I saw that John was looking toward them. 
 
 Slowly approaching the trunk of the tree which stood 
 near the water, I knelt behind it, while Joe and John 
 walked on down. As I had hoped, I began to see a 
 motion on the island as soon as Joe had left me. The 
 ruse was good ; and whatever it was that lay there was 
 manifestly convinced that we had gone out of sight. Joe 
 had taken a position a little below, and where he could 
 command the other side of the island, which had a ridge 
 running diagonally across the river. 
 
 After a little I saw the movement of a head, and at 
 length a brown body rose from the surface of the rock, 
 and now the wolf was visible. I saw in a moment that 
 he had been carried down in trying to get ashore from 
 the island, and here had made land. He walked restlessly 
 
198 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 up and down the rock, trying the water with his feet 
 and nose occasionally, and at length stopped short, and 
 lifted his head as if to howl, but without emitting any 
 sound. At that moment I shot. My ball hit him, as 
 was evident from the leap he made ; but he stood per 
 fectly still for ten or twenty seconds afterwards. Then 
 he suddenly broke out with a wail of fury and of agony 
 that surpassed all description. You could have heard it 
 miles away. As it was, we heard the cry ringing through 
 the mountain gorges, echoing from the rocky hill sides, 
 and quivering in the forests as if the fiends were haunt 
 ing the wild-wood with discordant yells over some fiend 
 ish suffering. The sound died away ; and scarcely had 
 it ceased, when he broke out again with a cry tenfold as 
 fierce and thrilling. It rings in my ears yet. The river 
 ceased to dash over the rapids, the wind ceased its song 
 in the pine trees, the very moonlight seemed to tremble 
 in that unearthly scream. And now John spoke, not 
 with a bay, but with the wail with which a dog always 
 accompanies a loud sound of pain. He seemed to try to 
 howl, but he could not, and his voice stretched out on 
 the key-note which the wolf gave, only it was broken up 
 by wild, sharp barks and angry snarls, as if he were 
 howling against his will. Then came in a new sound. 
 I could not make it out at first, but at length I found 
 that it was Joe, who, to add to the din, was trying to 
 catch the note, but with poor success. Tired of the 
 noise, I shot my second ball. In an instant, as by 
 magic, a profound stillness took possession of everything. 
 
FOREST LIFE. 199 
 
 I never heard a noise more suddenly stilled. Wolf, dog, 
 and Joe, were alike silenced, and the sharp crack of my 
 rifle echoed from across the river, and then all was hushed. 
 
 The wolf was running, as if mad with pain, up and 
 down the rocky island. Joe shot, but missed him. I 
 shot, and missed him. For half an hour we kept him 
 moving, and how many bullets we put in him we never 
 knew. It grew tiresome, and we let him alone for awhile. 
 It may be imagined that, in the moonlight, over dashing, 
 sparkling water, with a poor background, and a mark not 
 very different in color from the rock itself, we were not 
 to be blamed for poor shooting. 
 
 At length he suspended his swift movements. I had 
 waited for the moment, and having taken a careful aim 
 at his cheek, sent my ball to the mark. I knew it by 
 the crashing sound which I heard (you doubt me ?) in 
 spite of the water and the wind. The wolf leaped ten 
 feet into the water, and we never saw a hair of him after 
 that. 
 
 " Talking of wolves," said Black one evening, a week 
 afterwards, " I can tell you a story no other man on the 
 river can tell." 
 
 It was a cold night, storming furiously, and on the 
 very edge of the window-sill was the surface of the snow; 
 for it had fallen without interval for nearly forty-eight 
 hours, and now the wind was rising, and in the morning 
 the drifts might be over all the cabin. There was a large 
 pile of wood in the corner, and a glorious blaze on the 
 hearth; and as the wind roared outside, the chimney 
 
 
200 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 roared cheerfully and sonorously within ; and once in a 
 while a little mass of snow that had gathered on the 
 chimney- top, would come hissing down into the fire, and 
 vanish as it touched the logs. Across the front of the 
 hearth lay Willis, on a pile of deer-skins, over which was 
 thrown a blanket. He was lying with his back to the fire, 
 and watched with curious earnestness the appearance of 
 John s nose as he lay sleeping on the floor. I was, as 
 usual, on my bear skin, in my corner, lying with my eyes 
 dazzled by the blaze into which I was gazing, and sup 
 porting my chin by my two hands, with my elbows buried 
 in the fur. Black sat on the stool at the opposite side of 
 the fire, and looked lovingly at us. For Black loved us, 
 as I have said. I will describe him. He is a large- 
 framed man, broad-shouldered and strong, but not stout 
 in appearance. His head is of a fine mould, the ear 
 small, the forehead not very high, but decidedly massive, 
 his lip especially well cut, his eye blue and quick, but not 
 sharp, his features thin, and his complexion pale. He 
 has not shaved for ten years, but his black beard and 
 moustache are trimmed always. Though he does not see 
 any one but hunters like himself from year to year, he is, 
 nevertheless, remarkably careful in this respect, and the 
 effect is to give his face that look of dignity which you 
 see in the old pictures of the cavaliers. He is about for 
 ty-five years old, and has passed more than twenty of 
 those years in the cabin, or one on its site. Before com 
 ing here, he had been in a highly respectable position, 
 and had made a small property, with the income from 
 
FOREST LIFE. 201 
 
 which he supplies his cabin now with every luxury he de 
 sires. He is not much given to reading, still less to 
 writing, but his letters are capital sketches of the life he 
 leads, and he tells a story of familiar scenes with the un 
 mistakable skill of an intelligent man. Do not mistake 
 me. Black is a man of character, and were he in the 
 world, would make his mark. I shall not say what keeps 
 him out of it. That is his own concern. 
 
 That scene in the cabin is before you. Black s feet 
 are toward the fire, and his eyes fixed on the toes of his 
 moccasons, which he wears in the evenings. The fire-light 
 dances on the varied skins around the cabin and on the 
 cross-poles, the trophies of many a long day s sport. The 
 dogs have selected each his own place, and Nora lies as 
 usual between me and the fire, baking her brain. 
 
 " Talking of wolf-hunts," said Black, " I can tell you a 
 story." 
 
 Whereupon Joe turned over toward the fire, and looked 
 up at Black, but in so doing, struck his foot against Nora s 
 nose, who sprang suddenly upon him, thinking it was the 
 commencement of fun, whereat Joe rolled out into the 
 room and woke John, who joined the sport, and while 
 Joe was wrestling with the dogs, Black continued, on this 
 wise : 
 
 " When I first came to the cabin, there was no clearing 
 within thirty miles, and the only neighbor I had, was 
 
 George B , who died last year, up by the cedar 
 
 hill, ten miles or so away. It was a little lonesome, and 
 
 yet I liked it for a year, and I saw George three times 
 
 9* 
 
202 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 during that twelvemonth. But the next six months I 
 never saw a man, and I used to sit and look at myself in 
 the still water over the side of my canoe, and like it, for 
 it seemed as if I had company. But one day in Novem 
 ber I was tired out of being alone, and I started off to 
 ward evening to go up to George s. I crossed the river 
 just here, and went along up the edge of the water, 
 swinging my rifle in my hand, whistling for company s 
 sake, for it made a pleasant echo in the woods. The 
 night was coolish, very clear, and there was a pleasant 
 moon. Just as I reached the Rock brook, close on the 
 side of the pond, I heard a growl that startled me, and 
 stopping short, I saw a wolf standing with his paw buried 
 in the carcass of a deer, while his jaws were full of the 
 flesh. But he was not eating, for he had seen me and 
 seemed to be discussing the comparative merits of his 
 meal before him, and the possible meal which I presented 
 for him. He wasn t any of your dog wolves, but a grizzly 
 rascal, large as John yonder, with longer hair and stouter 
 legs. He snarled once or twice more, and I was fool 
 enough to show fight. If I had let him alone, he would 
 have been content with his feed ; for they are cowardly 
 animals, except when there are droves of them, or unless 
 you disturb their eating. I took a short aim at him, and 
 shot. He jumped the instant I pulled trigger, and I 
 missed his breast and broke his fore-paw. Then he yelled 
 and came at me, and I heard, as I thought, fifty more 
 answer him. It wasn t ten seconds before I was in the 
 first crotch of the nearest tree, and four of the grizzly 
 
FOREST LIFE. 203 
 
 scoundrels were under it, looking at me, whining and 
 licking their lips as if their mouths watered for me. I 
 didn t understand their language, or I would have sug 
 gested the idea of satisfying their appetites on the deer 
 which lay a few rods off. But I couldn t persuade them 
 to take any hints of that sort, and so I loaded my rifle 
 and shot one of them as dead as the deer. There was 
 more for them to eat if they had chosen to devour their 
 own sort, but I couldn t blame them for refusing the 
 lean, bony carcass of such a comrade, especially when a 
 tolerably well-fattened man was in a small sapling close 
 by, and the more especially when, if they had any eyes, 
 they could see that the sapling was splitting in two at the 
 crotch, and I must come down soon, in spite of my repug 
 nance to a closer acquaintance with them. So it was 
 though, and before I had time to reload my rifle and de 
 spatch another of them, crack went the tree and I dropped 
 my rifle just quick enough to catch with arms and legs 
 around the tree and hold on for life, till I eould get out my 
 knife from my pocket, open it, and shove it into my belt. 
 That done, I watched my chance, and if there ever was a 
 scared wolf, that was one when I lighted on his back and 
 wound my arms around him and we rolled away together. 
 The other two didn t understand it at all, and backed off 
 to watch the fight. A pretty moonlight tussle that was. 
 At length the wolf got me under, and he and I both 
 thought I was done for. He planted his two paws in my 
 breast, and the claws left marks that are there yet, while 
 he seized my shoulder with his villanous jaws." 
 
204 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Black paused to show us the scars on his breast and 
 arms, particularly the large scar where the flesh was torn 
 from the bone on his shoulder. He continued : 
 
 " I was a little faint when his teeth went in. It was un 
 pleasant, and I had time to think of a dozen other ways 
 of dying, any one of which I would have preferred to 
 that, had a choice been possible. The wolf apparently 
 didn t like the hold he had, for he tore out his teeth, and 
 tore out my coat shirt and flesh too, and seized again on 
 my fur cap. It was a lucky mistake for me. I felt his 
 wet lips on my forehead, and had just time to let go my 
 hold of his throat and clutch my knife, when he shook off 
 the cap, and made another attempt to get a mouthful, 
 but his throat was in no fix to swallow it if he got it, for 
 my knife-blade was working desperately across his jugu 
 lar, and the point of it was feeling between the vertebras 
 for his spinal marrow. He was a dead wolf, and he gave 
 it up like one fairly whipped. 
 
 " I had bled considerably when I rose, but I wasn t 
 weakened a particle. The whole had passed in less than 
 half a minute, and I was ready for the other two, that 
 now came at me both together. 
 
 " I seized my rifle and met one with the barrel across 
 the nose and floored him. As he picked himself up, I 
 seized him by the hind foot. If the first wolf was scared 
 when I fell on him, this one was more so. I shall never 
 forget the howl which escaped him as I swung him into 
 the air and struck the other a blow with the body of his 
 comrade. The other one, the first I had wounded, 
 
FOREST LIFE. 205 
 
 frightened at the novel fight, vanished in the woods, and 
 I was left with this one in my hands. He seemed to let 
 out his voice with tremendous force as he swung around 
 my head twice. The centrifugal force, as they used to 
 call it at school, forced out his wind, but as I let him fly, 
 his scream was fairly demoniacal. He went a rod from 
 the bank, and the howl stopped only when he reached the 
 water. I was faint and weak now, and my visit to 
 George was of course out of the question ; so I seized my 
 rifle, loaded it with difficulty as I ran, and following the 
 water, I at length saw him come up. He struck in for 
 the shore, but seeing me, he didn t dare to land. I 
 teased him so for two miles, and each time he approached 
 the shore I showed myself and he kept off. I saw he 
 was getting tired, but I didn t want to shoot him yet, and 
 I followed him till he went over the rapids, and into the 
 deep hole by the Haunted Rock. Here I had to leave 
 the river bank, and so I watched him swimming along the 
 edge of the rock until he found a little shelf, on which he 
 crawled out and shook his hide. But he couldn t get up 
 that rock, that was pretty certain ; and while he was dis 
 cussing it all alone by himself, I helped him settle the ques 
 tion with a rifle ball in his side. He gave a mad half-bark 
 and half -yell, and sprang into the river, but didn t rise again. 
 " How I got to my canoe I don t know. I managed to 
 paddle over and get in here, half dead, with my blood all 
 over me, and my wounds frozen dry. Jt was a month 
 before I was well enough to hunt again, and I have been 
 shy of wolves ever since." 
 
206 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 As Black concluded, I looked at him with wonder 
 ment, knowing that this was not the most hazardous ad 
 venture of his life by many. He gazed into the fire a 
 little while without speaking, sighed heavily, and then re 
 suming his kindly look again, stooped to pat John, who 
 was sleeping with his broad lower jaw on Joe s breast, 
 while Joe lay on his back, looking up at the bark roof, 
 and listening to the roar of the tempest. 
 
 I have so frequently mentioned the hounds, that no one 
 can have failed to observe that we have regarded them 
 always with the affection of old friends : accustomed, as we 
 have been, to relying on them for companionship often 
 for weeks together, this is not strange; and they de 
 serve a separate chapter of biography, in the chronicle 
 of our lives. 
 
 Of Leo, I have heretofore written, and I have re 
 counted the death of John. Echo was a younger dog, of 
 the same breed ; and Nora, who lies at my feet even now, 
 is a hound of greater value than can be measured by 
 money. John was a dog of unusual tenacity of purpose, 
 and, to use a familiar phrase, had uncommon bottom. 
 
 In one of our autumn visits to the cabin, I had taken 
 with me three dogs, John, Hero, and Nora. The two 
 last named were then young. John usually outran all 
 the chase ; and having better bottom, lasted longer on a 
 run of some hours. He had never run with Hero nor 
 Nora, and I was uncertain, indeed, as to what their abil 
 ity might be in a long chase. One morning, however, we 
 left John at the cabin, and took out Hero, Nora, and 
 
FOREST LIFE. 207 
 
 Lion, a dog then belonging to Black. Within ten min 
 utes they opened and went down toward the creek, pass 
 ing between the cabin and the river. John, hearing their 
 voices, broke his rope, and dashing through the little 
 window which was open, overtook them with tremendous 
 leaps, and the whole four went in full cry across the 
 creek, and again out on the mountain. Their voices 
 grew fainter and fainter, and at length died wholly away. 
 Placing ourselves at the runs, we waited patiently two 
 hours before we heard a sound, and then I caught John s 
 voice at least four miles off. An instant afterwards I 
 heard a fainter sound, which was not the same, and yet 
 much like it. "Willis, who was lying by my side, said, 
 " Can that be an echo ?" " Impossible," said I. The 
 cry approached, and as it came nearer, it was absolutely 
 puzzling, for I could swear to John s voice in both cases. 
 " It is an echo," said Joe. " Then it s a travelling 
 echo," said I, " for it sticks to John." Directly it be 
 came more clear, and there was now, evidently, some 
 distance between the two voices, and Joe deliberately 
 insisted on his idea of an echo ; and, at length, our dis 
 cussion was interrupted by the deer dashing down to the 
 water at our run, and Joe shot him. At the next in 
 stant, Nora and John came up side by side ; and as I 
 saw them, I heard the other sound some hundred rods 
 below, and hurrying down, reached the second run in 
 time to see a deer take to the water, with Hero close on 
 him. " Here is your echo, Joe," said I to myself, as I 
 saw the good dog standing on the river bank, watching 
 
208 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 the swimming buck, which was out of my reach. The 
 deer crossed, was shot at on the opposite side by some 
 one, and turned instantly back into the water, and swam 
 towards me. As he came out on my side, he was ready 
 to charge Hero, who was ready to receive him. Already, 
 his hair was bristling forward, and his eye flashing, and 
 he had made the first bound toward the dog, when my 
 ball struck him, and he staggered forward and fell. 
 Hero seized him and held his head till I cut his throat, 
 and thenceforth was called Echo, in memory of his first 
 long run and brave bringing-in of the deer. It proved 
 him and Nora fully equal to John, and their names soon 
 became well known along the river. 
 
 Several years after that, a jealousy arose between the 
 hunters on the two several sides of the river, and a 
 threat was made, that if the dogs of either were found on 
 the opposite side, they should be shot. One morning, 
 Nora and Echo brought the deer down the river on our 
 side, but some hundred rods above the run, and the deer 
 crossing, they swam after him. Instantly fearing for 
 them, I crossed in the canoe, and waited the turn of the 
 game, which I judged from the closeness of the dogs at 
 his heels, would not be far oif. Ten minutes might have 
 passed when I heard a rifle-shot. Five minutes more, 
 and I saw the deer dash into the river at the run, and 
 swim across. Willis shot him on the eastern bank. But 
 the dogs did not come. I called them with as loud a 
 voice as I could raise, and at length they came out of the 
 cover, and turned their heads toward me. I saw in an 
 
FOREST LIFE. 209 
 
 instant that Echo was hurt, and Nora was running for 
 ward and then back to his side, as if encouraging him to 
 make a little more exertion, only a little more, and he 
 would be in safe hands. My poor Echo staggered 
 toward me, and as I advanced to meet him, fell at my 
 feet, and licked my shoes. Nora, for an instant, seemed 
 perfectly rejoiced to have got Echo safely to me, and 
 sprang on me, and then around me, barking vociferously. 
 But suddenly catching her companion s eye, she stopped, 
 and coming up to him, licked the blood from his neck, 
 and stood directly over him, looking mournfully into his 
 face, as I raised his head on my hand to examine him. 
 
 Echo was shot through the neck, and at the first look 
 I feared the worst. He had been doubtless close on the 
 game, and side by side with Nora, when the ball struck 
 him. And she, gallant dog, when he fell, gave up the 
 chase, and turned to help him. As I knelt by Echo on 
 the shore, I felt a deeper sorrow than you would believe 
 possible for the loss of such a friend. My companion 
 was dying. In countless scenes of my life the good dog 
 had been with me and shared my fare, good or poor, on 
 equal terms. Not a hunter on the river but knew Echo 
 and Nora, and I did not think a man could be found that 
 would shoot either of them knowingly. 
 
 Yet, as I knelt there, he came out of the woods 
 toward me. My attention was called to him by Nora s 
 growling and showing her teeth. I turned, and he ad 
 vanced, saying, with an oath, " You ll learn to keep your 
 dogs in their place after this." " Are you the scoundrel 
 
210 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 that shot that dog ?" " None of your scoundrels to me. 
 If you don t use better names, I ll teach you the lesson 
 your dog got." " My man," said I, " you would do well 
 to keep your mouth carefully shut until you are in cover 
 yonder ; for if you open your lips again to use such lan 
 guage, I ll point my finger at you nothing more and 
 that dog will tear you into more pieces than there will 
 be seconds in the next minute. You see her. She would 
 be delighted to get hold of you, and if she makes one leap 
 at you, I ll not take the trouble to call her off." As I 
 spoke, he looked at me ; and when I concluded, he began 
 to move his rifle from his shoulder ; but Nora crouched 
 for a leap, and her low growl seemed to be full of con 
 densed anger as she fixed her eyes on him. I knelt again 
 by the side of Echo, and paid no farther attention to him. 
 At this moment, unseen by me, Black, who had crossed 
 in the other canoe, came up, and as he approached, the 
 villain turned back into the cover, and we lifted Echo 
 into the canoe, and paddled slowly across. 
 
 All our care proved useless, and the next morning, a 
 little after sunrise, he was dead. Nora never left his side 
 till we buried him. Joe selected a place to bury him, at 
 the foot of a high rock, and I spent half the forenoon in 
 chiselling on the rock s side, above the grave, with a broken 
 blade of a knife for a chisel, and a stone for a mallet, 
 
 THIS IS THE GRAVE OF 
 
 THE HUT IS ENDED. 
 
FOKEST LIFE. 211 
 
 To this day, Nora remembers her old companion, and 
 starts when his name is called. One night, last Fall, we 
 were gliding down the river in a swift current. Joe 
 was guiding the canoe, and I lay down and read aloud 
 by the light of a pine-knot, from a chance newspaper we 
 had picked up that day, the incidents of the far-off me 
 tropolis. No painter could do justice to that scene. No 
 painter could introduce the ripple of the river, the steady 
 swaying of Willis s tall form to the paddle stroke, the 
 swift gliding of the water by the side of the canoe, the 
 occasional cry of a night bird on the mountain side, the 
 holy stars looking peacefully down on us as we swept 
 swiftly along with the stream. There was a moan of 
 wind on the hill-tops, and we could see at times, tall 
 hemlocks against the star-lit sky, swinging their branches 
 solemnly, as if joining in a mystical worship. But it was 
 perfectly still on the water, until I had finished reading, 
 folded the paper, and laid my head on Nora, who was oc 
 cupying the extreme stern of the canoe. Then a gust 
 came down the mountain and dashed my fire-light over 
 board, and we shot swiftly onward. Seeing my position, 
 Joe shouted " Echo !" Nora sprang from under me, and 
 was at his side in an instant. But no Echo was there, 
 and she looked wistfully up to his face, as if to ask if in 
 deed he had called her old companion. 
 
 The recollection of that day and night comes to me 
 with startling force now. The day had been a long and 
 weary one, marked by only one incident, yet that one had 
 left a deep impression on both our minds. We had 
 
212 THB OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 stumbled on a solitary grave in the midst of the forest, 
 and were started by the suddenness of the discovery. For 
 a grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy ser 
 mon to the soul. 
 
 It was on this wise. Black had taken the long canoe 
 some ten miles up the river, and left it there. The day 
 before, we had left the cabin at an early hour before day 
 light, and hunted the day out, but found no game, and were 
 fifteen miles from the cabin at dark. So contenting our 
 selves as well as we could with the hard bread in our 
 pockets, and making a good fire, we sat and talked till 
 the small hours came on, and then after turning over 
 half-a-dozen times to find which side was the softest, I 
 at length succeeded in making myself comfortable, and 
 slept deliciously. I suppose Willis did the same. I 
 asked no questions in the morning when I awoke, and 
 found him lying on his back with his eyes open. 
 
 Joe was fortunate in hitting a partridge that was sit 
 ting on a tree, and we breakfasted at eight o the clock, 
 on broiled partridge and cold corn bread. Refreshed no 
 less by the brilliancy of the morning than by the break 
 fast, we trudged toward the river, which lay some seven 
 miles from us. We were walking some rods apart, when 
 I came suddenly on that grave. It was on an oak-shaded 
 mound, around which a stream bent almost in a circle, 
 and then ran on toward the river. I was laughing aloud 
 at one of Joe s characteristic witticisms, when I suddenly 
 stepped on it. There is no mistaking a grave, meet it 
 where you may. I have sometimes been inclined to be- 
 
FOREST LIFE. 213 
 
 lieve the old superstition, that one cannot walk over the 
 dead without a chill at heart. But this was palpably a 
 resting-place of clay that had once been the jailor of im 
 mortality. 
 
 I paused reverently, and the laugh died on my lip. 
 Joe turned to see the cause of such a sudden stop. 
 " Phil !" No answer. " What s the matter, Phil ?" No 
 reply. " What s there ?" "Come here, Joe." He came, and 
 looking down, exclaimed, " Ah I see. Here, as every 
 where. Well, well, the dead sleep well. Let s go on." 
 
 But- 1 not so ready to move from that holy spot in 
 the forest, (holy because the entrance to eternity was 
 there, a gate to immortality) threw myself down on the 
 turf, and sought with my hands among the dried leaves 
 that covered the mound, for some memento of the dead 
 one. 
 
 At length I found a rude stone, from which I cleared 
 the leaves and moss, and sought an inscription. But in 
 vain. There was a mark, as if the hand of affection had 
 traced with a rude graver on the rough, unhewn forest 
 rock, the sign of salvation through the Crucified ; but 
 whether it was truly a cross, or whether it was a letter T, 
 or simply an indentation in the stone, I could not tell 
 certainly, but I thought it was the former. 
 
 I like that cross. Say of it what you will, I like, 
 wherever I meet it, the symbol of our holy faith. I like 
 it on the church-spire, where between the sunshine and 
 the earth, it stands showing to all men that we worship 
 the Son of God, and where the eye that looks to it, with 
 
214 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 the same gaze looks on to heaven. I like it on the breast, 
 jewelled and gold, where it makes a never-ceasing ac 
 knowledgment of the creed of the Christian. I like it on 
 the grave, and though it be now the property (by adop 
 tion) of a church that calls me a heretic, still it is pleas 
 ant to me to see a tablet marked with the mark of Cal 
 vary, and the initials of His holiest title "I. H. S." 
 
 " The dead," said Willis, " sleep well," and I looked 
 for an instant enviously on that shadowy sleeping-place, 
 where the weary one was at rest ! 
 
 Enviously, I say ; for there was a sense of deep repose 
 about it, an utter separation from the labor of living. No 
 heavy roar of carriages echoes in the vaulted sepulchre 
 no voice scarce audible hum of humanity, steals down 
 among coffined sleepers. Not even the grief of the living 
 disturbed that profound rest, nor tears of agony, which 
 would, if aught could, make restless in their sleep the 
 buried ones, fall on the mound. The rustle of the leaves 
 in autumn, that low musical rustle, which is the fittingly 
 mournful lullaby of the death-slumber, the ripple, of the 
 brook over an unseen rock these sounds alone broke the 
 deep stillness of the forest sleeper s chamber. That 
 chamber was the temple of God, not made with hands. 
 The arches of the forest trees were its roof, and through 
 the irregular windows that let in the light, I could see 
 the far-away blue of His all- watching eye. " The dead 
 sleep well." 
 
 So turning to Willis who had seated himself on the foot 
 of the grave, while I was kneeling at the head, groping 
 
FOREST LIFE. 215 
 
 with my fingers about that cross-marked stone, I preached 
 him a sermon from his text. 
 
 Aye Joe they sleep well "after life s fitful fever." It 
 was but a few weeks ago, that we were seated together by 
 the fire-side at home, and some one said of a friend, " she 
 is dead." 
 
 Lucy s little Jamie, a bright boy of scarce four years, 
 looked up from his play, and echoed the word in a sad 
 tone, " Dead? Dead ?" and then seemed buried in thought 
 for awhile, until, with a deep sigh, he said, " How many 
 are dead !" and coming to his mother laid his head on her 
 lap and named over the friends he, so very young, had 
 missed from their accustomed places. But their weari 
 ness is over. In the twilight of a sunny land, when the 
 worshipper of the prophet goes home from toil, as he 
 passes near the walls of St. Sophia, he hears a call, and 
 pausing reverently, obeys the musical voice that falls as 
 from the sky, " To Prayer." In the stillness of their 
 souls, when the labor of life had been toilsome and the 
 twilight of sorrow had fallen grayly and coldly over them, 
 a voice fell from heaven in tones more melodious than 
 ever fell Muezzin voice from Minaret of Omar, filling the 
 stilled air with its winning sweetness, " Come unto me ye 
 weary." They sleep well ! 
 
 But I was speaking of the hounds, when I was led 
 into this digression. Leo, Echo, and John are dead. A 
 kennel of younger dogs of the same breed, stout, broad- 
 breasted, heavy hounds, make the moonlight nights around 
 the old hall hideous with their baying. Nora, calm 
 
216 THE OLD HOUSE BY THH RIVER. 
 
 and contented, rests at my feet on the wolf-skin hearth 
 rug, and loses not a word of the conversation around her. 
 Lucy and the children regard her as their safest com 
 panion, and Joe and I look lovingly on the good dog. She 
 is as intelligent as half the men in the world, and has 
 proved her reasoning faculties often to my entire satis 
 faction. 
 
 The very last day that we were at our cabin, I had oc 
 casion to go to the Post-office, ten miles down the river, 
 and took Nora for company. We made the walk pleas 
 ant by an interchange of sentiments on various subjects 
 for Nora has a speaking eye, and when anything pleases 
 or displeases her, she will stand and look with as decided 
 an expression of approbation or disapproval in her eye 
 and face, as you can find in many men s countenances. 
 She was running some rods in front of me, and came to 
 a bend in the river where there was a broad and compar 
 atively still sheet of water. I saw her stop and look at 
 the water, and then turn her face toward me with an ex 
 pression that I am perfectly familiar with. It said as 
 plainly as words could say, " Come here and look. Here s 
 something worth seeing." So I walked up to her, and 
 saw that she was looking at a loon that was sitting on 
 the water about sixty yards from the shore. The mo 
 ment I saw it, Nora looked up into my face with a sort 
 of smile that was half comical and half satisfied, and I 
 said, "Yes, yes, Nora, I see him. 1 She then turned 
 away and ran on, and I followed her. Nora, the dog, 
 understood perfectly well that that loon was no game, 
 
FOREST LIFE. 217 
 
 and so didn t wait to see me shoot, nor wonder why I 
 did not. Had it been a duck or a goose, she would have 
 stood till I shot, and then gone after it, nor could I have 
 called her very easily away from the place if I had not 
 shot. But she had often seen me glance at loons, and 
 she knew that they were worth looking at, but not worth 
 shooting. And her face, as she stood on the bank, was 
 decidedly expressive of enjoyment of the scene. 
 
 We strolled along down the river bank, and at length 
 reached a spot in which I have often lingered as one of 
 eminent beauty. The forest is not so dense here, but 
 the trees are lofty, and intertwine their branches far up 
 from the ground ; and when the wind begins to rise, as it 
 did when we entered the opening, there is a faint sound 
 as of the murmur of a crowd falling in the air and filling 
 it with an indistinct melody. I have often thought it 
 like that indescribable sound which is always hanging 
 over a great city, (who has not noticed it ?) and which 
 is perfectly distinct from the roar of carriages and the 
 tramp of men and horses over the pavements. I have 
 listened to it in a still night, and it has seemed to me to 
 be the mingling of a half million voices, giving utterance 
 to the varied passions and emotions of as many souls. 
 It is the far-off surf roar of the great ocean of life, as one 
 by one its waves break on surrounding shores, or meet 
 and struggle with one another, and fall with fainter mur 
 muring into the deep. 
 
 Having gone on to the Post-office without adventure, 
 I obtained my letters, and returned to the same spot, 
 10 
 
218 THE OLD HOUSE Bf THE RIVER. 
 
 where I rested on a fallen tree, and became absorbed in 
 the contents of my letters and papers, so that I did not 
 hear a sound until Nora uttered a low ejaculation or 
 whine, and I started up. The dog had seen a deer com 
 ing down to the opposite side of the river on a full run, 
 and taking to the water. She knew well enough to keep 
 silent, and had called my attention without too much 
 noise. 
 
 The deer crossed and came up with long, graceful 
 leaps as he reached shallow water. I was in an exposed 
 position, but did not dare to move, lest his quick eye 
 should detect me. He was a noble fellow, with head 
 thrown up, and nostrils distended, proving by this last 
 indication that he was chased. Yet I heard no sound of 
 dogs on the other side. At length he reached the shore, 
 but caught sight of me before his body was fairly up the 
 bank, and wheeling instantly, dashed back into the water. 
 I sprang to my feet and sent a ball after him. His head 
 and neck were all that were above the bank, and I shot 
 for the junction of them both ; that is, I designed to hit 
 him back of his ear, and, if it might be, break his spine. 
 This I think the safest shot in such cases, inasmuch as a 
 ball in the head is always doubtful, except when deer are 
 swimming and the head is moving in a direct line. But 
 probably in this case the flapping of a large ear prevent 
 ed my aim from being accurate ; and he did not stop, but 
 was out of sight before I could send a second ball after 
 him. Dashing down stream, he re-crossed some thirty 
 rods below, and as he went out on the other side, was 
 
FOREST LIFE. 219 
 
 shot by a man from up stream, whom I recognized. By 
 signs he gave me to understand that my ball had passed 
 through the neck ; but as it was late, and I was behind 
 my time already, I did not wait for farther conversation, 
 nor did I demand my share, but pushed on homeward. 
 
 The wind went down with the sun, and a deep repose 
 appeared to be falling on nature. There was a lazy loll 
 ing of the tree-tops on the air, as boats might rock on a 
 heavy ground-swell at sea. But there was no voice nor 
 any appearance of life in all the forest. The stillness 
 was profound, and the hush of nature entered my soul. 
 As I walked slowly along in the glooming twilight, I be 
 came strangely sad, or, perhaps, I should rather say, se 
 rious, and solemn thoughts filled my mind. The old 
 fancy, and the pleasantest one of all my life, to which I 
 cling with religious faith, returned upon me. I felt that 
 the dead might there visit me again. Their breath was 
 in the charmed air, their voices in my soul of souls ! 
 Their invisible forms filled the forest around me, and 
 made holier the rays of the first star that peered down 
 through the branches of the trees. Anon I fancied the 
 stillness broken, by their musical voices singing a hymn 
 of peace. How it floated up into the sky! How it 
 thrilled in the dim arches ! How it won my soul with 
 its holy sweetness ! I sat down on a, rock, and Nora 
 came and lay at my feet. It was dark, and grew darker 
 as clouds swept up the sky and hid the stars. The wind 
 rose, and now moaned in the tree-tops, as when a coming 
 storm foretells its coldness in those low tones. 
 
220 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 I had reached a hill, on which I now stood, and looked 
 over the forest. The trees tossed their branches to and 
 fro, and the green hemlocks rose and fell, and dashed 
 hither and thither, looking like the waves of a stormy 
 sea. I fancied myself again on the ocean-shore. The 
 wind-wail grew wilder. Every tone imaginable might be 
 heard. Shouts, as if of sailors on some struggling ship; 
 loud shouts, louder, and now a scream of terror ; and at 
 length as the gust grew strong in the branches of a leaf 
 less oak above me, I fancied I could hear the whistling 
 of the sea-wind through the cordage of the vessel as she 
 neared the shore, and that grew fiercer and shriller till 
 crash a giant hemlock went down on the hill-side, and 
 the wind howled fiercely, and the crash of the great tree 
 through smaller ones, and the howl of the wind, were so 
 wild, that I added my shout to the accumulated noise, 
 and that broke so suddenly on the air that the wind 
 seemed scared and instantly hushed to perfect stillness. 
 It was as if the wind had been a living, longing being, 
 and had been revelling all alone in the dark forest, but 
 was startled at the unexpected presence of a man. At 
 this instant, while my eye was fixed on the surface of the 
 tossing sea to northward, I saw the top of a distant hem 
 lock suddenly grow white, and was astonished, as you may 
 well imagine. In the deep gloom the appearance of the 
 forest had been so sea-like, that but little imagination 
 was necessary to make it perfect, But when I saw a 
 foam-crest on the top of a wave I was not a little startled. 
 Wheeling to the east I saw a rift in the black clouds, 
 
FOREST LIFE. 
 
 221 
 
 and doubted not that a stray moonbeam had escaped 
 through it, and fallen on the far-off tree. 
 
 A half hour later, as I came out on the bank of the 
 creek, and shouted for Joe to ferry me over, I looked up 
 to the sky. It was clear and cloudless. The stars sat 
 silently, calmy, happily on their thrones. The wind was 
 wholly gone, and the moonlight danced on the ripples of 
 the river. 
 
 For the memory of a hundred such days in the forest we 
 love Nora, and we love the memory of her brave fellows. 
 There were holier reasons for loving Leo. Of those I 
 have spoken. 
 
XIII. 
 
ONE winter evening our conversation was about spir 
 itual existence, and the presence of the invisible ; and 
 in this, Willis and myself agree substantially on every 
 point ; therefore we have no occasion to debate ; but 
 when the subject arises, as it frequently does, for it is 
 the pleasantest of all topics to both of us, we sit looking 
 at the fire, and one speaks while the other listens speaker 
 and listener alternating until at length we sit silently, 
 and the spirits who have listened to us, I doubt not, 
 whisper to us words that confirm us in our creed. 
 
 I mentioned the death of one whom he and I had 
 known and perhaps had loved. For I love many, and 
 so does Willis. 
 
 " Speak lower, Phil; he hears you." 
 
 " Joe, why is it that we have a way of speaking lower 
 when we talk of the spiritual ? Do you think it matters 
 anything to them how loud or how low we speak ?" 
 
 " No doubtless not. And yet when we talk of mat 
 ters of deep interest to the soul it seems to be desirable 
 to reduce our conversation as nearly to the spiritual as 
 10* 
 
226 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 is possible. I would never speak of the dead in other 
 than gentle language, nor of heaven in tones of earthly 
 enthusiasm. I do not believe that on them our voices 
 make any impression, for they know and read our 
 thoughts before we utter them. It is their holy com 
 munion with us to-night that has so subdued me ; and 
 sometimes I have fancied, even while sitting here, that I 
 should burst into tears, though I have not wept since 
 
 since But let that pass. They are here. Be sure 
 
 of that, Phil. I heard a voice but a moment since with 
 my spiritual ears, which was none other than the voice 
 of my sainted mother. Her voice has passed away from 
 the earth a score of years. Its very memory exists not 
 save in my own heart. But it was not the memory of it 
 that startled me just now. It was her own self bending 
 lovingly over me, and saying to the troubled waters in 
 my soul, Peace, be still; for they are still, and memory 
 would not have prevailed thus. 
 
 " And if you would convince me that I am wrong in 
 my firm belief, you must invent some power to lay the 
 spiritual visitors I haye o nights in this dear old house, 
 and unweave the wizard spells that so surround me 
 here, and charm away the kisses that wake me so joy 
 ously at midnight, and the white arms that so fondly 
 enfold me. I know, as you know, Phil, that the forms I 
 see in dreams, not sleeping, but broad-awake dreams, are 
 long since mould ; aye, dust dust scattered, mayhap, 
 on the wind. I know those lips that so gladden me are 
 ashes, and that the arms whose meek embrace awakes 
 
SPIRITUAL PRESENCE. 227 
 
 me, have lost their whiteness and their roundness. It is 
 not those lips and arms I feel. It is not those forms I 
 see. But it is the same kiss, the same fond clasp, my 
 soul receives !" 
 
 " And wherefore not, Joe ? I am as well satisfied of 
 this as you. I doubt not their presence. A spirit knows 
 no distance, exists no where. It is, so far as space and 
 distance are concerned, omnipresent. It does not change 
 place, it has no motion ; it is not as we used to say, in 
 analytical geometry, related to any axes. Thus, if at 
 this moment, a spirit is in communion with you, it is not 
 necessarily in this room, so far from the sides, and so far 
 from floor and ceiling. In short, spiritual existence 
 knows no space, and hence, if your gentle mother be in 
 communion with the inhabitants of the faintest star that 
 glimmers yonder through the old oak tree, and desires 
 to whisper joyful words to you, she has but to turn her 
 attention to you and she is with you instantly, and as 
 instantly may return to her converse with the inhabit 
 ants of the star. To her, as to all who have passed 
 from the material to the immaterial, America and Asia, 
 the earth and the sun, stars and the material universe, 
 all are present, and she present with all. 
 
 " There are distances in the existence which is hers ; 
 but like that existence they are spiritual ; such for ex 
 ample as exists between heaven and hell a vast gulf 
 of impassable width, yet so near are they who stand on 
 its two shores that they may easily converse. Distance 
 is not measured there by the passage of sound or of 
 
228 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 light, but God is the centre, and all distances depend on 
 spiritual nearness to him. 
 
 " Something similar may be true even in this world, 
 and psychological investigators profess to believe that 
 there is no distance between any two souls even in the 
 body. I am much inclined to think so too, for I certain 
 ly cannot so strain my idea of soul, or spirit, as to im 
 agine it as residing in a brain or a body. These senses 
 and features of mine are the means my soul has of com 
 munion with the world, and my soul has some way of 
 using them, and when I say < I am here, I mean my 
 body is here, but as to my soul its locality is no more 
 here, in this spot, than it is by the side of a dear one far 
 away, or in heaven with the sainted ; in other words, lo 
 cality is not one of its properties." 
 
 " By-the-by, Phil, talking of spiritual communion re 
 minds me of a story my old friend Mr. Stewart told me, 
 about the way in which he won a wife. There was an odd 
 part of the history which I never believed exactly, for 
 the old man was, I think, a little cracked on that point, 
 but it is worth the telling nevertheless, and the super 
 natural part let him believe who chooses. A man who 
 was swimming all night long by the side of a wreck, was 
 in no condition to philosophize. But I ll give you his 
 story in his own words as nearly as I can recollect them. 
 I have his manuscript autobiography, but that contains 
 much that is dull. He told me this once on his piazza, 
 when we were smoking away a summer evening. 
 
MR. STEWART S STORY. 229 
 
 ME. STEWART S STORY. 
 
 " I was a lonely sort of a bachelor, and had never yet 
 known what young men style the passion. Of passion I 
 had enough as my old man yonder can tell you. I broke 
 his head twice, and his arm once, in fits of it, but he has 
 always seemed to love me all the better, and he clings 
 to me now, very much as two pieces of the same ship 
 cling together when drifting at sea. We are the sole sur 
 vivors of a thousand wrecks ; and of the gallant company 
 that sailed with us years ago, no other one is left afloat. 
 I had been a sailor from boyhood, and when I was twen 
 ty-five I may safely say no man was more fit to command 
 a vessel among the mariners of England. And at this 
 time my old uncle died, and left me his fortune. I had 
 never seen him, and hardly knew of his existence, but I 
 had now speaking evidence of the fact that he had existed, 
 and equally good proof that he existed no longer. I was 
 young, strong in limb, and I think stout in heart, and I 
 was possessed of a rental of some thousands per annum. 
 What bar was there to my enjoyment of the goods of 
 life ? No bar indeed, but I felt sorely the lack of means 
 of enjoyment. I was a sailor in every sense. My educa 
 tion was tolerable, and I had read some books, but my 
 tastes were nautical, and I pined on shore. You will 
 easily understand then why it was that I built a yacht, 
 and spent most of my time on her. She was a fine craft, 
 suited to my taste in every respect, and I remember 
 
230 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE EIVER. 
 
 with a sigh now the happy days I passed in the Foam 
 I used to read considerably in my cabin, and occasionally, 
 indeed weekly, invited parties of gentlemen to cruise 
 with me. But the foot of a lady never had been on the 
 deck of my boat, and I began to have an old bachelor s 
 pride in that fact. Yet, I confess to you a secret longing 
 for some sort of affection different from any I had here 
 tofore known, and a restlessness when men talked of 
 beautiful women in my presence. 
 
 " One summer evening I was at the old hall in which 
 my uncle had died, and was entirely alone. Toward sun 
 set I was surprised while over a book, by the entrance of 
 a gentleman, hastily announced, and giving indications 
 of no little excitement. 
 
 " Your pardon, sir, for my unceremonious entrance. 
 My horses have run away with my carriage, and dashed 
 it to pieces near your park-gate. My father was badly 
 injured, and my sister is now watching him. I have 
 taken the liberty to ask your permission to bring him to 
 your residence. 
 
 " Of course my consent was instantly given, and my 
 own carriage despatched to the park-gates. 
 
 " Mr. Sinclair was a gentleman of fortune, residing 
 about forty miles from me ; and his father, an invalid, 
 fifty years or more of age, was on his way, in company 
 with his son, to that son s house, there to die and be 
 buried. They were strangers to me, but I made them 
 welcome to my house, as if it were their own, and insisted 
 on their so using it, 
 
MB. STEWART S STORY. 231 
 
 " Miss Sinclair was the first woman who had crossed 
 my door-stone since I had been the possessor of the hall. 
 And well might she have been loved by better men 
 than I. She was very small and very beautiful of the 
 size of the Yenus which all men worship as the perfec 
 tion of womanly beauty, but having a soft blue eye 
 strangely shaded by jet-black brows. Her face presented 
 the contrast of purity of whiteness in the complexion, set 
 off by raven hair, and yet that hair hanging in clustering 
 curls, unbound by comb or fillet, and the whole face lit 
 up with an expression of gentle trust, complete confidence 
 either in all around her, or else in her own indomitable 
 determination. For Mary Sinclair had a mind of her 
 own, and a far-seeing one too. She was eighteen then. 
 
 " Efer father died in my house, and I attended the 
 solemn procession that bore his remains, over hill and 
 valley, to the old church in which his ancestors were laid. 
 Once after that I called on the family, and then avoided 
 them. I cannot tell you what was the cause of the aver 
 sion I had to entering that house, or approaching the in 
 fluence of that matchless girl. I believe that I feared 
 the magic of her beauty, and was impressed with my 
 own unworthiness to love her or be loved by her. I knew 
 her associates were of the noble, the educated, the refined, 
 and that I was none of these. What then could I ex 
 pect but misery, if I yielded to the charm of that exqui 
 site beauty, or the graces which I knew were in her soul ? 
 
 " A year passed, and I was a very boy in my continual 
 thoughts of her ; I persuaded myself a thousand times 
 
232 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 that I did not love her, and a thousand times determined 
 to prove it by entering her presence. At length I threw 
 myself into the vortex of London society, and was lost in 
 the whirlpool. 
 
 " One evening, at a crowded assembly, I was standing 
 near the window in a recess, talking with a lady, when I 
 felt a strange thrill. I cannot describe it to you, but its 
 effect was visible to my companion who said instantly, 
 You are unwell, Mr. Stewart, are you not ? Not at 
 all, madam ; why did you think so ? l Your face became 
 suddenly flushed, and your hand trembled so as to shake 
 the curtain. 
 
 " It was inexplicable to myself, but I was startled at 
 the next instant by the announcement of Mr. and Miss 
 Sinclair. I turned and she was entering, on her bro 
 ther s arm, more beautiful than ever. How I escaped 
 I do not know, but I did so. 
 
 " Thrice afterwards I was warned of her presence in 
 the same mysterious way, till I believed that there was 
 some link between us two of unknown but powerful 
 character. I have since learned to believe the commu 
 nion of spirit with spirit sometimes without material in 
 tervention. 
 
 " I heard of her frequently now as engaged to marry 
 a Mr. Waller ; a man whom I knew well, and was ready 
 to honor as worthy of her love. When at length I saw, 
 as I supposed, satisfactory evidence of the truth of the 
 rumor, I left London and met them no more. The 
 same rumors followed me in letters, and yet I was mad 
 
233 
 
 enough to dream of Mary Sinclair, until months after I 
 woke to the sense of what a fool I had been. Convinced 
 of this, I went on board my yacht about mid-summer, and 
 for four weeks never set foot on shore. 
 
 " One sultry day, when the pitch was frying on deck 
 in the hot sun, we rolled heavily in the Bay of Biscay, 
 and I passed the afternoon under a sail on the larboard 
 quarter-deck. Toward evening, I fancied a storm was 
 brewing, and having made all ready for it, smoked on the 
 taffrail till midnight, and then turned in. Will you be 
 lieve me, I felt that strange thrill through my veins, as I 
 lay in my hammock, and awoke with it, fifteen seconds 
 before the watch on deck called suddenly to the man at 
 the wheel, Port port your helm ! a sail on the lea-bow. 
 Steady ! so ! 
 
 " I was on deck in an instant, and saw that a stiff breeze 
 was blowing, and a small schooner, showing no lights, had 
 crossed our fore -foot within a pistol-shot, and was now 
 bearing up to the north-west. The sky was cloudy and 
 dark, but the breeze was very steady ; and I went below 
 again, and after endeavoring vainly to explain the emo 
 tion I had felt in any reasonable way, I at length fell 
 asleep, and the rocking of my vessel, as she flew before 
 the wind, gave just motion enough to my hammock to 
 lull me into sound slumber. But I dreamed all night 
 of Mary Sinclair. I dreamed of her, but it was in un 
 pleasant dreams. I saw her standing on the deck of the 
 Foam, and as I advanced toward her, the form of Waller 
 would interpose. I would fancy, at times, that my arms 
 
234 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 were around her, and her form was resting against my 
 side, and her head lay on my shoulder ; and then, by the 
 strange mutations of dreams, it was not I, but Waller, 
 that was thus holding her ; and I was chained to a post, 
 looking at them, and she would kiss him, and again the 
 kiss would seem to be burning on my lips. The morning 
 found me wide awake, reasoning myself out of my fancies. 
 By noon I had enough to do. The ocean was roused. 
 A tempest was out on the sea, and the Foam went be 
 fore it. 
 
 Night came down gloomily. The very blackness of 
 darkness was on the water as we flew before that terrific 
 blast. I was on deck, lashed to the wheel, by which I 
 stood, with a knife within reach to cut the lashing, if 
 necessary. We had but a rag of sail on her, and yet she 
 moved more like a bird than like a boat, from wave to 
 wave. Again and again a blue wave went over us, but 
 she came up like a duck, and shook off the water, and 
 dashed on. Now she staggered as a blow was struck on 
 the weather bow that might have staved a man-of-war, 
 but kept gallantly on; and now she rolled heavily and 
 slowly, but never abated the swift flight toward shore. 
 It was midnight when the wind was highest. The howl 
 ing of the cordage was demoniacal. Now a scream, now 
 a shriek, now a wail, and now a laugh of mocking mad 
 ness. On, on we flew. I looked up, and turned quite 
 around the whole horizon, but could see no sky, no sea, 
 no cloud all was blackness. At that moment I felt 
 again that strange thrill, and at the instant, fancied a 
 
235 
 
 denser blackness ahead ; and the next, with a crash and 
 a plunge, the Foam was gone ! Down went my gallant 
 boat, and with her another vessel, unseen in the black 
 night. The wheel to which I had been lashed had bro 
 ken loose, and gone over with me before she sank. It 
 was heavy, and I cut it away; and seizing a spar, went 
 down in the deep sea above my boat. As I came up to 
 the surface, a hand grasped my coat. I seized it, and a 
 thrill of agony shot through me as I recognized the deli 
 cate fingers of a woman. I drew her to me, and lashed 
 her to the spar by my side ; and so,. in -the black night, 
 we two alone floated away over the stormy ocean. 
 
 " My companion was senseless for aught I knew, dead. 
 A thousand emotions passed through my mind in the 
 next five minutes. Who was my companion on that 
 slight spar ? What was the vessel I had sunk ? Was I 
 with only the body of a human being, or was there a 
 spark of life left ? and how could I fan it to a flame ? 
 Would it not be better to let her sink than float off with 
 me, thus alone to starve or die of thirst in agony ? 
 ** " I chafed her hands, her forehead, her shoulders. In 
 the dense darkness I could not see a feature of her face, 
 nor tell if she were young or old scarcely whether white 
 or black. The silence on the sea was fearful. So long 
 as I had been on the deck of my boat, the whistling 
 through the ropes and around the spars had made con 
 tinual sounds ; but now I heard nothing but the occa 
 sional sprinkling of the spray, the dash of a foam cap, or 
 the heavy sound of the wind pressing on my ears. 
 
236 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 " At length she moved her hand feebly in mine. How 
 my heart leaped at that slight evidence that I was not 
 alone in the wild ocean I redoubled my exertions. I 
 passed one of her arms over my neck to keep it out of the 
 water while I chafed the other hand with both of mine. 
 I felt the clasp of that arm around my neck tighten, and 
 I bowed my head toward hers. She drew me close to 
 her and laid her cheek against mine. I let it rest there 
 it might warm hers, and so help to give her life. Then 
 she nestled closely in my bosom and whispered, Thank 
 you. Why did my brain so wildly throb in my head at 
 that whispered sentence ? She knew not where she was ; 
 that was clear. Her mind was wandering. At that in 
 stant the end of the spar struck some heavy object, and 
 we were dashed by a huge wave over it, and to my joy 
 were left on a floating deck. I cut the lashings from the 
 spar and fastened my companion and myself to a part of 
 the new raft or wreck, I knew not which, and all the time 
 that arm was wound around my neck and rigid as if in 
 death. Now came the low wild wail of the wind that pre 
 cedes the breaking of the storm. The air seemed fill% 
 with viewless spirits mournfully singing and sighing. I 
 had conceived a strange mad affection for my companion 
 of that night. I never thought of her as anything but a 
 human being. It was that humanity, that dear likeness 
 of life, that endeared her to me. I wound my arms 
 around her, and drew her close to my heart, and bowed 
 my head over her, and in the wildness of the moment I 
 pressed my lips to hers in a long, passionate kiss of in- 
 
MR. STEWART S STORY. 237 
 
 tense love and agony. That kiss again unlocked the 
 prison of her soul. She gave it back, and murmuring 
 some name of endearment, wound both arms around my 
 neck, and laying her head on my shoulder with her fore 
 head pressed against my cheek, fell into a calm slumber. 
 That kiss burns on my lips this hour. Half a century of 
 the cold kisses of the world has not sufficed to chill its 
 influence. It thrills me now as then ! It was madness, 
 wild idol- worship of the form God gave us in the image 
 of himself which in that hour I adored as never God ! I 
 feel the unearthly joy again to-day, as I remember the 
 clasp of those unknown arms, and the soft pressure of 
 that forehead. I knew not, I cared not, if she were old 
 and haggard, or young and fair. I only knew and re 
 joiced with joy untold that she was human, mortal, of 
 my own kin by the great Father of our race. 
 
 " It was a night of thoughts and emotions and phant 
 asms that can never be described. Morning dawned 
 grayly. The first faint gleam of light that showed me a 
 driving cloud above my head, was welcomed with a shud 
 der. I hated light I wanted only to float on, on, over 
 that heaving ocean, with that form clinging to me, and 
 my arms around it, and my lips ever and anon pressed to 
 the passionless lips of the heavy sleeper. I asked no 
 light. It was an intruder on my domain, and would drive 
 her from my embrace. I was mad. 
 
 " But as I saw the face of my companion gradually 
 revealed in the dawning tight, as my eyes began to make 
 out one by one the features, and at length the terrible 
 
238 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 truth came slowly burning into my brain, I moaned 
 aloud in agony, Grod of heaven, she is dead! And it 
 was Mary Sinclair ! 
 
 " But she was not dead. 
 
 " We floated all day long on the sea, and at midnight 
 of the next night I hailed a ship and they took us off. 
 Every man from the Foam and the other vessel was saved 
 with one exception. The other vessel was the Fairy, a 
 schooner-rigged yacht, belonging to a friend of Miss Sin 
 clair, with whom she and her brother and a party of la 
 dies and gentlemen had started but three days previously 
 for a week s cruise. I need not tell you how I explained 
 that strange thrill as the schooner crossed our bow the 
 night before the collision, and which I felt again at the 
 moment of the crash, nor what interpretation I gave to 
 the wild tumult of emotions all that long night. 
 
 " I married Mary Sinclair, and I buried her thirty 
 years afterward, and I sometimes have the same evidence 
 of her presence now that I used to have when she lived 
 on the same earth with me." 
 
 " Not a bad story, that," said Willis, rising and light 
 ing a candle. Then standing with his hands in his 
 pockets, and his back to the mouldering fire in the grate, 
 he mused for five minutes, while both of us were perfectly 
 silent. At length lifting his eyebrows, and smiling 
 somewhat cautiously, as if he feared the smile might be 
 too apparent, he said, in a pleasant tone of cheerfulness, 
 
 " Believe it, Phil believe it, I ve had a thousand 
 
WIFE-HUNTING. 239 
 
 proofs of it. And why not ? If we may commune when 
 freed from the body, by the swift wings and subtle intel 
 ligence of thought, why not as well when the clay detains 
 us ? The soul is superior to the clay." 
 
 " I ll not dispute it with you, Joe. Doubtless there is 
 much truth in it, and, as in all our speculation about the 
 immaterial, much of poetry that is not truth." 
 
 Joe walked to the window and looked out. 
 
 " Speaking of an odd way to get a wife, what a glorious 
 night it would be to hunt for one," said he at length, 
 " especially if one could win such a one as our old friend 
 did. Suppose we try it, Phil ;" and he turned and looked 
 into my face with a smile. 
 
 "Remind me of the history first, and we ll discuss 
 the propriety of the experiment afterward." 
 
 "Fred Van Brunt." 
 
 " Ah, yes; and a good and beautiful wife, too." 
 
 It was a terribly cold night. The highland wind was 
 piercing, but the sky was mockingly clear. Old men 
 said they had never known so cold a night in the valley, 
 and the river closed so tight that they crossed it with 
 horses the next morning. It had snowed three days be 
 fore some two feet deep, and the sleighing was capital ; 
 but he must have courage who would venture into a 
 sleigh that night. And so had Fred Van Brunt. 
 
 He was rolled up in robes so that you could see but 
 the tip of his nose, and that was occasionally plunged 
 below the furs that were around him. His hands alone 
 were not encased in fur ; on them he had only a pair of 
 
240 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 light kid gloves, allowing his fingers to be perfectly flex 
 ible while he managed the reins. Two of the most mag 
 nificent, blacks to be found in America, were before his 
 sleigh, and dashed along the road at a splendid pace. 
 There were no bells on them : the motion of the sleigh 
 was rapid but noiseless ; and had it been the evening be 
 fore Christmas, instead *of Christmas evening, a child 
 might have fancied the holy Nicholas himself passing by. 
 But when his horses suddenly sheered from the track, 
 and he sprang to his feet, grasping the reins more firmly, 
 you could have seen that he was a veritable specimen of 
 humanity, aged about nineteen ; and from his eye you 
 might possibly have supposed that he was in good spirits. 
 For he was, and his eye should have shown it. 
 
 Fred sprang to his feet, and it was well for him that 
 he did, for the next instant he sprang to the ground as 
 his sleigh went over under the fence, and the horses, 
 noble fellows, stopped instantly. Very naturally, too, 
 before looking at the effects of his mishap, he looked at 
 the cause, and was not a little astonished at finding, in 
 the middle of the track, a bundle of rags, containing a 
 child, sound asleep. Now Fred was a boy of rapid thought, 
 and an idea came instantly into his brain, that this child 
 belonged to a woman whom he had met on the road 
 about a mile back, and wondered at seeing her in such 
 a cold night. No sooner, therefore, did he see the child, 
 than he turned about, righted his sleigh, shook the snow 
 out of the robes, and rolled the child up in one, placed 
 it in the bottom of his cutter, and, springing in, turned 
 
WIFE-HUNTING. 241 
 
 his horses heads back up the road, and in about five 
 minutes had returned a mile toward home. But the 
 woman was not there, so he drove on, and was approach 
 ing the avenue-gate when he caught sight of a dark ob 
 ject in an angle of the rail-fence on the road-side. Rein 
 ing up instantly, he approached it, and was again sur 
 prised at finding a resemblance of humanity in rags. But 
 it was only a resemblance, the clay mould, wherefrom the 
 vivid likeness, the essence of humanity, life, had gone. 
 The form of a woman was there, but she who had pos 
 sessed the form was not. Throwing back the folds of a 
 tattered shawl that enveloped her shoulders and head, he 
 was startled at the marvellous beauty of her face. A 
 calm broad forehead was shaded by raven hair, and her 
 thin features were chiselled with all the lines of aristo 
 cratic beauty. About her mouth a smile lingered, as if 
 an angel had kissed her before her lips grew rigid. 
 
 Astonished, but not at all discomposed, for Fred was 
 cool-headed, he lifted the fragile form of the dead 
 woman in his arms, and laid it gently in his sleigh, cov 
 ering it up with the robes that had been wrapped around 
 himself, and drove rapidly homeward. As he passed the 
 avenue-gate the old porter wondered what Mr. Fred had 
 been filling his sleigh with, and as he reached the front 
 of the house, a matronly lady, accompanied by a young 
 girl of rare beauty, came hurriedly to the door. The 
 latter lady spoke first. 
 
 " What now, Fred ? Where are the ladies ? Couldn t 
 11 
 
24 2 TUB OLD HOUSK BY THE ttlVEK. 
 
 they come ? What brings you back so soon ? Why 
 didn t you stay ? Are they gone out ?" 
 
 " Softly, softly, Nelly ; I have a queer load here. 
 Life and death strangely mixed. You had better go 
 
 So, advancing to his mother, with the child in his 
 arms, he explained the matter to her, and under her 
 directions the body of the mother for such she doubtless 
 was was conveyed to a room, and the child sent to the 
 nursery for attention. 
 
 In the pocket of the ragged dress, which was almost 
 the only covering to the body of the dead woman, was 
 found a small leather wallet, containing only two pieces 
 of paper, on one of which was written in a delicate and 
 beautiful female hand, the commencement of a letter, 
 thus : " Dear my -father, when this reaches your hand, if 
 
 it ever does, I " and that was all. On the other 
 
 paper was the certificate of the marriage of Mary Eston 
 
 and Philip Eston, in the parish church of , in the 
 
 county , Ireland, by the priest of the parish. An 
 
 inquest, held the next day, elicited the facts, that the 
 mother had been seen the day previous carrying her child 
 in her arms, and it was supposed that she was insane 
 from the peculiar manner in which she looked at passers- 
 by, as if afraid that they intended to harm her or her 
 child. The most rational conclusion seemed to be, that 
 she had wandered on in that state of mind until night 
 overtook her, and then, with the thought thus to save 
 her child s life, she had laid her down in the road, and 
 
WIFE-HUNTING. 243 
 
 pushed on to find shelter and send some one to the child 
 whom she, in her weakness, could no longer carry. She 
 had laid her in the road, doubtless, that she might be 
 found and saved should any one pass. Her plan suc 
 ceeded, as has been seen. 
 
 The mother s body lay in the grand room of the old 
 mansion. I have heard those who saw it say that there 
 was never seen a more beautiful form in the robes of the 
 grave. She could not have been more than twenty years 
 of age, and the youth and beauty of the dead girl lent a 
 hideousness to her abject poverty. Long, dark eyelashes 
 contrasted strangely with the marble complexion of the 
 cheek on which they lay, while the same smile, of which 
 Fred had spoken at the first, was still on her faultless 
 lip. She was buried in the family vault, where the Van 
 Brunts were wont, generation after generation, to take 
 their last repose; and Fred, who had fallen deeply in 
 love with her marvellous beauty, insisted on adding to 
 the list of names, already carved on the door-post, that 
 of Mary Eston. His mother adopted the child, now 
 nearly two years old, and under her care she grew up as 
 one of the family. 
 
 Mary Eston s childhood was as beautiful as a dream. 
 Her eye was the very soul of pure loveliness, and her 
 forehead had never a darker shade than was thrown there 
 by the tresses that clustered over it. A thousand mem 
 ories of her childhood cling around me now. I knew 
 it well, and when I left, for a few years, the valley in 
 which I was born and lived till I was sent to travel. 
 
244 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 she was of surpassing beauty. Tall and erect, with a 
 mould of limb that was matchless, and features that were 
 like the features of the seraphs in the paintings of the 
 old masters. Her face was one of those which wins you 
 to gaze and gaze until you are lost in wonderment at the 
 exquisite perfection of every part. And yet it would 
 have puzzled you to define that beauty. Her forehead 
 was neither very broad nor high. Her complexion was 
 not brown nor yet alabaster. Her lips were red, but 
 not strangely or uncommonly so. Her eyes, indeed, 
 were beautiful. You were lost if you looked into their 
 depths. It was in them, perhaps, after all, that the 
 great attractiveness of her face lay. You saw in them a 
 pride, a sort of consciousness of nobility of birth, or a 
 hereditary right to homage, yet so softened as you gazed, 
 that it was rather the mournful look of a princess dream 
 ing of a lost throne. She was not proud nor haughty. 
 Her face was a joy to all the country. The children 
 paused in their play if she passed by, to catch one of 
 those sunshiny smiles that were a gladness to their 
 young hearts. Old men turned to gaze after her, and 
 blessed her for the gentle, loving look with which she 
 bowed to them, and young men loved her. All loved 
 her. No one refused to give the homage of pure love to 
 Mary Eston. It is a sublime thing this human love. It 
 is star-like in its calm radiance above all clouds, sky-like 
 in its breadth and depth, and immovable all contain 
 ing beauty. 
 
 Fred remained unmarried fifteen years, and a few 
 
WIFE-HUNTING. 245 
 
 years ago you would have been unable to fix his age be 
 tween twenty-five and forty, but you would have first said 
 twenty-five. Mary Eston, after refusing a dozen offers, 
 frankly confessed to Mrs. Van Brunt that she loved Fred, 
 and he had been too stupid to perceive it, although, poor 
 fellow, he vowed he had been dying for love of her since 
 he had seen her mother s beautiful face. The scene 
 would describe very well, but I pass it. The result was 
 as might have been anticipated, and I believe Van Brunt 
 is now hunting through Ireland for his wife s ancestry. 
 I hope he may find them. 
 
 But I have taken more time in recounting this story 
 than we devoted to it then. After a brief allusion to the 
 history, Joe turned toward the table on which he had 
 placed his candle, and then rang for Anthony. 
 
 " The old fellow always outsits us," said he. " I must 
 send him to bed. It is nearly midnight." 
 
 " But, Joe, I thought we were to go out and try our 
 luck at finding wives." 
 
 " If you say so, it s agreed. Anthony, tell Stephen to 
 have the horses at the door in four minutes. Wrap up 
 well, Phil, for by Jove you shall have a night of it, 
 since you wish it." 
 
 In ten minutes we were on the road under a fine moon, 
 and in an hour, after an exhilarating drive, we had reached 
 a country village and an inn at which we had before found 
 tolerably good provender. We here discussed a cup of 
 coffee and a broiled chicken, and a passage from a new 
 
246 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 book, which had been our last topic of conversation in 
 the sleigh. 
 
 " The beautiful are never desolate, 
 But some one alway loves them God or man. 
 If man abandons, God himself takes them." 
 
 There is poetry and truth mingled in the remark, al 
 though perhaps it may not be exactly truth, as the Vriter 
 designed it to be understood. God loves not the beau 
 tiful more than others ; but, by some strange design of 
 his Providence, it appears that when man abandons, He 
 does often take them. 
 
 Perhaps the lovely are less used to coldness, and more 
 accustomed to gentle care, so that desolation is too great 
 a burden. There is a stern pride in some human hearts, 
 that helps those hearts to bear wrong without yielding, 
 and to stand erect under heavy loads of misery; and, in 
 my experience, it has : always been true that such stout 
 hearts were in the end crushed by some overwhelming 
 agony for which they were wholly unprepared, and before 
 which they were too proud to bow. 
 
 We slept soundly, and breakfasted at nine o clock 
 our landlady sat down with us, a pleasant, pretty, country 
 girl, whose husband had a small capital invested in his 
 hostelry. The conversation turned to the same subject 
 as at our late supper the night before, and on my quoting 
 the passage again, the blue eye of the good girl at the 
 head of the table filled with tears, and we looked at her 
 for an explanation of her emotion. 
 
 " Ah Sir," said she, in somewhat simple, yet pure Ian- 
 
WIFE-HUNTING. 247 
 
 guage, " Ah Sir, I think ye re right about it. God al- 
 wajs takes them when men give them up. There was 
 Alice Brown. They say she is dying to-day sir. She 
 was left by the only man she cared to love, and is going to 
 God." And our poor hostess fairly sobbed. 
 
 At length I gathered the particulars of the brief story. 
 
 Alice Brown was the fairest and the fairyest girl in all 
 the country. Her voice was as musical as the gush of 
 the spring in her widowed mother s garden, and in truth 
 Alice learned to carol gay songs as she sat on the bank 
 by the spring side, and looked up into the serene sky. 
 Her hair was dark, and hung in those glorious tresses 
 that the wind always falls in love with, and her eye had 
 borrowed its beauty from heaven. All loved her, for 
 she loved all. She was the village pet, and who does not 
 know what that means ? Almost every country village 
 has a pet, but no other had such an one as she. Her form 
 was dream-like, so beautiful was it ; and when it passed 
 you could not believe that you had seen such a perfect 
 human being. That she was the light of her mother s 
 cottage, I need not say ; and every mother will believe 
 that she was the light as well of her old heart. They 
 beat warmly together, those two gentle hearts, and ever 
 in unison. All this said our hostess. 
 
 Alice loved one, her equal in fortune or in poverty, 
 and as most persons thought, worthy of her love. At all 
 events, Harry was a noble fellow, and ambitious, and had 
 only one check to his ambition, which was his love for 
 Alice Brown. They had been children together, and had 
 
248 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 grown to youth and strength, as well of body as of love, 
 side by side. 
 
 But Harry was not content with the quiet life he led 
 in the village, and at length his ambition conquered, and 
 he left for the sea. Then came days and years of trial. 
 Sometimes they heard of him, but not often, and it was 
 whispered about that he had forgotten his old love and 
 Alice grew pale, and one stormy night in the early au 
 tumn, she took a severe cold in crossing the street to 
 the post-office after the mail had arrived, and then 
 slowly faded. 
 
 Some said she had a letter that night, and that it was 
 its contents that changed her so much. However that 
 might be, it was reported soon after, that Harry was in a 
 wild way of dissipation, and at length came the terrible 
 news of his loss at sea. 
 
 Alice bore it calmly, but its effects were soon visible, 
 and the heavenly eye grew bluer and deeper, and holier, 
 and in the dreary winter time they thought she was 
 dying. 
 
 " Mother," said she, " I thought not to have saddened 
 you by going first, but so it is. God be my witness, I 
 will come to you if I can ; and in the lonesome twilight 
 I will sit beside you, and when you sleep I will lie down 
 too, and wind my arms around you. I did not think to 
 die thus either, but it s not so very hard. In the morn 
 ing, mother, we shall know why God made the night so 
 dark." 
 
 And many other such kind and gentle words they told 
 
WIFE-HUNTING. 249 
 
 us of her saying to her old mother day by day, as she lay 
 ill in the cottage down the street. 
 
 Before our horses were ready, I missed Willis from 
 the house, but thought little of his absence while I pon 
 dered on the story I had heard. Such village histories I 
 had known, and I could well imagine the end. I had, in 
 fact, called up before me all the scenery of the death and 
 burial of the sweet girl, whose history had made such an 
 impression on us. I pressed my face against the window 
 and looked out, and, for a half-hour, watched the driving 
 snow, all the time imagining a sad end to her story. 
 
 "Why Phil, I say, Phil, come with me, my boy. 
 Here s a glorious scene for us, worth coming a thousand 
 miles to see." 
 
 I started from my reverie, and looked around at the 
 face of Joe Willis. It was fairly radiant with pleasure. 
 
 " Come down the street with me, Phil. Alice Brown s 
 lover has come back over the sea, and I was there just 
 too late to witness the meeting ; but the girl is cured to 
 a certainty. There s no mistaking the look of her face 
 now !" 
 
 " And if I might be so bold, Joe, what took you to the 
 Widow Brown s ?" 
 
 " Joe did not deign me any answer, but I knew his 
 good heart, and that he had gone to offer consolation and 
 aid to a lonely house, which he chanced to find full of 
 
 joy- 
 He dragged me along, and nothing loth I followed his 
 lead, and in a few minutes, stood within the door of the 
 11* 
 
250 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 cottage. The pale face of the sick girl was lighted up 
 with serene joy. The mother was full of gladness, her 
 old heart well-nigh breaking with its fulness. 
 
 "Ah Sir!" she exclaimed as we entered, "Ah Sir, 
 ye ve brought a friend to the house of rejoicing, and it s 
 welcome he is, and welcome any one to a house like this. 
 We ve had so much of grieving and sorrowing, that we 
 want to share our joying with all the world. You see, 
 sir, Henry has been telling us that he has always loved 
 Alice, and never thought of leaving her ; and the letter 
 she got wasn t from him at all, but from Stephen Grore, 
 the man she said no to three years ago, and he sent 
 the bad stories about Henry, and Alice didn t know Hen 
 ry s writing, and Stephen burned his letters all up. But 
 Stephen was drowned, and Henry wasn t, and he has 
 been wandering the world over since then." 
 
 The sailor, a fine-looking fellow, stood near the win 
 dow, listening to Joe Willis, who was whispering in his 
 ear, and who at length advanced to the widow and Alice, 
 and addressed them : 
 
 " Mrs. Brown, I have a very pleasant little house on 
 the bank of the river, which will suit you well, and be 
 pleasanter than this village, by far. My friend, Mr. 
 Phillips, and myself, have a yacht, which requires a care 
 ful steady man for keeper and sailing-master. Once in 
 awhile we take a cruise, and then we shall want him 
 with us. But we are not apt to be away many weeks at 
 a time ; and Miss Alice will be better able to spare him 
 for our short voyages than to go to sea again. What do 
 
WIFE-HUNTING. 251 
 
 you think of my plan, Mrs. Brown ? Will Henry do for 
 our boat-keeper ? and will you and Alice keep house for 
 him in the little house ?" 
 
 The hue of health had begun to return to Alice 
 Brown s cheek when Willis began to speak, and it was a 
 deep blush of crimson before he ceased, only growing 
 pale for a moment, as he spoke of Henry s going to sea 
 again. It was all arranged in an hour, and we returned 
 to the inn ; and as we drove rapidly homeward, Joe, full 
 of the joy proceeding from the joy conferred on others, 
 sang verses from old songs all the way. 
 
 " I say, Joe, what do you think of going out wife- 
 hunting at midnight ?" 
 
 " A capital idea, Phil, that was ; and I propose we try 
 it again some day ? 
 
 " Phil, what are you thinking of?" 
 
 " The beautiful are never desolate, for some one 
 always loves them. Let the quotation end there this 
 time, Joe." 
 
 One thing we did get by that adventure, and that was 
 a capital boat-keeper. 
 
XIV. 
 
 C|f* 
 
 friend, 
 
NO calm in all the world is so profound and holy as 
 that which rests in the soul on a summer Sabbath 
 morning in the country. Everything partakes of it. 
 The birds never sing loudly ; the winds never wail harshly ; 
 the trees shake their branches quietly, and with a musical 
 murmur. The sky seems near the earth, and the sun 
 shine falls with a softness and a balmy sweetness that 
 tells of heaven. 
 
 Possibly a citizen might not feel it thus ; but even the 
 citizen cannot altogether escape the influence of the quiet 
 which reigns everywhere, and surprised and awed by the 
 stillness to which he is unaccustomed, his soul gradually, 
 but certainly, yields to the holy spell which is over all 
 the world around him. 
 
 We rise at the usual hour, and breakfast separately. 
 I do not think we have taken coffee together, at home, on 
 a Sunday morning, in two years. If there is company at 
 the hall, they find their own way to the breakfast-room, 
 at their own hour, and take care of themselves during 
 the day. But Joe and myself always meet on the lawn 
 
256 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 after breakfast, and usually stroll a little way from the 
 house into the woods, and sit on the grass, or on the 
 rock seat near the river-side, and talk quietly, in a lower 
 tone than on other days. One habit we have that may 
 be note- worthy : it is, never to appear in dressing-gowns 
 or slippers, nor in a careless dress on a Sunday, at any 
 hour of the day. Toward church time we hear the sound 
 of the village-bell rolling up musically across the forests 
 and over the farms ; and at the regular hour the horses 
 stand saddled before the door, and the carriage if there 
 is any one to use it, and we ride slowly down the avenue. 
 Sometimes we do not ride, but walk the few miles to the 
 village, and then we leave the road and find our way 
 among the flowers and along the brook-sides, not loiter 
 ing, but hastening through pleasant scenes to the most 
 beautiful scene of all, the village congregation. 
 
 If we ride, it is along the country road, half way 
 through the forest, and the remainder by fields of grain 
 or waving grass. Wagon load after wagon load of the 
 families of the congregation are passing along the same 
 road. The long farm wagons, each holding three or four 
 seats, with six or eight persons, are never used except on 
 Sunday, or for an afternoon visit on a week-day. 
 
 There is a remarkable uniformity in the dresses of all 
 the different people that you see in these wagons. Black 
 silk dresses abound among the elderly ladies, and pure 
 white muslin is the prevailing style for the children and 
 girls. The young ladies, and the matronly young wives 
 of farmers, have a peculiar style of bonnet and shawl, 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 257 
 
 from which few vary ; while the men, young and old, have 
 the same heavy cloth dress coats with high thick collars, 
 pushing their hair up to the tops of their heads, and de 
 stroying the equilibrium of their hats. 
 
 Each wagon load that we pass, greets us pleasantly, 
 and we exchange inquiries about the families and family 
 affairs, and part without a good-bye, or even a bow ; for 
 are we not all on a pilgrimage together, and all going to 
 the same house ? 
 
 The bell is tolling as we enter the long village street, 
 and each little white gate is thrown open for the exit 
 of a small company, dressed in gayer apparel than the 
 farmers wear. At the church-door a group of men sur 
 rounds the chief entrance, and the ladies alone are in 
 their pews. The men meet to discuss the crops, and the 
 weather, and the few incidents of the six days. It is not 
 till after the first prayer that they enter, and then there 
 is a pause in the service while they pour in at each of the 
 doors, and walk heavily to their seats. t 
 
 We enter the church door reverently. May it never 
 be otherwise. 
 
 That old church is the holiest spot on this earth to us; 
 and those old square pews are the dearest resting-places 
 for our weary bodies and souls that we shall ever find 
 this side heaven. 
 
 "We were children together; and Joe Willis s father 
 and mother, and my father and mother, used to sit in 
 those pews adjoining each other ; and Joe and I used to 
 hold whispered consultations under the curiously-elevated 
 
258 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 rail that separated us. There were the same books that 
 they used ; the same cushions, now old and faded, but 
 still the same ; the pulpit unchanged in any particular, 
 even to its high sounding-board, and the window, half in 
 each pew, was there, with the same old sunshine stealing 
 in on us in the sermon time. Outside the window there 
 was evidence of change. There lay the sleeping congre 
 gation, except only those that were buried in the north 
 graveyard, and there lay the old pastor with his people. 
 
 Across the church was the seat occupied by Judge Wil 
 lis, until the death of Joe s father, when the judge took 
 his pew. There, in the olden time, we used to see of a 
 Sabbath morning the saint-like face of Ellen Willis, now 
 gone to God, and there we used at times to hear, above 
 all the congregation, the music of her bird-like voice, soar 
 ing away before her to the heaven she was approaching. 
 There, under the pulpit, one by one we have rested the 
 forms of those we had loved, and thence we have carried 
 them, father, mother, brother, and sister, (and dearer 
 than all these) out to their rest in the burial ground. 
 
 I say that church is the holiest place on earth to us. 
 Could it be otherwise ? There were other scenes to 
 make it holier still, that may not be mentioned here. 
 Scenes when the soul had wings given it to penetrate 
 the distance that separates us from heaven had eyes to 
 behold clearly the glories that now visit us but faintly 
 in dreams had power to feel somewhat the breadth and 
 depth of that love which sustained our lost ones, every 
 one, in the trial of the dark hour. 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 259 
 
 For were they not sustained ? When the gloom of 
 night gathered around them, was there not some good 
 hand guiding them, some life-giving voice cheering them, 
 some stout arm for them to lean upon ? Else how was 
 it that without fear or faltering, they all entered the 
 unknown country, and spoke words of cheer, and prom 
 ise, and joy, even when the cloud received them out of 
 our sight ? 
 
 Blessed be the memory of the old church forever- 
 more. 
 
 Blessed, too, be the memory of the old pastor. Mr. 
 Winter was a man of God. For fifty years he walked 
 before that people in meekness and gentleness, but with 
 all the dignity of his holy profession. I can see him 
 now as when I saw him last, his white locks flowing down 
 over his shoulders, his serene eye resting on mine with 
 a look of deep affection ; and I can hear his voice full of 
 love, uttering that simple benediction on the departing 
 boy. 
 
 "May the God of Joseph bless you, Philip, and 
 strengthen you, and prosper you. I loved your father, 
 and your father s father. I love you too, Philip. May 
 God bless you, my son." 
 
 Good old man ! When I am weary of the vanity of 
 the world I remember him. When I incline to doubt 
 the existence of true holiness of life, I am glad to re 
 member him. When I am disappointed, harassed, and 
 ready to yield, 1 remember him, who, after fourscore 
 years of suffering, of wandering and homelessness, was as 
 
260 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 calmly confident of the truth of God and his eternal rest, 
 as if he had but yesterday come from that home and 
 were now returning. 
 
 His voice was clear and full even at eighty. It trem 
 bled sometimes, but with emotion, not with weakness. 
 His step was feeble for many years, and I have known 
 him on a Sunday afternoon to enter the chancel and not 
 go up into the pulpit, and then his voice sounded greater 
 depths in his hearer s hearts than at other times, for they 
 felt more at such periods how near the old man was to his 
 departure. 
 
 One morning he was too feeble to preach. It was the 
 last day that I ever saw him in the church, for I left home 
 shortly after that, and was absent for a long time, wan 
 dering up and down the world. I believe it was the last 
 day he was ever in the church. He drove up to the door 
 in his low-wheeled gig, and helped himself out, while 
 George Stevens, the son of a wealthy farmer in the con 
 gregation, took care of the horse, and Mr. Stevens himself 
 gave him an arm as he reached the ground. He entered 
 the church with a slow and heavy step, but as he entered 
 his form grew erect, he lifted his hat reverently from his 
 head, and looked with a bright eye up to the ceiling of 
 the old house, and felt the inspiration of the place so evi 
 dently, that his face assumed a new and almost super 
 natural glow. 
 
 He needed no help down the long aisle, for the strength 
 he had so suddenly acquired sustained him thus far. But 
 as he approached the altar, at which he had offered Sab- 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 261 
 
 Ibath sacrifice morning and evening through so many long 
 years, he seemed to feel again his mortality, and reaching 
 out his hand feebly to the rail that enclosed the chancel, 
 he supported himself on it and leaning forward, appeared 
 for a moment to be about to fall. But he advanced at 
 length to a chair, and when he was seated there, his eye 
 roved over the congregation. It sought finally the elders 
 pew on his right, where sat the old men who had been his 
 counsellors and assistants since he was young. One of 
 them, Solomon Pierson, understood his wish and ap 
 proached him. To him the pastor communicated his in 
 ability to preach, and after a few moments consultation, 
 Solomon resumed his seat, and Mr. Winter rose and 
 offered prayer. There was a profound stillness in all the 
 congregation during the brief invocation of the Divine 
 Presence, and then followed the usual rush of the men 
 who had been waiting without the doors. He lifted his 
 eyes to them sadly, for he had long striven in vain against 
 that heathenish custom. The last one who entered, bring 
 ing up the rear, was a boy, with an exceedingly old look 
 in his manner and dress. He wore the usual blue dress 
 coat, with brass buttons and high collar, in which his head 
 was lost, and his boots were of that heavy, noisy sort, that 
 I think are unknown except in our neighborhood. He 
 went with a lingering step down the side aisle, and there 
 was something painfully ludicrous in the gaze with which 
 the old pastor followed him to his seat, before he rose to 
 read some verses of the 107th Psalm. 
 
 In those days we had no choir, but the precentor 
 
262 THE OLD HOUSE BY THB RIVER. 
 
 whose seat Mr. Winter occupied that day, stood near his 
 side and sang, while with one voice the whole congrega 
 tion joined ; and there was never such music in any other 
 place on earth, as was heard in the old church that morn 
 ing. There were voices that could be distinguished from 
 the rest as they reached the more mournful passages; 
 and the old man himself joined in the last verses, and 
 sang with a clear, rich tone, the words : 
 
 " The storm is changed into a calm, 
 
 at his command and will, 
 So that the waves, which raged before, 
 now quiet are, and still. 
 
 " Then are they glad, because at rest, 
 
 and quiet now they be ; 
 So to the haven he them brings, 
 which they desired to see. 
 
 " Oh that men to the Lord would give 
 
 praise for his goodness then, 
 And for his works of wonder done 
 unto the sons of men." 
 
 But after that Mr. Winter arose and spoke to the peo 
 ple. He said that he had thought, that morning, to have 
 addressed to them some words of faith and promise, 
 which had reached his heart with much force as he medi 
 tated on the events, of which that day was the anniver 
 sary. Then, for the first time, it occurred to many pres 
 ent, that this was the day for his annual sermon, since it 
 was the date of his installation, fifty-one years before. 
 There were not many there, he said, who remembered 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 263 
 
 that day. He saw but four persons in the church who 
 could recall its incidents ; and only one was present, who 
 took part in the proceedings as a member of that church. 
 And here he turned toward an old man on his left, and 
 with deep emotion, uttered one sentence in the hearing 
 of us all that impressed itself on my mind indelibly. 
 " They are all gone, my friend, and the church-yard con 
 gregation is well-nigh full. Let us go to them." And 
 he paused and bowed his head very low ; and before he 
 lifted it, a fear had taken hold of the entire congregation 
 that he would never speak to them again. 
 
 A sob broke the stillness. It cajne from his son Phil 
 ip s pew; and the old pastor turned his eyes fondly 
 toward it, and then to his people, and, in a few words, 
 told them to go home, for he could not preach that day, 
 and might never preach again, and bade them remember 
 his last words to them so long as they lived ; and then 
 his eye kindled again, and his head was uplifted, and his 
 form grew erect, and he looked up steadily, as if through 
 the little semicircular window in the gable of the church 
 he could see that whereof he spoke ; and now, in a voice 
 of pure sweet tone and great power, especially above the 
 solemn silence which prevailed, he said : 
 
 " These are my last words to you, my people : I know 
 that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the 
 latter day upon the earth. And though, after my skin, 
 worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see 
 God ! " 
 
 Many years after that Sabbath morning, I was in a 
 
264 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 lordly hall, in the midst of an assembly of noble men and 
 fair ladies. And for the pleasure of the throng, a singer, 
 worshipped by half of Europe, was to pour out her mel 
 ody. I had heard her, and, like all the others, I waited 
 in profound silence for her utterance. That scene is be 
 fore me now. I remember the gorgeous hall, the mag 
 nificence of apparel, the heavy tapestries, the splendid 
 appointments, the oppression of princely presence. At 
 length her voice was heard; low, bird-like, unutterably 
 sweet ; and it thrilled through the hearts of those who 
 listened, till unchecked tears gave evidence of the power 
 of the melody. That opening note was all that I heard ; 
 and as she glided through the magnificent strains with 
 which Handel has clothed that sublime passage of the 
 prophet leader of Israel, I was away in the old church in 
 the village, and listening to the last words I ever heard 
 in it from the lips of the old pastor. 
 
 Blessed forevermore be his memory ! And blessed, 
 too, be the memory of those who were his friends and 
 companions, and counsellors, and supporters. Of Simon 
 Gray and Solomon Pierson, I have spoken. They have 
 gone to their reward. So, too, William Denton, a good 
 man, and holy, has sought another and better country, 
 even a heavenly. We can never enter the old church 
 without thinking of him. He was never tall, and, in his 
 old age he was so bent down as to seem almost deformed. 
 He used to enter the church by the middle aisle, and 
 always paused a moment after he had entered, in silent 
 prayer. Then with a quaint swing of his body, and an 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 265 
 
 eye singularly turned upward toward the pulpit, he would 
 walk up and take his seat in the elder s pew, and sit 
 there, motionless as a statue, until the benediction. 
 
 He was a man of peculiar intellectual power, and had 
 accomplished more reading and study than all the rest 
 of the congregation together. 
 
 On the left side of his forehead was a scar which ne 
 cessarily excited the curiosity of those who saw him. It 
 was the mark of an occurrrence which he never mentioned, 
 and which he would have desired all who had heard of 
 it to forget ; but it was an interesting story, for it was 
 startling to think that that old and bent man, tottering 
 feebly to his pew, had once been the leader of all the 
 gay young men in the congregation, and had been him 
 self a young stout man of elegant form and exceedingly 
 beautiful countenance. Such, indeed, he had been fifty 
 years before. He was then the indulged nephew of an 
 old aunt, who supplied him freely with money, wherewith 
 to involve himself in all the difficulties into which money 
 usually leads young men. 
 
 There was at that time, living in the house next the 
 church, a family consisting of a father and his two chil 
 dren a son and a daughter. The former had once been 
 a rival of William Denton in the leadership of the young 
 men ; the latter was unrivalled by any other of the village 
 maidens for beauty or for gentleness. 
 
 Stephen Grandison had some good, but more bad 
 traits of character, and among other evils he had a taste 
 for somewhat low society. In the city he had formed 
 12 
 
266 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE $IVER. 
 
 alliances with not a few disreputable characters, and had 
 even introduced some of unknown name or fame to his 
 father s house, and the acquaintance of his sister. Mr. 
 G-randison was a weak man, of idle, careless habits of 
 life, and paid no sort of attention to what his son and 
 daughter were doing. Hence, Alice had no means of 
 knowing the contamination of such acquaintances, except 
 as her own pure heart instinctively recoiled from some 
 of the men that her brother presented. 
 
 My story must be brief. William Denton hacMmown 
 Alice from her childhood, and had loved her always ; but 
 Alice, though she prized him above all her friends, could 
 not. say that she loved him. I believe that such was the 
 state of affairs between them, at the time of the occur 
 rence I am about to relate. They fully understood each 
 other, and were excellent friends. 
 
 Stephen had become bound in some nefarious transac 
 tion to a man from the city, doubtless an accomplished 
 scoundrel, and as it subsequently appeared had sold to 
 him his sister and her fortune. But it was a sale which 
 was not easily effected without the consent of the mer 
 chandise disposed of, and Alice was peremptory in her 
 refusal to know the proposed suitor, other than as the 
 friend of her brother. As such she treated him politely, 
 and only politely. 
 
 Denton had watched the proceeding with a keen eye, 
 and penetrated the whole. Stephen had quarrelled with 
 him as an excuse to make his visits at the house unpleas 
 ant, and thus diminish their frequency. But the eye of 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 267 
 
 the lover was on all the plot, and with singular ability 
 he had so far discovered the intentions of the two who 
 were plotting against Alice G-randison as to have taken 
 precautions against them, that had hitherto prevented 
 their accomplishment. 
 
 The plot however ripened, and a time was fixed for her 
 abduction. The unsuspicious girl was to take an after 
 noon drive with her brother, and in a lonesome road the 
 pair were to be set upon by a sufficient force to render 
 the brother s pretended resistance entirely futile, and to 
 save him from all appearance of connivance at his sister s 
 fate. 
 
 William Denton s close observation had been attracted 
 that forenoon as he strolled in his usual lazy way down 
 the village street. He caught sight of the strange suitor 
 of Alice, talking with a black looking scamp, who stood 
 on the tavern steps, and who, with three companions look 
 ing like him, drove out of town five minutes afterward. 
 An hour later, from his usual seat at the window of his 
 aunt s house, he saw Stephen Grandison and Alice drive 
 by in the same direction. 
 
 He sprang up and the whole plan was before him in 
 stantly. Hastening to the stables he saddled his own 
 horse, while Sam, a lithe and active slave, was getting 
 ready and mounting another, and the two went out to 
 gether on the south road. Five minutes swift riding 
 brought him within sight of the carriage, and he then 
 slackened his pace : 
 
 " Sam can you fight ?" 
 
268 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 " Gruess I can, Massa William." 
 
 " Do you like to fight two to five ?" 
 
 " The more, the better, sah." 
 
 " Very well, Sam we are going to do a little fighting 
 this afternoon, and all you have to do is to thrash any 
 one but the lady. You understand, do you ?" 
 
 " Guess I do." 
 
 Sam was entirely trustworthy ; and the conversation 
 had scarcely ceased and Sam fallen back to the rear, 
 when the carriage turned into a road which led along 
 the river-bank and suddenly stopped while Stephen Gran- 
 dison sprang out as if to examine a lynch-pin. This was 
 the preconcerted signal for the advance of the men from 
 the forest, and one seized the horse, while two threw Ste 
 phen down and held him as two others approached the 
 carriage. Alice was at first astounded, but recognizing 
 one of the advancing men, she saw that the object of the 
 attack was herself, and prepared to resist so far as she 
 was able, even to death. 
 
 But before any one had touched her, William Denton 
 and Sam came up at a thundering pace, and sprang from 
 their horses in the midst of the group. The struggle 
 which commenced was brief and severe. The first blow 
 of Denton s heavy whip-handle prostrated one of the 
 scoundrels, but the whip was wrested from his hand on 
 the instant, and he closed with the second. Sam pro 
 tected his rear, and a blow from the same whip handle 
 rung on the boy s head with a clear sound, but did him no 
 manner of harm. As Denton closed with his adversary, 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 269 
 
 he gave him a back trip that sent him flying into the 
 ditch, and at the same instant received a blow on the 
 head which well-nigh despatched him. But rallying to 
 meet a new foe, he had only an instant to see that it was 
 the suitor of Alice himself, when he was blinded by the 
 flash of a pistol in his eyes, and stunned by a ball which 
 passed, grazing his head and plowing a furrow as it went 
 along the temple, and thence by a strange fatality entered 
 the shoulder of Stephen Grandison, who had been re 
 leased from his pretended durance by Sam s stalwart arm, 
 which had demolished both of his captors. As Grandison 
 fell, the horse sprang over him and dashed down the road 
 with the carriage and Alice, who was by this time insen 
 sible from horror. 
 
 For a moment the attention of the group was drawn 
 to the flying horse, and in that moment Denton had time 
 to seize his own horse which stood motionless near by, 
 and, springing into the saddle, gallop down the road in 
 pursuit of Alice. 
 
 Lifting his horse over the fence * at the road-side, he 
 crossed the country for a half mile, and regained the 
 road in time to head the flying animal and to stop him. 
 Then taking measures to restore Alice, which he soon 
 effected, he mounted the carriage by her side just as 
 Sam came up with intelligence that the scoundrels had 
 gone off in a boat, and were pulling down toward the 
 city under the shadow of the river bank, having left 
 Stephen in the road, apparently bleeding to death. 
 Alice did not dream that her brother had any connec- 
 
270 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 tion with this affair, but begged William to hasten to his 
 assistance. They drove back by the scene of the fray, 
 and took Stephen, who had fainted, into the carriage, 
 and drove homeward. 
 
 The romance of the affair would be ruined if Alice had 
 not loved William Denton after that. He kept the 
 secret well, so that his wife never knew the truth until 
 twenty years later. Stephen Grandison, under the fear of 
 exposure, submitted himself to William Denton s care 
 and management, and they grew old together, and were 
 honered men in the village councils. 
 
 But I have wandered far away from the old church in 
 this story. William Denton has long ago joined the 
 congregation in the graveyard, and rests in hope with his 
 Alice. 
 
 John Maclean was another of the elders, who died when 
 I was but a boy. He was a stern, harsh man, one of a 
 class that I am thankful is now almost extinct. Religion 
 with him was a duty and not a pleasure. It could 
 scarcely be called bigotry, but it had no grace or beauty. 
 It lent no gentleness to the man, gave no tinge of heaven 
 to the soul. On the contrary, he who would otherwise 
 have been a harmless, inoffensive being, became a terror 
 to the young, and almost an enemy to the old. He had 
 no friends, no allies in life, but walked along his own 
 path, in which no one disturbed him, proud of his own 
 professed humility. No one had fault to find with him, 
 and no one was ever heard to speak well of him. 
 
 When the iron-handed and iron-hearted farmer was 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 271 
 
 advancing toward the prime of life, his wife died, leaving 
 him four sons, who grew up to be strong men, and were 
 married and settled on farms near the village. Not 
 many years later he married a slight, pale girl in a dis 
 tant city. There was mystery about it ; and it was said 
 that she Was poor, and had married him for a home and 
 a support, not for love. Others thought it was not so, 
 and that she loved him. Certain it is that in the few 
 years she lived with him, harsh, cold, and stern as he 
 was, she had learned to love him with all the trusting 
 faith of a woman. It was a beautiful picture in the life 
 of the hard man, that clinging love of his young wife ; 
 and like all very beautiful things it soon faded, for she died. 
 
 What a death was hers ! She spoke no last sobbing 
 words of anguish, no reproaches for coldness or unkind- 
 ness. She only looked into his face from the pillow on 
 which her white cheek rested, one long, long gaze full of 
 the agony of rending love, and meeting only those calm, 
 cold eyes of his, she felt the fluttering of the caged soul. 
 The prison seemed now, as never before, cold, icy cold ; 
 and the winds appeared to be driving through it, and the 
 storms pouring down on it ; and then she felt as if that 
 driving wind were bearing her away, away ; for now he 
 seemed to be more distant from her now farther off, 
 and not as though he went, but as though she were 
 passing, gliding swiftly, coldly, away from him. 
 
 She would speak, but she could not ; she would kiss 
 him, but her lips would not move ; she would put her 
 tiny white arms around his rugged neck, but her arms 
 
2*72 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 were bound. She wished he would come near to her, but 
 he sat in his chair unmoved. She would smile at him 
 and she could do that and she did smile, and the smile 
 was like the blessing of an angel looking back from the 
 threshold of heaven and even as she smiled, the wind 
 bore her away, away, and she lay there dead, find he sat 
 in his chair and slept ; and when he awoke she was with 
 the blessed in heaven, and he was alone on the earth. 
 
 But even this only served to harden his features and 
 his heart. She left him two children, a son and a daugh 
 ter, and he brought them up with iron rule. It was 
 like flowers blooming out among rocks or ruins, to see 
 those two children springing up into youth with all their 
 natural beauty, and purity, and freshness of character 
 unchanged, and almost unaffected by the stern subjection 
 under which they were kept. 
 
 Allan was a slightly -formed boy, with a keen, quick, 
 black eye, and a thoughtful cast of countenance. Jessie, 
 the youngest, was like him, and was maidenly and beau 
 tiful. They used to walk down the road under the elm 
 row, every Sunday morning, to the church, and sit toge 
 ther in the corner pew behind that in which their father 
 sat in frowning gloom. After her mother s death, Jessie 
 shed many tears, and was very lonesome, for John 
 Maclean was not a man to win love from his children. 
 They feared him, and had none of that affection for him 
 which makes a home happy. They trembled when he 
 came in, for he seldom spoke pleasant words, and usually 
 found fault with Jessie and scolded Allan, and sat gloom- 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 273 
 
 ily before the fire all the evening. At nine o clock he 
 called all the household in for prayers, and then saw that 
 every light in the house was out before he retired. 
 
 One night, when the bell was rung for prayers, all 
 were present but Allan, and he was not to be found. 
 Jessie professed ignorance of his whereabouts, and none 
 of the servants had seen him since dark. A frown gath 
 ered on the Elder% face as he commenced, and his voice 
 was uncommonly harsh. 
 
 While he was yet reading, Allan entered, and took his 
 seat in silence. His father paused and looked at him. 
 
 " Where have you been till this time ?" 
 
 " I have been at Mr. White s, sir, spending the even- 
 ing." 
 
 Now, Mary White was one of the prettiest girls in the 
 neighborhood, and a smile passed over Jessie s face at 
 this explanation. But a smile during prayer-time was 
 unpardonable, and the anger of the Elder descended on 
 both of them with a voice of thunder. 
 
 Allan had long been growing impatient of his father s 
 severity, and his condition now bordered on madness. 
 He rose from his chair while his father was speaking. 
 His face was pale, and his eye flashed insanely He 
 walked across the room to Jessie, stooped low, and kissed 
 her, saying, " Grood-bye, Jessie," and without a look toward 
 his father, who sat motionless with surprise, walked 
 swiftly out of the door. The father, pale and terror- 
 stricken, rushed from the house and called " Allan, Al 
 lan," but received no answer. 
 
 12* 
 
274 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Through many a lonely year after that, John Maclean 
 called his wandering son, but he returned to him no more. 
 
 Jessie was left alone, saddest of all that her selfish bro 
 ther should have so forgotten her. And the fire blazed 
 on the hearth through five winters, and five times the 
 spring flowers bloomed on the bank of the stream at the 
 foot of the garden, and Jessie Maclean was twenty-one, 
 and very lovely. 
 
 But the hour had come for John Maclean to enter the 
 scenes he had so long spoken of. True to his life, his 
 death-bed was calm and confident. He had been some 
 what changed by Allan s departure, and Jessie had found 
 him once or twice in tears. His treatment of her, too, 
 was in a measure kinder, but the world saw nothing to 
 indicate that he was not the same stern man. 
 
 It was at evening in the summer, and the clergyman 
 who had been his pastor many years, stood by his side, 
 and Jessie knelt at his feet. His large hand, now pale 
 and thin, lay outside the sheet, and his gray hair was 
 carefully combed back from his forehead over the pillow. 
 He had sent for his children, and they were coming. 
 One by one they entered his room, and stood around 
 his bed. The twilight gathered around them, and the 
 Elder s voice broke the stillness. 
 
 It was softer than ever before, and they said it trem 
 bled as he spoke of days long passed. He recounted 
 much of his life, telling them of its trials, doubts, and 
 difficulties, and spoke penitently of his errors. Most of 
 all, he longed to see Allan, but he came not; and having 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 2Y5 
 
 charged his children solemnly for their future lives, he 
 prayed earnestly for his wandering son. His voice grew 
 fainter and fainter, and more and more broken, and at 
 length ceased entirely. An hour passed, during which 
 he seemed to sleep heavily. Then a sound of a horse s 
 feet was heard, coming swiftly toward the house, and he 
 woke suddenly, and staring wildly in Jessie s face, said, 
 " Tell Allan I blessed him ;" and a shiver passed through 
 his giant limbs, and so he died. 
 
 At the moment Allan entered and threw himself down 
 by the bedside ; but there was no mistaking the counte 
 nance of death, and deep silence reigned in the room, 
 broken at length by Allan s sob. 
 
 It was dark, but Jessie felt her way along the bedside 
 to Allan, and knelt by him, and put her arms around his 
 neck and whispered, "He blessed you, Allan;" and Al 
 lan thanked God audibly, and they two wept together 
 while the pastor prayed. 
 
 The bell tolled sixty-nine in the solemn night time, 
 and all the people knew by the passing bell that Elder 
 Maclean had gone from among them. Old men woke 
 and turned restlessly, and were afraid to sleep again, and 
 rose, and sat at their windows till the morning dawned, 
 watching the clouds that drifted across the stars. It was 
 strange, unpleasantly strange, to think of John Maclean 
 as dead and standing before God. Children crept from 
 their rooms to their mothers doors, and asked who was 
 dead ; and hearing that it was the gaunt and harsh old 
 man, rejoiced heartily, and slept more soundly for the re- 
 
276 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 lief they felt. No one wept for him but Jessie ; and she 
 not much nor long. 
 
 A week after that Allan and Jessie left the village to 
 gether. They had some difficulty with the older broth 
 ers, in which Allan impetuously silenced them, and 
 took his sister away with him. Years passed, and no one 
 heard of them, and the village changed, and the church 
 grew older. 
 
 One autumn day a hearse entered the village, followed 
 by a single carriage. They passed down the street to 
 the church, and a servant left them, to inquire for the 
 sexton. He was easily found, and, with his aid, a coffin 
 was lifted from the hearse, and carried up the aisle, and 
 placed under the pulpit. Shortly afterward the sexton 
 was seen digging a grave by the side of Elder Maclean s, 
 and old Mrs. B , who lived across the street, in 
 stantly suspected the truth. Putting on her shawl and 
 bonnet, she walked . across to the church door, and en 
 tered. Two men and a lady were kneeling by the open 
 coffin of a child. Jessie Maclean brought her first 
 daughter to sleep by the side of the old Elder. 
 
 Her husband and brother, with herself, were the mourn 
 ers. Slowly, and after the usual custom, the people be 
 gan to fill the church, and the clergyman who had been 
 sent for, came up the aisle. The older brothers had left 
 the village two years before. A prayer was offered, and 
 there were many tears shed ; and every one passed by the 
 coffin, and looked on the beautiful sleeper ; and then they 
 laid her in the grave, and left her. 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 277 
 
 " Will you go with us, Allan ?" said the husband of 
 Jessie. Allan stood by the head of his father s long 
 grave, looking steadily down at the grass above it. 
 
 " Will you go with us, Allan ?" he repeated, but with 
 out reply. 
 
 " Come, Allan, come," said he, at length, seizing his 
 arm. 
 
 " Robert, promise to bury me here." 
 
 " I will exchange the promise with you." 
 
 "It shall be so." 
 
 Grasping each the other s hand, they strode rapidly to 
 the carriage, whither Jessie tearfully followed them, and 
 they drove away. 
 
 I have met Allan frequently, of late years, in the city, 
 and Jessie sometimes com.es to the village ; but Allan, 
 never. In the church in the city, one Sunday, not long 
 ago, I sat by her side, and starting up from a dreamy 
 listlessness (mea culpa !) I was for an instant carried 
 back to the old church in the olden time, and turned 
 my eye swiftly around, half fearing that the elder had 
 seen me sleeping. But I saw only the cold, calm face of 
 Allan, who was seated near me, and looking up at the 
 lofty roof, and around at the stained windows and massive 
 pillars, and then at Jessie s face again, I realized how far 
 away was the boyhood that I dreamed of. 
 
 It is such memories as these that throng around the 
 old church. Sometimes I dream of it by night, and in 
 my visions see eyes that have long ago dimmed, and 
 cheeks that blush no more. Sometimes in a deep sleep, 
 
278 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 after toil, I hear, as in former days, a brave old psalm 
 of the covenanters sung to a grand tune, and as I listen 
 I separate the voices as I used to do in the old church, 
 and at length the sound grows fainter and holier, and 
 holier and fainter, as if it were floating away to heaven. 
 I listen and awake. Still receding, yet still more heav 
 enly, I hear those voices in such songs as seraphs sing, 
 until at length they die away in the far-off harmonies that 
 the freed spirit alone is capable of hearing. 
 
 What wonder that the old church seems like a sacred 
 place, or, that when we enter it on a calm summer morn 
 ing, and sit in the old pew that is so lonesome now, we 
 should be lost in such memories as these ? 
 
 We have a younger pastor since the death of Mr. Win 
 ter, and, as he rises to open the service, we wake from 
 our communion with old times, and listen with due rev 
 erence to the voice of prayer. The village choir make 
 pleasant music aided by an organ of not too great force, 
 and the sermon is heard by an attentive congregation. 
 The open windows let in the clear, rich air from under 
 the shadow of the trees that stand immediately around 
 the church. Sometimes a stray bird enters and flut 
 ters around the ceiling and dashes out again. Often a 
 bee is seen, humming and buzzing around the walls, and 
 sometimes a commotion among the children indicates 
 that a wasp has fallen into a pew and startled them. 
 And at length the service is ended, and the pastor remains 
 in the pulpit until all but a few of the congregation have 
 left; then he descends, and holds a brief conversation 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 279 
 
 with those that remain, and joins his wife and child who 
 wait him in their pew near the pulpit ; they walk out 
 together, and down the street, bowing to the people as 
 they pass through the crowd at the door, where the 
 wagons are standing, and where the ladies are talking 
 awhile before they separate. 
 
 We return to the old house more rapidly than we 
 went ; usually at a fast trot ; and speak to no one on the 
 way. Then follow luncheon and the usual afternoon 
 employments for the day, and dinner ushers in the twi 
 light. That Sabbath twilight is an hour of deep calm 
 and peace. We usually sit on the river shore for an 
 hour, watching the last rays of the daylight as they 
 slowly recede from the sky, and, returning to the house, 
 we close the day with singing, in our way, some of the 
 fine psalms and brave tunes that used to fill the old hall 
 with music and praise in other days, when voices sang 
 them that are now unheard here but in memory, since 
 they have learned the language and the music of heaven. 
 
 But it is not alone on Sabbaths in the old church, nor 
 on Sabbath evenings, that we remember our old friends, 
 the companions of former years. 
 
 Where a man has lived from his boyhood in the same 
 place, and has seen the same trees grow green and sere 
 autumn after spring, and spring after autumn, in success 
 ion for one or more scores of years, it is to be supposed 
 he has formed attachments to the families in his imme 
 diate neighborhood, and that he has some intimacies 
 which will last him to his grave. For life in the country 
 
280 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 is very much made up of such attachments and intima 
 cies. But in our case it has not been as in others, for 
 strangely the old families are scattered, and the friends 
 of our childhood and youth are almost all gone. 
 
 The retrospect is sometimes a mournful one. From 
 any window of the Hall we can see the residences of the 
 companions of our younger days, occupied now by stran 
 gers with whom we have no acquaintance. The only 
 places still in possession of their original proprietors are 
 some miles distant from us, and, as a result of new ties, 
 our family associations are less intimate than formerly. 
 
 Of those who are gone, it is pleasant to talk, and 
 sometimes in the evenings we sit and relate the incidents 
 of earlier days with a great deal of the freshness of their 
 occurrence, and thus renew the memories of the friends 
 that are not. 
 
 But in the histories of those families there have been 
 sorrowful pages, and he who will attempt to relate the 
 half of the stories of pain, suffering, and bereavement 
 that any one circle can furnish within a score of years, 
 will have a task for a life-time. For sorrowful incidents 
 are brief and swift in occurrence, but long as moonbeams, 
 and as beautiful in recollection. 
 
 Sometimes we linger on such stories, and sit till the 
 small hours grow long, remembering how one and an 
 other and another has silently entered the unknown 
 country, and left a vacant place and a holy memory. 
 
 Some old men that were fine specimens of the olden 
 time in the days I speak of, who gathered around them 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 281 
 
 the dignities, and honors, and rewards of good long lives, 
 and departed in peace to the possession of better inherit 
 ances. Some young and gentle ones who left their loves 
 and hopes, and all the bright joyances of life by the dark 
 road of death. Some matrons that slept, spite of the 
 agonizing voices that would wake them. Some strong 
 young men that acknowledged the power of decay, and 
 the strength of bonds of dust, that stout youth could not 
 prevail to loosen. 
 
 Doubtless, to some it has appeared strange that these 
 pages should have recorded so many deaths ; and I can 
 only explain it by supposing that our circle has been 
 more bereaved within the years that we remember, than 
 have others. 
 
 And of the living I can say little, for they like not to 
 see themselves named in such pages as these. But the 
 dead cannot reproach me with naming them, except in 
 dreams, and I take care so to speak of them that I have 
 no fear of night visions. And the dead, their fame, their 
 lives, their pleasantness, and their gentleness, all belong 
 to us who live. If then I would give a faithful picture 
 of life in the old house, I must tell of those that were, or 
 of those that are our friends ; and since I may not speak 
 much of those now surrounding us, lest I give offence, I 
 have told, and will continue to tell, of those who have 
 gone from us, but who revisit the old house in the calm 
 and pleasant evenings. Thus you may appreciate some 
 what the beauty of a dim firelight in the library, with a 
 silver moonshine lying across the carpet, and the curious 
 
282 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 old chairs standing in shaded corners, into which, one 
 after another, steal the forms that have occupied them in 
 other days. 
 
 Such ghostly visitants never frighten us. You might 
 think the evening very stupid, were you to see us keeping 
 profound silence hour after hour, as we do sometimes. 
 You could not think that we were sleeping, for our eyes 
 never close, but rove around the room incessantly, seek 
 ing the eyes of our guests. But such evenings are never 
 stupid, nor sad. The memories of the past are not sor 
 rowful, though that past be full of sorrow. There is al 
 ways something to cheer in it, and we remember it cheer 
 fully ; and there is one comfort, even a sublimity, in the 
 past. It is its immutability. There it stands, stern, 
 calm, changeless. There at least the eye and the heart 
 may rest, assured that it will never change, that what 
 you love in it will never be less worth loving, its beauty 
 willbe forever radiant, its clouds and skies grand in their 
 immutable gloom, or immeasurable glory. 
 
 I call into yonder old carved oak chair a ghost, and 
 proceed to sketch his lineaments. 
 
 Years ago I had a friend whose name is recorded on 
 earth only on his grave-stone. He was a brave boy, of 
 stout heart and flashing intellect. He was my junior by 
 a year, and my superior in everything. His heart was 
 warmer and less selfish, his arm stronger, his eye clearer, 
 and his life better. He was the only son of his father, 
 who owned a large place within a mile of our houses. He 
 had a sister, whose good soul was the guide of his life. 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 283 
 
 and if I mention the name of Minnie Winter, the grand 
 daughter of the old clergyman and daughter of an older 
 brother of Philip Winter, you will understand all, with 
 out my writing the story of their love. 
 
 He was our close companion in younger days, and ac 
 companied Joe and myself in many of our wanderings. 
 
 We had then a boat, by no means equal to the Phan 
 tom, but a gallant little craft, in which we weathered not 
 a few storms. In one of our longest summer cruises he 
 accompanied us, as was not uncommon, and for a fortnight 
 he enjoyed it with the keenest delight. After that his 
 eye grew dull, and he seemed to be listless and inactive, 
 so that I became convinced that he was ill, though he 
 stoutly denied it. In spite of his assurances we put the 
 helm up for home. At the end of the second day after 
 that he gave up entirely, and took to his berth. I grew 
 exceedingly anxious and remained all night on deck. The 
 breeze was fresh, and though the sea ran high, the little 
 boat flew swiftly through it. 
 
 Toward daylight Henry crept out on deck, and looked 
 over the wild sea. Poor boy. He was in a raging fever, 
 and the sea-air was at first delicious, but then it chilled 
 him, and wrapping his coat around him he rested his head 
 on the taffrail, and asked me when I expected to reach 
 home. 
 
 " To-night, Harry," said I; "keep up your spirits." 
 
 " To-night," said he, with a sort of convulsive delight, 
 " why, I thought we were two days out yet." 
 
 " We have come like the wind itself all night, and if 
 
284 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 this breeze holds ten hours we shall be under the bank 
 at home." 
 
 His joy seemed excessive, and I believe that his mind 
 began to wander from that moment, for his next words 
 were a half shout of exuberant mirth, and then he sank 
 into a stupor, and I directed the men to carry him below. 
 Pie was delirious long before we reached home that night. 
 During an illness of two weeks he never lost the idea that 
 he was still at sea, and the dash of the waves was con 
 stantly in his ears. I say never ; it was not till the last 
 day of his life that the idea left him at all, and then only 
 for a little. Minnie and his sister sat by him. Minnie 
 held his hand and bathed his forehead, and pressed her 
 lips to his hot cheek. 
 
 " How she rolls !" he muttered. " How she rolls ! 
 Where s the wind now ? Blowing seaward did you say ? 
 We shall never, never reach land again ; never, never ! 
 What will we do Minnie, out at sea in this craft, and the 
 wind blowing off-shore ? Out into the blue sea, and the 
 blue waves around us, and the blue sky above us, and away, 
 
 away, on, on ! Why, this is strange. I thought that was 
 
 a wave, and its a mountain. I thought that house was a 
 sail. Isn t it queer Minnie that I shouldn t know that I 
 was at home ? I have been dreaming all sorts of strange 
 dreams about wandering all over the world with you, and 
 I thought we were at sea, and those blue hills seemed to 
 be waves, and we were rocking on them." 
 
 It was evident that his mind was still wandering, for 
 the room was dark and no hills were within the range of 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 285 
 
 his vision. His eye gleamed with unnatural light, as he 
 continued : 
 
 " It s hot. Summer is not often so hot on the river. 
 I say Minnie, let s take a walk down toward the shore." 
 
 He ceased again for awhile, and then the ocean dream 
 returned, and again he was on the sea, and flying swiftly 
 from the shore. An hour after that he was out of sight, 
 and the waves of life that were tossing around us hid him 
 from our view. 
 
 Minnie Winter has searched for him all over the ocean 
 of life since then, but has not found him. Sometimes she 
 hears a glad shout, borne to her across the waves, and 
 turns toward it, for she knows his voice. Sometimes she 
 catches the gleam of a white sail on the horizon, and the 
 glad thrill of her heart tells her his bark floats there. 
 For I thank God that the horizon of life is the horizon 
 of that other land too, and sometimes, often, floating on 
 this sea, we catch sight of vessels upon that, and oftener 
 hear the voyagers as they sing joyous songs. 
 
 I was out on a knoll near the house toward evening, 
 just before the moon rose, and, lying on the grass, I look 
 ed up at the sky as the stars came into it. Was it fancy, 
 or was it true, that I heard his voice again as I heard it 
 in the last words that he uttered before his reason quite 
 left him. It floated, rang through the air with a clear, 
 triumphant shout, not as in the fevered dreams of his 
 dying hour, but as if he were strong again, and stood 
 with me by the tiller of my boat, and the breeze was 
 fresh on the starboard quarter, and we were flying swiftly, 
 
286 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 joyously, as of old. It must have been my fancy ; for I 
 have often, since he died, heard a melodious cry coming 
 out of some blessed distance, some hallowed dream-land, 
 some far-away resting-place, shouting those same glad 
 words " On, on, keep her up ; keep her up ; how she 
 flies through the blue. We shall reach land to-night, and 
 then, hurra for home and Minnie !" 
 
 Lo, the ghost of my friend hath departed, and now in 
 the deep shadow of the heavy curtain, sits another form. 
 
 The moon to-night is shining on my forehead, and on 
 my paper, and my hand, and my pen ; but its silver light 
 falls on thy grave, thou fairest of our childhood s friends ! 
 In such a night " I cannot make thee dead." I know the 
 grave has won the clay, I know the silence that has fallen 
 on the melodious voice, the solemn seal that closes the 
 ruby lips. Yet from the years, the hoarded years, come 
 faintly now the songs and sounds of younger days, and, 
 among them all, that voice is pure and clear and very 
 melodious, and it floats away from me now into the far 
 deep sky. Thou art gone to G-od ! Pure as an autumn 
 morning star-beam, thou didst not fade from the sky ! 
 Thou art only hidden from us by the grosser light which 
 our senses cannot penetrate, and when the night comes to 
 us we shall see thee again ! 
 
 If you could go with me now to a glen not far away, 
 and a willow-shaded nook, I would point out to you the 
 very spot where, years ago, there stood a rude bench, on 
 which many times I have seen the fair girl I now write 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 287 
 
 of sitting, and by which I once saw her kneeling. That 
 old cottage under the hill which has echoed many a time 
 the sounds of our young and glad voices when Joe Willis 
 and I knew little of the hardships of the world, and 
 loved with all the impulsive love of childish days, is occu 
 pied by strangers, and its broad hall and large rooms now 
 ring to the laughter of those that knew not her whose 
 gentle spirit haunts their very chambers. 
 
 She was as pleasant as a dream. I was a mere boy 
 then, and with the privilege of a boy and a near relative, 
 used to lie at her feet on the grass, and gaze into her 
 face, and watch the play of her exquisite features. It 
 was there I learned first how high, and pure, and wor 
 shipful, humanity may be. 
 
 She has passed now into the presence of her Grod, and 
 if to-night she is seated on the margin of some glassy 
 lake, or by the bank of a prattling stream of the living 
 waters of that land, and yet can hear, as I believe she 
 can, the words which our souls whisper, if our lips do 
 not, then am I sure she smiles as she listens, and looks 
 up to God and blesses him with new songs, that she was 
 permitted to pass hence, as she was, long, long ago. 
 And yet she loves us ! The blessed ones forget us not, 
 and she has been here to-night, and has kissed my fore 
 head as of old. 
 
 And when I look into the eyes of a comparative stran 
 ger, which nevertheless have a familiar gleam, I cannot 
 resist the impulse to gaze, forgetful quite of the long 
 lapse of years, and the consequent decay of beauty. 
 
288 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 None who were so lovely then remain as lovely now. 
 The lines of life are deeply marked on many counte 
 nances, and griefs and cares have hollowed their rosy 
 cheeks, and dimmed their merry eyes. The voices of 
 those days are pleasant only in memory. Sometimes, 
 indeed, a child, (the child of one once young and lovely,) 
 will warble a note from an old song that with magical 
 effect recalls the hushed melodies of our childhood. But 
 a look, a thought, a heart-pang, teaches us that we are 
 changed, and they are changed, and all is changed ; and 
 then, oh ! how we long for the time when there shall be 
 no more changes. 
 
 She was young and beautiful. What need to add that 
 she was loved. Surely I need not add that she loved, for 
 such as she live on affection, and die for lack of it. Her 
 father devoted his fortune and his life to her ; and she 
 was heiress to a large estate. As might be expected, she 
 had numberless suitors of every rank and variety. I 
 cannot now remember all of them, although I then kept 
 the run of them tolerably well. But of all, there were 
 only two that appeared to have any prospect of success ; 
 and the village gossips were occupied in discussing their 
 relative chances. 
 
 Frank R was the gayest, best-hearted fellow in 
 
 the world ; and had you seen him on his horse by the 
 
 side of Sarah D , you would have said he was made 
 
 for her, so wild was his laugh, and so joyous her response. 
 Yet, had you been behind the closed shutter of the win 
 dow in the front of the large white house on the hill, as 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 289 
 
 they rode by, and had you there watched the compressed 
 lip, the broad, calm forehead, the pale face, and the 
 
 speaking eye of Joseph S , as he saw them passing, 
 
 you would have prayed to God that that fair girl might 
 belong to that noble man, even as I, a boy, then prayed. 
 
 God has answered my prayers. When the long way 
 was travelled over, and the rugged and difficult steep sur 
 mounted when her fairy foot was pressed on the rock at 
 the summit of the hill of life, and her eyes gazed into the 
 blue deep sky with longing gaze, there, even there, be 
 yond the blue, his outstretched arms received her, and 
 his embrace was Heaven ! 
 
 Go preach to blocks and stones, ye who believe that 
 love is of the clay ! Go preach to the dead, ye who deny 
 the immortality of the affections. Go reason with trees, 
 or hills, or images of wood, or with your own motionless, 
 lifeless, icy souls, ye who believe that, because there is 
 no marrying yonder, there shall be no embracing, or be 
 cause we may not use the gentle words " my wife," we 
 may not clasp these sanctified forms in our own holy 
 arms ! T tell you, man, that immortality would be a 
 glorious cheat, if with our clay died all our first affec 
 tions. I tell you that annihilation would be heaven, if I 
 believed that when my head at length rests on its coffin- 
 pillow, and my lips sink to the silence and repose of 
 death, these loving eyes will never look into mine again, 
 this pure clasp never be around my neck, this holy caress 
 never bless me more ! 
 
 But see how I hasten in advance of my story. And 
 13 
 
290 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE KIVER. 
 
 yet, like Canning s knife-grinder, I remember now that I 
 have no story to tell, or at best it is a simple history. 
 
 She loved Joe. His calm and earnest way of loving 
 her, won her whole soul. He did not say much to her 
 in company, nor of her, but when they were alone, or only 
 some of the children near, his low voice would be musical, 
 and she sat entranced with its eloquence. I have seen 
 them seated on the bench by the side of the stream, and 
 have heard him lead her gentle soul, step by step, with 
 him from earth to stars, and then from star to star, until 
 she seemed to be in heaven with him, and listening to the 
 praises of the angels. 
 
 I am unable to tell how it happened that Joseph 
 S left his profession (which had been law), and en 
 tered the ministry. The father of Sarah D was one 
 
 of a small class of men, who not only deny the truths 
 of our most holy creed, but take every opportunity to 
 cast ridicule on its teachers. It was, therefore, with great 
 pain that his daughter observed his coldness and rude 
 ness to Joseph S , and she was not surprised, how 
 ever much she was grieved, when an open rupture ren 
 dered the suspension of his visits at the house absolutely 
 necessary. 
 
 They had never spoken of love. Each knew the secret 
 of the other s perfect affection, and what need then of 
 words to tell it. It would have been but the repetition 
 of hackneyed phrases. And yet there is no music in the 
 world so sweet as those three words, " I love you," from 
 the lips we love to kiss. But the father of our gentle 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 291 
 
 friend had feared the existence of some bond between 
 them, and peremptorily required his daughter to break 
 it if it did exist. She replied to him, relating the sim 
 ple truth, and he desired her to refuse thenceforward to 
 see or speak to Joseph. A month of deeper pain than 
 can well be imagined succeeded this command, during 
 which they did not meet. 
 
 It was on a moony night in August that she walked out 
 with me (then a boy five years her junior), and sat down 
 on the bench by the side of the stream. The air was 
 clear, the sky serene, and no sound disturbed us ; but the 
 soft voice of the wind among the tree-tops made a pleas 
 ant music, and we listened and were silent. The stillness 
 was broken by the voice of Joseph S . 
 
 I will pass over that- scene. I dare not attempt a 
 description of it. It was my first lesson in human suffer 
 ing, and though I have learned it over and over since 
 then, yet I have never seen more agony than those two 
 felt, as they parted that night to meet no more on earth. 
 
 He bowed his lips to her forehead, and murmured the 
 solemn word " Forever." She woke at that word, and 
 exclaimed with startling vehemence, " No, no, there is 
 no such word, Joe." 
 
 " We shall not meet again on earth, my gentle one." 
 
 " And what is earth ? Her tall form grew more 
 queenly, and her dark eye flashed divinely, as she rose 
 and exclaimed, in clear and silvery tones : u And what is 
 earth ? These things must end. I will name a tryst, 
 dear Joe, and you shall keep it. If you. pass first into 
 
292 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 the other land, wait for me on the bank, and if I go 
 hence before you, I will linger on the other shore until 
 you come. Will you remember ?" 
 
 " I will live and die in this memory." 
 
 She lifted her face to his, and her arms to his neck, 
 and they clung together in a long, passionate embrace. 
 Their lips did not separate, but were pressed close toge 
 ther, until he felt her form cold, and her clasp relaxed, 
 and he laid her gently down on the old seat, bowed over 
 her a moment, in prayer, and was gone. I heard him 
 say, " Take care of her, Phil," and so T strove to recall 
 the life that had gone from her lips and cheeks and eyes. 
 It came slowly, and she woke as we wake the morning 
 after death has entered our charmed circle, with an op 
 pression on the brain, and a swimming swollen senseless 
 ness of soul. 
 
 At length she remembered all ; and raised herself with 
 a half-articulated exclamation of agony, broken by a sob; 
 then fell on her knees by the bench, and buried her face 
 in her hands, and remained thus for nearly half an hour. 
 
 When she arose, her face was calm and serene. It 
 wore that same exalted look until she died. 
 
 I think she took cold that night, she was never well 
 afterward, and the next winter she passed at the south, 
 returning in the spring, very fragile, but very beautiful. 
 
 Joseph S was sent abroad by one of the Boards 
 
 of Missions of the Church, but his health failed, and he 
 resigned his commission, while he travelled through the 
 Eastern world. 
 
OLD FRIENDS. 293 
 
 Three years fled with their usual swiftness. To Sarah 
 
 D they were very slow and painful years, yet she 
 
 was happy in her quiet way, and no one dreamed of the 
 strange tryst she was longing to keep on the other side 
 of that dark river, which men so shrink from. She 
 grew feebler daily as the summer and autumn advanced, 
 and in December she was evidently dying. 
 
 One day her mother had been out of the house, per 
 haps making calls ; she returned at evening, and among 
 other incidents of news which she had learned, she men 
 tioned to Sarah the death of her old friend Joseph 
 S . 
 
 The fair girl was reclining in her large arm-chair look 
 ing out through the closed windows at the snow on the 
 ground, and the pure moonlight which silvered it. There 
 was no startling emotion visible as her mother mentioned 
 the fact which to her was the most solemn, yet most joy 
 ful news the world could give ; for now, how much nearer 
 was their meeting ! I saw a smile flash across her face as 
 the joyful news reached her ear. I saw her lips move as 
 if she invited even then his spiritual embrace. I saw her 
 forehead raised to feel the caress which I know she felt ! 
 She was silent for many minutes, and then spoke in feeble, 
 yet very musical accents, and I, boyishly, wept aloud ! 
 Then she smiled, and looked at me with finger upraised, 
 and said, "Wait a little while longer, dear Phil." And 
 then, after a moment, she said, " Mother, is the snow 
 very deep ?" 
 
 " Not very, dear; why did you ask ?" 
 
294 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 " Because, if it were deep, I thought it would be diffi 
 cult for old Mr. Smith to find our lot in the grave 
 yard. Are all the head-stones covered, mother ?" 
 
 " What is the matter, Sarah ? What if they are 
 covered ?" 
 
 " Mother, dear, it is useless to conceal it from our 
 selves, or from one another. You know, and I quite as 
 well, that I am dying. I have not wished to live, only for 
 one thing I did long for life, and I dreaded to meet death 
 all alone ! but now I shall not. Philip will tell you what 
 I mean when I am gone. Yes, gone, dear mother. I 
 shall not be here any longer. You will be here, and 
 father, and you will rise and walk about, and visit, and go 
 in and out, and sleep and wake again, and so on day after 
 day, and I shall have no part any longer in your cares 
 
 and joys; Dear Mother" and as she uttered the 
 
 last two words, she put her arms around her mother s 
 neck and kissed her fondly, and sank back into her chair 
 again. I sat at her feet watching her matchless features. 
 A smile was flitting across them, now there, now gone, 
 yet each time it appeared, it lingered longer than before, 
 until it became fixed, and so holy, so very holy, that I 
 grew bewildered as I gazed, and a strange tremor passed 
 through my body. 
 
 The breath of peace was fanning her glorious brow ! 
 Her head was bowed a very little forward, and a tress es 
 caping from its bonds, fell by the side of her pure white 
 temple, and close to her just opened lips. It hung there 
 motionless ! No breath disturbed its repose ! She slept 
 
EUTHANASIA. 295 
 
 as an angel might sleep, having accomplished the mission 
 of her God. 
 
 Oftentimes since then I have heard a voice from heaven 
 as melodious as that which the prophet of old heard de 
 claring the blessing of the righteous dead ! To-night I 
 have been hearing it it is faint, indeed, but clear, and 
 oh how thrilling, and it sounds like her voice chanting a 
 grand old psalm ! 
 
 " And thou shalt walk in pure white light, 
 
 With kings and priests abroad ! 
 And thou shalt summer high in bliss, 
 Upon the hills of God !" 
 
 I know not under what palm tree of Chaldea, or by 
 the shadow of what rock in Hindoostan, or under what 
 ruin in time-hallowed Egypt, the clay which once was my 
 friend, of mine own kindred, awaits the resurrection. I 
 have knelt in the silvery moonsheen of the highlands by 
 the grave of that other friend of early, holy years ! But 
 when, as last night, Joe and I speak of them, our thoughts 
 linger not long, either at the one grave, or at the other. 
 We only think of the rending veil and the embrace which 
 awaited her when she became an angel ! 
 
 But there are some friends of later years than those I 
 have named, who are now but memories. Of the old 
 families I have mentioned as remaining in the neighbor 
 hood, that of my cousin, Mr. Wilton, is to us one of the 
 most valuable. I have returned this very evening from 
 his house, where I have been unexpectedly and sadly de- 
 
296 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 tained for more than a week, by the most mournful task 
 of life, that of watching till one of the angels of the earth 
 is permitted, after much pain, weariness, and longing, to 
 escape into the still and more congenial atmosphere of 
 heaven. One more is added to the list of our departed 
 friends, and at the risk of wearying my readers with sad 
 stories of death-scenes, I will add this one here, for it 
 was verily Euthanasia. 
 
 She is gone! No longer shrinking from the winter 
 wind, or lifting her calm pure forehead to the summer s 
 kiss, no longer gazing with her blue and glorious eyes 
 into a far-off sky, no longer yearning with a holy heart 
 for heavem, no longer toiling painfully along the path, up 
 ward and upward to the everlasting Rock on which are 
 based the walls of the city of the Most High ; no longer 
 here, she is there ; gazing, seeing, knowing, loving as the 
 blessed only see, and know, and love. 
 
 Earth has one angel less, and heaven one more since 
 yesterday. Already, kneeling at the throne, she has re 
 ceived her welcome, and is resting on the bosom of her 
 Saviour. If human love have power to penetrate the veil, 
 (and hath it not?) then there are yet living here a few who 
 have the blessedness of knowing that an angel loves them. 
 
 Her sister has not moved from the coffin-side since she 
 was placed in it. The bright-eyed boy has sobbed him 
 self to sleep ; and Effie, her pet, is even now demanding 
 leave to kiss aunt Effie s lips once more ; and yet again 
 and again, while her big tears drop on the marble cheek 
 of the silent and beautiful sleeper. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 
 
 297 
 
 Twilight has fallen on the lonely earth. The stars are 
 mournfully clear and calm. A little while ago, as I 
 stood on the piazza, a wail as of a soul in agony fell on 
 my ear. That wail that Joe and I were speaking of not 
 long since. It was the wind in the lofty pine trees 
 shading the house ; and the wail changed sadly, and then 
 with a wild melody, into a sound as of the far-off songs 
 of the triumphant ones who may hold her now in their 
 embraces; and while I listened, it passed away, away 
 among the stars. 
 
 As I entered the door again, I heard a sudden burst 
 of grief, and looking up, saw old Simon, the colored 
 coachman, sitting in one of the large hall chairs, with his 
 face between his hands, and his head bowed quite down 
 between his knees, weeping uncontrollably. G-oing up the 
 stairs to my own room, I perceived the door of the little 
 reception-room on the landing place standing open ; and 
 
 turning in, I met Mr. V , the young rector of the 
 
 parish ; and as he advanced to take my hand, he burst 
 into tears, and could not speak. 
 
 You might search the country through, and find no one 
 so universally loved as Erne Wilton. She is mourned 
 sincerely by all. More tears have been shed in the vil 
 lage to day, than in months before, for every family has 
 lost a friend. 
 
 A message came over to the hall last week that she 
 
 was failing ; but when, in accordance with the wish of her 
 
 father, who has always depended much on my friendship 
 
 and support in hours of trouble, I drove over to see her, 
 
 13* 
 
298 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 I was astonished at the great change that had taken 
 place since I last saw her ; and as it was impossible to 
 leave her, I sent back my horse with a note to Joe that 
 I should remain with Mr. Wilton until the end. It was 
 her wish also. " You alone know my heart," said she, 
 " and to you alone, in these last days of my lingering, I 
 would talk of the blessed visions that beguiled my young 
 er days, of the pleasant dreams and hopes I then cher 
 ished, and of the better and brighter hope I now have of 
 meeting and realizing them all those dreams and vis 
 ions, I mean, in the land to which I go." So I lingered 
 by her side until she left me there ; and I lingered a day 
 longer to watch her clay, and to offer such consolations 
 as might be, to those who have better right to mourn for 
 her than I. 
 
 She was a child of fairy beauty, marvellously so in the 
 lustre of her deep blue eyes. As she grew older, there 
 was observable an increasing purity of complexion, and 
 at the age of fifteen her face was "dazzlingly beautiful." 
 Her hair was dark, not black, but clustered in tresses, 
 or masses, rather than curls, around her forehead. She 
 usually drew it back plainly, however, so as to expose a 
 massive temple very pure and white, and a brow that was 
 strangely calm and imposing in so young a child. 
 
 A painful disease of the spine began about this time to 
 be perceptible, and the great wealth of her father was de 
 voted td visiting all parts of the world in search of a cure 
 for the terible malady. This cure was but partially effect 
 ual, and at the age of eighteen Effie s form had lost its 
 
EUTHANASIA. 299 
 
 perfect shape and was in fact distorted. She knew it. 
 She knew that she was no longer queenly. She knew 
 that her noble forehead, and her speaking eye, and her 
 finely-shaped head contrasted fearfully with her body; 
 but she never murmured at God s will, only asking him 
 to teach her how to remove her soul farther and farther 
 from her body, and from all things of earth. Her life 
 became an exquisite study. It was worth all the ro 
 mances in the world, to see that noble girl schooling herself 
 into a forgetfulness of the things she once loved so well, 
 and into a knowledge of those higher and holier things 
 which those who have not long to live know how to ap 
 preciate. Her success was gradual, but certain. There 
 were as you may well imagine, not a few struggles of the 
 spirit, not a few suppressed griefs, not a few nights passed 
 in wakeful and prayerful agony. There are struggles 
 of this sort going on in the world daily of which men do 
 not dream. There are rivers of woe, pent up in great broad 
 souls, until they spread to oceans ; and storms are blow 
 ing over them, and tempests toss them, and they dash 
 wildly to and fro under sunless, moonless, starless skies. 
 And then the hand of Grod is stretched over them, and 
 the " Peace, be still " of his melodious voice floats above 
 them on a gentle wind> and sunny days and nights not 
 starless, resume their alternation across those souls. 
 
 So it was with her. And though the ocean never sub 
 sided, yet the voice of (rod had been heard to say, " thus 
 far and no farther shalt thou go," and the waves obeyed 
 Him. 
 
800 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Who could help loving her ? Imagine her then at 
 nineteen the idol of her father and of a brother and sis 
 ter, each one of whom would have won your love in spite 
 of you, and tell me if there be in all your knowledge, a 
 picture of more sublime and perfect beauty. 
 
 But there remained a cup for her to drink which was 
 more bitter than all she had tasted before. I know that 
 I have already in this volume rendered myself liable to 
 be laughed at by some, and scoffed at by others, for the 
 opinions I have indicated about human love. Be it so. 
 I know no subject in the range of my pen which I better 
 love to linger on, and I ask no readers but such as believe 
 with me tha-t God s last gift to Eden was given with a 
 smile. Scoff on ! But could you stand with me to-night 
 by the coffin of Erne Wilton, and look at the slumber 
 which is so holy and so profound, and know her history 
 as I know it, you would seek some still place where you 
 could ponder on the lesson of that life and its end, and 
 you would not again deny that there are in this world 
 many wrecks of early hopes and early aspirations, many 
 fallen temples in which young hearts have worshipped 
 fervently, many altar-fires gone out, nay, many crumbling 
 altars on which lie the ashes of high hearts that were 
 burned for incense there. 
 
 He who loved Effie Wilton deserved her love, but that 
 was all. He never knew even that much. She had 
 always received him as a friend, but never as a lover. 
 He used to read to her, and she has told me of the throb- 
 bings of her heart when his fine voice gave such feeling 
 
EUTHANASIA. 301 
 
 expression to the songs of Uhland, or the divine min 
 strelsy of Goethe. I betray no confidence now when I 
 say that she loved him, for he knows it now, though yes 
 terday he did not. She told him herself last night, and 
 this morning I handed him a package from her which 
 contains, I doubt not, a fuller story than I can give. 
 
 Briefly then, she knew that death was her only inherit 
 ance. There was a voice within her warning her of that. 
 She determined resolutely, nobly, to resist his desire to 
 link his life to hers. " If I live three years longer, I 
 will marry him," said she to me one day. 
 
 " And if he changes ?" 
 
 " Out on you, my friend ! You wrong his nobleness. 
 He will never change." 
 
 She was right. This conversation with me was after 
 he had made known his love. The communication was 
 to her the most stunning blow she had received. She 
 had no idea of it, until one evening when she was walk 
 ing under the great trees in the park, with her shawl 
 wrapped around her, although it was a summer evening, 
 and leaning, as was her wont, somewhat heavily on his 
 arm. His voice grew tremulous and very low, and at 
 length the story of his love was told in a few swift words. 
 He felt her tremble at the first, then she pressed closer 
 to him, and closer, and closer, and his arm stole around 
 her, and at the last word he bent over to look into her 
 face, and held her up in his arms. She had fainted. He 
 carried her hastily to the house, made some hurried ex 
 cuse, and she was at length restored, and retired. Next 
 
302 THB OLD HOUSE BY THB RIVER. 
 
 day she wrote to him a carefully-worded letter, and the 
 next day he left for Europe. 
 
 Sneer or scoff if you dare, hack of the world, whose 
 soul is broken and galled, and made utterly worthless by 
 the harness you have been working in so long ! Sneer or 
 scoff at her, if you dare ! Your God disdained not to be 
 with her in her agony, and His strong arm was around 
 her all the night, and thenceforth all along her pilgrim 
 path, until He drew her closer, close to His breast ; and 
 she rests there oh, how peacefully to-night ! 
 
 She grew feeble so slowly that it was scarcely noticed, 
 and she spoke little of it. It was a blessing to sit and 
 look into her meek and saintly eyes. She read much, 
 and rode out in the carriage daily, visiting the poor when 
 able, and bestowing her smiles wherever she went. 
 
 Two years more stole from many a village maiden s 
 cheek its bloom, but she grew more beautiful as she faded 
 away. 
 
 At length S returned from Europe, and was again 
 
 at her side. Six months more passed, and she no longer 
 left the house. When I went over to the house, last 
 week, she welcomed me with a pleasant smile as she lay 
 on a couch in the large parlor, saying, " Ah ! you are 
 conic, whom I much wanted to see." 
 
 Last night she was evidently dying. At nine o clock 
 
 S was sent for, by her request, and she saw him 
 
 alone. When we were again admitted to her room, he 
 was seated on her bedside, holding her hand in his own, 
 and he looked up at us with a mournful smilo aa we 
 
EUTHANASIA. 303 
 
 entered. He had discovered his right to hold that hand, 
 and to be the last on earth to give her up to heaven. 
 
 Were I to paint the scene which that room presented, 
 I should make but a miserable caricature. It was not to 
 be painted. There were tones that would be lacking, and 
 varying expressions of countenance, and flitting smiles of 
 heavenly beauty and sweetness. Then there were sacred 
 words of love, and some sublime verses of an old hymn 
 chaunted in the silver voice that was next hour to be 
 among the purest of the Seraphim ; and there were 
 kisses and farewell words, yet not like other farewell 
 words, as if she were going and yet not going ; and there 
 was a long embrace, and a whisper of the matchless lips, 
 and a faint kiss ; and then we knew that God loved her 
 better than we, and had gathered her to his holy assem 
 bly. 
 
 We will bury her in the old church-yard when the 
 Sabbath evening twilight comes down, for so she wished 
 it. We will plant flowers there, too, and watch them 
 carefully, and not without tears, so that the stranger who 
 passes her grave may read her name, and say that some 
 one lives who loved her. There the village maidens will 
 lead their rustic lovers, and tell them the story of her 
 holy life, and pledge above her repose that love, of whose 
 joy she (thou, angel girl, knowest how true this is !) died 
 ignorant. 
 
 Thither, should God ever give to me one of gentle 
 faith to cling with woman s love to me, thither I would 
 direct her footsteps in that hour of all hours most 
 
304 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 sacred, and as the Sabbath stars come into the sky, look 
 up to heaven from her resting-place, and pray for such 
 strength to live and to die as was graciously given to 
 Erne Wilton. 
 
XV. 
 
 f aUr f.ears. 
 
FOR a week the rain had poured down without ceas 
 ing, and the streams had risen beyond all precedent. 
 Never had there been such a freshet within the recollec 
 tion of Jacob Stimson, the father of Hugh the village 
 landlord, and Jacob was by far the oldest inhabitant left 
 in the county. At length the storm was over, and on 
 the seventh afternoon from its commencement, the sun 
 broke out through the clouds, and flooded the valleys and 
 the mountain sides with indescribable glory. I had been 
 waiting for a pleasant day to drive over to the village ; 
 and, taking the box-wagon and the bay horses, I drove 
 down the valley, and up the long street to the store ; and 
 while Stephen sat outside, I went in to make some small 
 purchases. 
 
 The group of worthies who sat on the counter with 
 their feet swinging, or on the heads of nail kegs, and the 
 edges of fcoxes of goods, was a group that I desired not 
 to be among; but my entrance seemed opportune to 
 them, and a subject of debate was referred to me for an 
 opinion. Pending my delivery of this, a dark cloud 
 
308 THE OLD HOUSE 13V THE RIVER. 
 
 came over, and Stephen drove the horses under a shed, 
 and came into the store to tell me that a thunder shower 
 was approaching. 
 
 This announcement created a sensation, and I learned 
 that intelligence had been received from the upper part 
 of the creek, that the large dam below Jacob Small s 
 farm was weak, and could not bear much more of a 
 freshet. If the thunder shower should prove heavy, it 
 might add the drop too much ; and if that dam gave way, 
 it was impossible to tell how many of those below it 
 would stand the pressure. 
 
 But the dam had not waited for the thunder shower, 
 and even while we were talking of it, a loud cry from the 
 side of the creek indicated some new catastrophe, and a 
 boy ran in to say that the strong current was over its 
 banks and carrying away mills and houses. 
 
 The terrors of that evening will not soon be forgotten 
 in the village. It was a scene of wild confusion until all 
 the houses near the banks were emptied, and then a short 
 respite was allowed while we watched the rising stream. 
 
 I had of course remained in the village, and when the 
 shower was over I sent Stephen out with the horses to 
 explain my delay, directing him to return for me in the 
 morning, as I intended to remain during the night. 
 
 The sun had set with unclouded splendor, and the 
 night was almost as light as day. The moon was not 
 quite full, but its rays were brilliant and clear, and we 
 worked till nine o clock at various points along the 
 stream. Just when we had finished and were resting for 
 
LATER YEARS. 309 
 
 a space, a messenger came into the village saying that 
 the creek had overflowed the island and swept away the 
 hut of old Abram, a negro, who lived there with a single 
 grandchild. 
 
 Old Abram had been a family servant in his youth, 
 and was now a sort of village property. He had a pe 
 culiar faculty at a hundred different employments, and 
 no one seemed to imagine it possible to get through a 
 spring without his services in one or another of his capa 
 cities. Universally known as he was, it was with a thrill 
 of horror that we heard of his danger and possible death, 
 and the whole village population hastened down to the 
 island. 
 
 About a half mile below the village was a point where 
 the creek divided, running in a broad, shallow stream on 
 the one side of a barren patch of land, while on the other 
 it found its way through a deep and dangerous channel. 
 The upper end of the island was covered with willow and 
 alder bushes, that usually protected it from the wash of 
 the creek. Near the lower end were three trunks of old 
 trees long since dead, which stood in gigantic decay, while 
 between them Abram had erected a cabin in which he 
 had lived for many years, and which his friends had made 
 as comfortable for him in every respect as could be desired. 
 His only companion was his grandson, a boy of fifteen, who 
 was the veriest imp in the country, and was as universally 
 detested as his grandfather was valued. Their access to 
 the island had been over a long piece of drift timber which 
 Abram had elevated to the dignity of a bridge across 
 
310 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 the deep and narrow channel. How he had allowed this 
 to be swept away while he was on the island I know not, 
 unless it was the sudden effect of the rush from the 
 broken dam. But as we approached them it was mani 
 fest that Abram and his boy had little chance of again 
 reaching the main land. The creek was sweeping furi 
 ously over the entire breadth of the island, leaving in 
 sight only the cabin and the three tall trunks of trees, 
 now swaying to and fro in the fierce current. On the 
 roof of the hut, leaning against one of the trees, was the 
 old man, while, cat-like, the boy sat perched in the crotch 
 over his grandfather s head, grinning and chattering as 
 we could see even at the distance of nearly a hundred 
 yards. All near approach was impracticable, and the 
 idea of bridging the torrent was preposterous. 
 
 A hundred plans were suggested, but the only feasible 
 one, that of drifting timber over to them, seemed too 
 dangerous to attempt, for one heavy plank might carry 
 them away, with the hut and the trees, into hopeless de 
 struction. Now one cried one plan, and another another. 
 The women wept, and wrung their hands, as if their own 
 children were in the stream, and the men ran foolishly 
 up and down the bank shouting to Abram to hold on for 
 his life, as if he needed any such advice. But all help 
 of man seemed vain, and the old man appeared to feel 
 it, for he lifted his hands in the moonlight, and I saw 
 that he was praying. It was not the first time either 
 that I had seen Abram talking to his God ; and in that 
 hour of his trial it was comforting to us, who loved the 
 
LATER YEARS. 311 
 
 poor old man, to know that his lips needed no teaching 
 in words of supplication to Him who holds the waters in 
 his hand. 
 
 Years ago, when Joe Willis s mother entered the dark 
 valley to pass through, that old man was the most sincere 
 mourner among the servants. He had lived in her 
 father s house since she was a child, and had been freed 
 from slavery by her desire. The memory of his faithful 
 affection for her had preserved him from ever wanting 
 aught in this world that money could supply, while his 
 own simple, yet earnest faith had, I doubt not, prepared 
 him long ago to enter that world which he seemed now 
 to be approaching in a scene so terrible. 
 
 At length some of the men selected a long piece of 
 timber, and a rope was secured to the end to guide it. 
 Contrary to the earnest solicitations of the wiser, they 
 launched their craft, and it swept down over the island. 
 At first it seemed to approach the old man with a slow 
 and easily-managed course, but suddenly whirling in an 
 eddy it dashed against the frail hut and stove it into a 
 hundred pieces, which went whirling down stream, while 
 Abram clung with both arms around the trunk of the tree 
 on which the boy was perched, and which now swayed 
 more heavily downward with the increased weight. A 
 cry of horror went up from the crowd, and at that mo 
 ment the thunder of a horse s hoofs was heard as he came 
 down the road at a long gallop. The next instant I saw 
 Joe Willis on Ibrahim his black horse, and I did not 
 doubt that the old man was saved. 
 
312 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 Willis s keen eye took in the whole scene, and without 
 pausing or even drawing his rein, he rose lightly in his 
 stirrups, swept the river with a quick glance, turned 
 Ibrahim on the same swift gallop up the river road, and, 
 at a hundred rods distance, lifted him over the scrub oak 
 hedge, dashed down the abrupt bank, and into the flood. 
 
 For a moment I doubted, as the swift current whirled 
 them around and downward, but only for a moment. 
 Ibrahim and his master had breasted such floods before, 
 and heading the stream gallantly, the good horse resisted 
 its course, and advanced slowly, but steadily, toward the 
 middle, so that he reached the upper end of the island, 
 and after a desperate struggle planted his fore-feet on the 
 edge. Here, after two ineffectual attempts, in which the 
 soft muddy bank, now covered with a rushing torrent, 
 yielded to his weight, he at length obtained foothold, and 
 lifted himself and his rider to the level of the plain which 
 used to be called jocularly, " Abram s corn-field.- Over 
 the entire surface the water was pouring in a strong flood, 
 but though the bottom was soft and uneven, Willis suc 
 ceeded, without farther difficulty, in riding down to the 
 trees. He was just in time^ for Abram s hold was relax 
 ing as Joe caught him, and shouted to the boy to jump. 
 The boy refused. " Jump, yon dog, or I ll leave you to 
 swim for yourself," we could hear Joe shout ; and the 
 boy now obeyed. Swinging the old man across the pom 
 mel of his saddle, and directing the boy to sit firmly 
 behind without holding fast to him, Joe guided the 
 horse carefully toward the edge of the island, and as he 
 
LATER YEARS. 313 
 
 plunged into the deep and wild current, Joe threw him 
 self from his back, and laying one hand on his mane, swam 
 by his side, while the boy, with his usual impudence and 
 skill, assumed the saddle. 
 
 The intense interest of the whole populace assembled 
 on the bank had produced profound silence during all 
 this time, and they now followed the struggling group 
 down stream, as they were swept along slowly nearing 
 the shore. When within a rod of the land, Abram fell 
 from the horse. He had lain prostrate across the pom 
 mel of the saddle, and Joe had kept him on ; but his fee 
 ble grasp relaxed, and Joe failed to catch him. 
 
 "Let the reins alone, you young scoundrel," I heard 
 Joe shout as he left the horse, and dove for Abram. He 
 seized him the next instant, and by a violent effort, suc 
 ceeded in reaching land, at almost the same moment with 
 Ibrahim, who stood neighing and pawing the ground as 
 if he felt all the greatness of the work he had accom 
 plished. And then a shout went up in the forest that 
 drowned the roar of the torrent. 
 
 By the time that all this was over, the air had grown 
 cold j and as Joe laid the old man on the bank, I could 
 see that he was himself in a condition to need assistance. 
 For several weeks I had fancied that he was not well, 
 and before the next evening after this gallant adventure, 
 he was in a violent fever. 
 
 For three weeks I watched by him from morning till 
 morning, and then he was pronounced convalescent ; but 
 he had suffered much, and was far from believing him- 
 14 
 
314 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 self to be mending. On the contrary, he insisted that 
 he had within him some deep-seated disease, which 
 crushed his spirits, and prevented his regaining his ac 
 customed vigor and health. 
 
 The summer passed slowly along, and we never left the 
 old house from May to September. 
 
 Seated on the old stone steps, under the deep shadow 
 of the large pine trees which overtop the front of the 
 house, and reach almost a hundred feet into the sky with 
 their dark impenetrable green, we whiled away the fore 
 noons of the summer, reading or talking ; and when the 
 evening came down with all the twilight glories of our 
 American summer evenings, we returned to the library, 
 and looking out of the large window, watched the fading 
 light in melancholy silence. We grew sadly stupid, both 
 of us ; but sought no remedy for the blues, rather loving 
 them and cherishing them. 
 
 Sometimes, but not often, we drove out in the carriage. 
 We never went on horseback. Ibrahim was in the sta 
 ble constantly, except when the groom took him out for 
 exercise ; and then we would often sit and watch him fly 
 ing across the park, or up the long avenue of elms ; but 
 I do not think that Willis felt one moment s ambition to 
 be again on him. 
 
 But one evening when the autumn chill had suggested 
 a fire of wood on the broad hearth in the south room, and 
 we sat before the crackling logs, and enjoyed the warmth 
 and ruddy beauty of the flames, Joe suddenly appeared to 
 rouse himself, and resume his accustomed cheerfulness. 
 
LATER YEARS. 
 
 " There must be an end to this, Philip." 
 To what, Joe ?" 
 
 To this miserable way of living, rather of dying ; for 
 I haven t been more than half alive for six months." 
 
 " I have been hoping that the autumn air would in 
 vigorate you." 
 
 No, Phil, it will not. I believe that one thing only 
 has oppressed me, and that is the fear of dying. I con 
 fess to you frankly that I have been all summer long 
 bowed down with the idea that I should never get well. 
 It would be romantic, sentimental, poetic, for me to say 
 that I do not care to live since those I love best are dead. 
 And you know well that those I love best of all, not 
 even excepting you Philip Phillips, are on the other side 
 of the deep river. But I do love to live. I do desire 
 health and strength, and long life. I have no wish to 
 rest yet. It is cowardly to shrink from living only be 
 cause the companions we thought to live with are gone; 
 it is weakness to desire to join them before we have ac 
 complished anything here. I trust that when the hour 
 and the moment arrive, I shall be found ready, and the 
 staff on which I lean will stay me then. But for the 
 present I would live. I have much to do here, much to 
 plan, much to complete, and well as I love the pleasant 
 company in the other country, I love the old house and 
 the people here too, and by my faith I love this body and 
 breath of mine. Phil, we must take advice. Let us 
 ring for Anthony and send him after old Doctor Wilson. 
 We will have a talk over it." 
 
316 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 So the Doctor came the next day, and examined Joe, 
 and gave no opinion about his case, but returned the day 
 after with a friend, a physician of some note in the city, 
 and they two formed a clear diagnosis of the complaint. 
 And the conclusion to which they came was that no me 
 dicine would effect a radical cure, but that a sea- voyage, 
 and a long journey of pleasure, would renovate the whole 
 man. " You must make up your mind to it, Joseph," 
 said Dr. Wilson as he was leaving ; " We can t spare you 
 here, but we can do without you better for a year or two 
 than forever." 
 
 And so it was settled. The old house must be de 
 serted and we must go on far travel. I say we, for it 
 never occurred to either of us then that one could travel 
 without the other, and it was a sad blow to both when the 
 circumstances arose which made it necessary for me to 
 remain at least a few months longer, and that with a 
 faint hope of joining Willis in the following spring. And 
 we made all ready for the departure. The evenings grew 
 more pleasant and gay. The old house was filled with 
 company, all the country around coming to see us before 
 we should leave them ; and Lucy and her family made 
 their home with us. Long and pleasant were the talks 
 we had of distant countries and the scenes through which 
 we were to pass, and when the necessity for my remaining 
 became apparent, we talked the more of our probable 
 meeting at Alexandria or in Palestine. 
 
 He sailed from New York. The Phantom kept us 
 company till Fire Island light gleamed on the larboard 
 
LATER YEARS. 31 7 
 
 beam in the early evening, and I then hailed Henry to 
 send me a boat, and pressed my old friend s hand and 
 left him. As my little boat danced across the water to 
 the Phantom I looked back and saw him leaning over 
 the rail, with his heavy coat buttoned up to his chin, 
 and the dark look of sorrow on his face reached me even 
 then. I gained the deck of the Phantom, and he was still 
 there ; and as I took the helm and we came into the wind 
 and bore away for our old home, he lifted his hat once 
 and waved it toward us, and I saw him no more. 
 
 I returned to the old house and closed it, leaving the 
 housekeeper in charge. Anthony had as usual accom 
 panied his master. Years rolled on and Joe Willis re 
 mained a wanderer, and long ere he returned, the new 
 employments and enjoyments of life in the city had en 
 snared me, and our pleasant life in the old house was for 
 ever ended. 
 
 Sometimes we go there, but it does not appear as it 
 used. Joe and myself think we are unchanged, but we 
 cannot enjoy the calm, quiet life, we used to love so well, 
 and a week at the old house ends in a fit of ennui. Our 
 city homes are full of life and gaiety, and we hasten back 
 to them. In the winter we have sometimes taken sleigh- 
 loads of laughing, boisterous children, or young people 
 from the city, and driven out to the bank of the river. 
 The housekeeper, having notice of our projected visit, 
 has opened the rooms, and the fires are blazing glori 
 ously in the fire-places. 
 
 So it was in the only sleighing that we had last winter. 
 
318 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 
 
 We went out with a pleasant company of friends to show 
 them the old house whereof they had heard so many 
 stories. It was dinner-time when we arrived, and Willis 
 did the honors of his old home with all the grace and 
 dignity of the stately judge who preceded him. But 
 after dinner was over, and when they were beginning to 
 make merry in the large drawing-room, and the sound of 
 music, and the laughter of young, gay, light-hearted boys 
 and maidens rang through the hall, I thought it sacrilege, 
 and stole out and up the stair-case, with noiseless foot 
 step, to the door of my own rooms; and as I passed 
 along I saw the door of Willis s room open, and by the 
 blaze of his hearth-fire saw the same old drapery, and the 
 dark furniture, and the massive carved bed, and in the 
 deep window stood my friend with his arms folded, look 
 ing out into the white moonlight, and down the leafless 
 avenue, and away toward the spire of the village church 
 and the resting-place of Ellen Willis. 
 
 THE END. 
 

old house by 3 th 
 
 M181748 
 
 
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